Like a roller coaster that had reached a peak, this last hope hung there for a brief moment before flaring out in the quick and stomach turning plunge that followed: She is gone, a quiet voice whispered from somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind. You have lost her forever.
"Green, this is Blue."
With a start, Hogg fumbled about in the darkness as he reached for the hand mike. "This is Green."
"We haven't much time," Shields stated without preamble, "so here's how this will play out. You will engage the Russians in a firefight from where you are. When you have their full attention, pull back, drawing them away from the silo as you go. I'm hoping that they buy into the idea that there are only two teams out here, that you are the last of them, and therefore they'll come at you with everything they have. Do you copy? Over."
With McPherson now fully awake and listening, Hogg acknowledged that he understood.
"Good," Shields replied. "Once you have led them as far as you dare, break contact and make your way to the rally point as best you can with utmost speed."
"Affirmative, Blue," Hogg said without letting his voice betray the apprehension he felt. "Is there anything else?" he asked out of habit.
"This is Blue. Negative. As soon as you're ready, execute." Then, as an afterthought, Shields added, "Good luck."
The SAS captain did not bother to return the sentiment. Instead, he turned to deal with the new situation at hand.
"I always hate this sort of thing," McPherson offered.
His team leader grunted. "I have no doubt that the major's right. The Russians will follow. It's getting them to stop following that's going to be the trick."
"You don't suppose that they'll give up the ghost when they hear the silo go pop, do you?" McPherson ventured.
"Are you willing to bet your life on that?" Hogg countered. When McPherson did not respond, Hogg went back to turning the problem over in his mind. "Do you remember that narrow draw we passed through two klicks back?" he finally asked.
"Yes, of course," McPherson replied. "The place looked like a team of drunken lumberjacks went on a frenzy." Partially shielded from the full force of the shock wave following the impact of the asteroid, the draw in question was choked with shattered trees thrown about at all angles. When he thought he had latched on to his commander's idea, the Scottish NCO articulated his own version: "We lead them back into it, gain the high ground, and chop 'em up while they're mucking about among the tree trunks."
"I'll do you one better," Hogg stated as he began to stir himself off the ground. "I want you to go back there with Jones. Take the two demo charges with you. Set them up on either side of the draw with the business end of the shaped charges angled down into it. Wire them together and into the manual blasting machine. Then find a place from where we can see down into the vale. It has to be far enough away so that whoever executes the demo doesn't go up with it."
McPherson whistled. "Now that will be a neat trick. It's not the blast that I'm worried about. It's the trash that the charges throw up in the air that'll get ya. The splinters from the trees will come down on anyone within a hundred yards of that vale like a hail of arrows."
Hogg gave his NCO a light tap on the shoulder. "I'm sure you'll figure something out by the time I get back there. Now, get going. Send Dunn and Patterson up here to me. We'll give you ten minutes before we open fire."
"That's not much time, sir."
"That's all I can give you. Now go, before the major starts hounding us."
When McPherson was gone, Hogg checked his watch. Ten minutes. An eternity in the SAS. It was ten minutes that he, in truth, didn't have. But having taken them, he needed to make sure they were not wasted. While he waited for the two men who would stay behind with him, he settled into a good firing position. Once he was nestled behind the best cover he could find, he flipped his night vision goggles down in order to make a final sweep of the area around the silo. Any more thoughts about his wife were for the moment relegated to that place in his mind where all professional soldiers store personal baggage and concerns that have no place on the battlefield.
Making his way up to where McPherson waited for him was an ordeal for Private Jones. Stumbling and tripping, he navigated the maze of fallen timbers that filled the narrow vale as best he could. Born in an area where opportunities for a young man were slim, he had joined the Royal Welsh Fusiliers before volunteering for the SAS. Just how wise a move that had been was, at this particular moment, open to debate. In a pitch-black darkness, he moved as quickly as he could. This effort cost him dearly as he slipped and banged his knees and shins more times than he cared to count. Each time he stumbled he cut loose with a string of oaths. When he was close enough that McPherson could hear him, the Scottish sergeant yelled out to the man, "Stop your bloody whining and get your sorry ass over here, you filthy Welshman."
Between McPherson's exhortations and the echo of gunfire louder with each passing minute, Jones managed to make his way over to McPherson's position. "It's about bloody time," the Scot snarled as he grabbed the lead Jones offered up. "Now, get back to where I told you to go, find yourself a hole to crawl into, and wait there till after I blow this." Knowing enough about demolitions to understand what would happen when McPherson set off the two charges, the young commando was gone in a flash.
When all was set, the Scottish NCO settled down to wait for Hogg to lead the Russians into the kill zone. With nothing better to do, he looked around. As he did so, he began to have second thoughts about the spot he had selected. Though the fold of earth that stood between himself and the charges beyond was quite substantial and would be more than adequate to protect him from the direct effect of the blast, there was little in the way of overhead cover. His warnings to Hogg were spinning about in his mind when he heard the other members of the team enter the vale below.
Carefully, McPherson rose up and called out in the direction from which he had heard his captain's voice. "Up and to your right, sir."
Homing in on the sound of his sergeant's voice, Patrick Hogg ignored the odd burst of AK fire unleashed blindly by one of his nervous pursuers. Like Jones had, Hogg, Dunn, and Patterson found the going both difficult and painful. Unlike Jones, none of them griped. The random fire that continued to gain on them motivated the three stay-behinds to maintain their focus and clear the vale before the Russians caught up.
Huffing and puffing, Hogg managed to reach the hollow where he thought McPherson was. "Sergeant! Where in the bloody hell are you?"
With the Russians now entering the vale below, McPherson had to exercise a bit more caution. Waving only his free hand above the fold of earth he was hunkered behind, he called out as loudly as he dared. "To your right, sir. Over here."
Almost immediately, three heaving, sweating commandos came bounding up over the mound of dirt before McPherson and descended on him. Having no idea of how close they were, one of them landed right on top of the waiting SAS sergeant. Only a display of incredible self-discipline, coupled with a keen awareness of how near the Russians were, kept McPherson from tossing his unexpected assailant off to one side while flailing him with every curse word he could muster.
The assailant, after realizing his error, crawled over McPherson and back onto solid ground. "Sorry about that," Hogg mumbled as he struggled to regain his composure and sort out his jumble of gear that was now in utter disarray.