He was just about to dismiss this newly generated concern and get back to relaxing when he heard the squish of mud underboot nearby. He didn't need to open his eyes. He knew who it was. "How are the men holding up, Sergeant McPherson?"
"The lads are a bit concerned," the Scottish NCO replied as he settled down next to his commander.
Hogg didn't move a muscle. "I know. We're going to miss our time-mark by a mile. But then I imagine everyone else is going to as well, so that shouldn't be an issue."
"It's not that, sir, that's troubling me."
Hogg knew McPherson well enough to appreciate by his tone of voice that he was genuinely worried. Opening his eyes, Hogg twisted his head around until he could see McPherson. The pained expression the man wore told him that this was not about the operation. Though he was unsure that he wanted to hear any more, he had little choice at the moment. "Go on."
"You've been preoccupied and a bit off your game since you got back from London. At first we all thought it was because of the manner in which this mission has been thrown together. But then we heard about you and—"
Angered that Thomas Shields had spoken to his men about his personal life behind his back, Hogg propped himself up. "What passes between myself and my wife," he stated as his eyes narrowed and his voice became tense, "is my affair, and my affair alone. Is that understood?"
Now that he was committed, McPherson was determined not to waver. "That's true, sir. Very true. That is, unless it affects your performance in the field."
Though he had done everything he could to separate his difficulties with his wife from his assigned duties, Hogg was able to appreciate that he was not himself. Perhaps, he reasoned, he had tried so hard to behave as if nothing had happened that he was overcompensating. Still, the implication that he was endangering his command annoyed him. "I don't see it that way, Sergeant," he snapped.
"Well, sir," McPherson continued without any hint of trepidation, "with all due respect, that's not how the lads or I see it." With a look in his eyes that seemed to be growing more determined as he spoke, the Scottish NCO went on. "I don't know how else to put this, so I won't bother trying to mince words with you. We've known each other since you joined the regiment. I was with you in some pretty tight spots and have seen you in circumstances that would have humbled a lesser man. You've never let personal concerns, either your own or those of the men under your command, interfere with the mission, whether it be in training or in combat. In that, you've always been utterly ruthless and uncompromising. And yet here we are, in the middle of this hell on earth, following a man who's got a bug up his ass that's bigger than the bloody asteroid that started all this. The men are worried. I'm worried. You're pushing harder than you need to, you've isolated yourself from everyone around you, and you're so caught in your own little world that I'm afraid you may lose sight of what's going on around you."
Pausing, McPherson took a deep breath. Before Hogg could counter, the Scottish NCO plunged on. "Just one second, you always tell the new candidates, is all that separates the quick and the dead. Just one second, one missed opportunity, one misstep. That's all it takes, you tell them. And you know what? You're right. How many times have we waited for those we were tracking to make a mistake? How many times have we come swooping in when our foes were napping and brought their miserable little lives to a quick end? Enough, sir, for you to appreciate that the same can happen to us."
Unable to look his senior NCO in the eye any longer, Patrick Hogg turned his head away. For several long seconds, neither man said a word. Inflamed by his own rhetoric, McPherson continued to stare at his commander. What could he say? The man was right. While the manner in which his senior NCO had presented his concerns bordered on insubordination, McPherson had been right to do so.
No, Hogg reminded himself. It had been the man's duty to do so. Just as it was his own duty, here and now, to pull himself together and put his personal problems behind him. Without bothering to look back at his sergeant, Hogg nodded as he pulled the cravat down from his nose. "You are correct, Sergeant McPherson. I've been off my game by a wide margin." Taking in a deep breath, he looked up at the dark, troubled sky that continued to roil and race by. "The temperature is starting to drop. I expect that once it gets dark, serious freezing will set in."
Turning back to McPherson, Hogg looked into the sergeant's eyes. "Do me a favor and pass the word on to the lads to get themselves ready for that while 1 collect myself here and… well, collect myself."
Sensing that he had achieved what he'd set out to do, McPherson stood up and nodded. "That I'll do, sir. And when you're ready, we'll be waiting."
"Thank you, Sergeant McPherson."
When the Scottish NCO was gone, Hogg again laid his head against his pack and looked up into the turbulent heavens above. Letting go was more than a simple matter of saying good-bye and walking out of a hotel room. He'd need to make a lot of adjustments, both in his life and in the way he thought. But those would have to wait. Every thought save those that concerned this mission would have to be placed on hold. He knew that. He understood that. What he didn't know was if he had the strength to manage it.
Chapter 14
Seated in a freshly fallen tree. Colonel Robert Hightower looked up from the slick he had been whiltling away at and gazed at the low, dark clouds covering the region like a death shroud. Snow was beginning to drill down, heavy Hakes that were dirty gray. This was a welcome relief after being pelted by an ice storm, not to mention the freezing rains that had preceded that. It seemed as if the heavens were anxious to rid themselves of all the moisture and dirt that had been thrown their way by the unwelcome intruder from the far reaches of the solar system. How simple. Hightower thought, it was for nature to shed its burden and move on.
The weather forecasts they had been given before departing Scotland were about as useless. Hightower concluded as he scanned the sky. Lowering his head, he surveyed the activities of his diminished command group. Of the eighteen men and women who had exiled their transport with him, his executive officer was confirmed dead, three enlisted soldiers had suffered injuries of varying degree upon landing, and one female signal officer was unaccounted for. Fortunately, enough of the communications equipment was recovered in good enough order to establish links with NATO headquarters in Brussels, as well as with most of the Tempest teams.
That they had not been able to contact all of the Tempest teams concerned Hightower. Looking over to where his ops officer was working up their current status on the ground, the Special Forces colonel felt the urge to get up and wander over to see for himself how things were shaping up. To do so, however, would serve no good purpose. If anything, interrupting the ambitious young major would only keep him from completing his task. The colonel knew that as soon as Fretello was ready, he would come scampering over to him and render his report. Until then, Hightower could do little but wait and, quite literally, whittle away his time.
This, he told himself, as he turned his attention back to the stick he was attacking with his Swiss Army knife, was the worst part of being a senior officer. Back in Scotland, when they'd been putting the finishing touches on the plan, coordinating with the Air Force for lift, giving briefings, and conducting precombat inspections, he'd never seemed to have enough hours in the day. Both he and every member of his staff had been going a mile a minute every waking hour. Even when he'd forced himself to lie down in an effort to catch a few hours' sleep, his mind had been so alive with details and the gnawing fear that he was leaving something undone that rest was all but impossible. Back there, it had been the soldiers, the men who would have to execute the plan they were working on, who'd had little to do.