"And then what?"
Dombrowski's thoughts hadn't progressed much beyond getting as close as he could and sizing up the situation. Without a functional radio, they had been unable to contact any of the other two Legion CRAP teams assigned to this target. For all he knew, the other teams were totally hors de combat. If that were true, it would be up to the two of them to take out the missile that was now but a couple of hundred meters away.
Lifting his night-vision goggles up onto his forehead, Dombrowski wiped the sweat off his face. He spoke as he reasoned his way through this dilemma. "If it comes to that, then we will have to do the best we can to carry out the mission."
The best response the Austrian could muster was a simple, "I see."
"After I have had an opportunity to check things out," Dombrowski continued, "I will come back here to tell you what I have found. If those are Russians down there, then 1 will circle around to the other side of the site. Once there, I will open fire. With luck, they will all follow me away from the silo and up over that far ridge. When you hear the gunfire start going down the other side, make your way to the silo cover, place the charge, set the timer for five minutes, and then get the hell out of there."
"What if the order to execute has not been given?"
Frustrated by the situation, Dombrowski snapped, "Damn it! What if the order has been given? What if this is the last missile left?"
In silence, the big Pole waited for an answer. When Ingelmann found he was unable to reply, Dombrowski continued. "We have no choice but to carry on as best we can." Then, after letting his anger subside a bit, he added, "Besides, those are Russians. No one will shed a tear if we should squash a few by mistake."
Not having the innate hatred of that branch of the Slavic people as Dombrowski did, Ingelmann felt uneasy about what his sergeant was proposing. The idea that two lowly legionnaires could trigger a chain of events that would result in a worldwide holocaust flashed through his brain. Still, like Dombrowski, he could see no other option, except one. "I think it would be better," he finally ventured, "if I played rabbit-and-hounds with the Russians while you placed the explosives. You are, after all, the expert in that area and I, as you well know, am far more nimble than you."
The darkness kept Dombrowski from seeing Ingelmann's expression, leaving him to wonder if his comrade was hoping he would turn down his offer. It was only when the Austrian reached out and grasped his arm that the Polish legionnaire realized that Ingelmann was deadly serious. "It must be this way," Ingelmann stated firmly. "You know that, don't you?"
Dombrowski didn't reply. Instead, he repeated his instructions. "Stay here until I get back, is that clear?"
"Oui, mon sergeant. Very clear."
The snow on the ground and the debris strewn about made moving forward in silence a painfully slow process. The falling snow didn't help matters either. Still, Dombrowski was able to maneuver himself into a position close enough to the silo cover that he could see most of the shadowy figures. Taking up the best-covered and concealed position he could find under the circumstances, he brought his weapon up and slowly switched the safety to the fire position before settling in to watch and listen.
It didn't take long to figure out that there was a man squatting not twenty meters from him, holding a stubby weapon at the ready and looking in his general direction. Behind that one there were two more figures, standing upright on an elevated mound that Dombrowski assumed was the concrete silo cover. The two were fumbling about with something, but he could not be certain of what they were doing.
Seeing that there was no way of getting closer, the Polish legionnaire was faced with a difficult decision. If he called out the challenge in French and the people he. was watching turned out to be Russian, he'd be screwed. His plan of going back to Ingelmann and coordinating their agreed-upon plan would be impossible to implement. Yet if he called out a greeting in Russian and the shadowy figures before him were fellow legionnaires they might shoot before he had an opportunity to properly identify himself. He had too much respect for the marksmanship of his comrades to take a chance like that.
With no other choice, Dombrowski lowered himself behind the thickest tree trunk he could find and removed his gloves. Putting two fingers in his mouth, he let go with a whistle that faintly resembled that of an African bird that almost any legionnaire would be familiar with.
On the other side of the log, in the direction of the silo, Dombrowski heard a sudden shuffling about in the snow, followed by hushed voices, then silence. Finally, a faint whistle, mimicking the one he had just issued, floated through the still night air.
After heaving a great sigh of relief, Dombrowski peered over the tree trunk and gave the challenge as loud as he dared. "Rapiere."
From the other side of the tree trunk came the welcome response. "Pelican."
Though all doubt as to who they were had been erased, the Polish legionnaire still exercised caution as he made his way forward. From somewhere ahead of him in the darkness, a familiar voice boomed out. "Stanislaus! Get your miserable ass over here. We are having problems with this infernal contraption of yours." The voice belonged to Adjutant Hector Allons, leader of Team Bastille.
Before complying with this gruff order, Dombrowski paused and faced about in the direction he had come from. "Franz! Kommen sie, mach sneel," he shouted in German.
There was obvious relief in the Austrian's voice when his response of "awol!" cut through the pitch-black night.
Continuing his advance toward the silo, Dombrowski felt the weight of the world being lifted from him. As he passed the sentry he had first seen, he gave the man a friendly pal on the shoulder. "It is good to see you, my friend."
The legionnaire, a New Zealander named John Dwyer, responded without turning his attention from the sector he was covering. "Believe me, right now we're pissin' all over ourselves with joy at seeing anyone."
"I know, mon ami," Dombrowski stated dryly as he continued to make his way to where the Spanish team chief waited. After reaching the silo and managing to clamber up the slick, steep sides of the concrete cover, the Polish legionnaire tried to determine who was there with Allons. From the man's stature and posture, he guessed it was a fellow Slav by the name of L'udovit Val. Addressing Allons, the Polish legionnaire saluted and rendered his report. "Sergeant-Chef Dombrowski and Corporal Ingelmann reporting, sir."
There was a moment of silence as Hector Allons waited for the Pole to continue. When he did not, the Spaniard asked in a voice that betrayed his concern. "The captain? The others? Are they—"
Allons didn't finish his question. There was no need to. There was a notable hesitancy before Dombrowski replied, one that none of the men present missed. "Oui," was all he was able to manage.
Again there was silence as the legionnaires who belonged to Allons' team took a moment to reflect upon their most grievous loss. When he was able to do so without fear of displaying any emotion, Dombrowski asked the Spaniard about his team. "Except for some brushes and bumps, we all made it."
Astonished, Dombrowski shook his head in disbelief. "All?"
"I guess," the Spanish adjutant replied quietly, "we were fortunate."
It took a moment for everyone standing on the cover of the Russian intercontinental ballistic missile to shake the pall that had fallen over them and snap back to the reality of the moment. It was Dombrowski, anxious to push the image of a forlorn Jules Pascal out of his mind, who spoke first. "So, Adjutant, what seems to be the problem with the charge?"
With a shake of his head, Allons refocused on the matter at hand. "Both of our devices took some knocking about during the drop. The other was a complete write-off. And this one has several wires that have pulled free. Val and I were just trying to figure out which one went where when you showed up."