Taking this second gift in his free hand, the Pole turned it this way and that until he could read the label. "English biscuits? You have been a very busy lad this morning."
"Well, you know what the Americans say: The early bug finds the bird."
After using his teeth to rip the package open, Dombrowski set it down on his lap before fishing out one of the biscuits. "I think it's the bird that gets the worm."
Waving his cup about, Ingelmann reached over and snatched one of the biscuits from Dombrowski. "Whatever you say, mon sergeant." After taking a bite, he looked down at the remains of his biscuit. "Our SAS friends are far more accommodating than the Americans."
"And how did you manage to pry these from them?"
The Austrian legionnaire looked over at his companion, affecting a long, sorrowful face as he did so. "I told the Brits that we had lost all our rations in the drop, that the only thing we had to look forward to by way of food were American combat rations. After expressing their sincere regrets, one of their officers rummaged around in his rucksack and gave me these."
Dombrowski shook his head in disbelief. "You may be an idiot as far as land navigation is concerned, but you more than redeem yourself when it comes to providing for life's little necessities. Now all we need is a bottle of wine and all will be right with the world."
Looking away from Dombrowski, Ingelmann glanced furtively first to his right, then left. When he was sure that no one was watching them, he reached down inside his parka and began to rummage about for something. When he had found what he was hunting for, he slowly pulled out a metal flask. "Later, mon ami."
After a hearty round of laughter, the two legionnaires settled back to savor their unexpected windfall. Eventually, when he noticed that he had almost drained his cup, Dombrowski tried to recall if he had remembered to bring his beret. "Do you think," he asked innocently, "they would be willing to part with another cup?"
The Austrian gave his friend a sly smile. "I'm sure that if you personally went over there and asked the female sergeant nicely, you'd be able to talk her out of, or into, anything."
"Coffee would be more than enough," Dombrowski replied before enjoying the last sip of his second-most-favorite beverage.
"But, Sergeant, she is just your type. A healthy, full-figured woman who looks as if she could knit a tank out of steel wool."
The Polish legionnaire gave his companion a dirty look. "Fuck you."
After Ingelmann's laughter died away, the two men sat in silence for several minutes, each lost in his own thoughts as they enjoyed this moment of quiet. It was Dombrowski who finally broke the silence. "So," he said, "we're still in Russia."
Ingelmann shook his head as he looked about. "Yes, we are still in Russia."
Several seconds passed before Dombrowski asked, "Is the adjutant up and about yet?"
"Oh, yes. For some time," the Austrian explained. "He was over with the American command group, sniffing about for information."
"Are they still talking about sending us out on another mission?"
"Oui." Ingelmann's responses had grown uncharacteristically solemn. "When I left the adjutant, he was talking to the American colonel. With the element of surprise gone, the American is waiting until he has enough men and materiel on hand to ensure success."
While Dombrowski knew that this was a wise move, he had no doubt that the longer they waited, the more difficult it would be. No doubt the Russians were scrambling in an effort to muster up every man they could lay their hands on to protect the last of their missiles. As brutal as the operation had been to date, the upcoming phase would be, in the Pole's mind, even more so.
Abandoning that train of thought for the moment, Dombrowski turned his attention to more immediate and personal concerns. Though he knew he didn't want to hear the answer that he anticipated, he had to ask about the third team of legionnaires that they hadn't heard from before he had gone to sleep. "Any word from Team Claire?"
"No." The sad, mournful tone in Ingelmann's curt response was all Dombrowski needed to hear.
Eighteen men had jumped less than twenty-four hours before, the Polish legionnaire knew. Now there were only seven of them left. In time, the names of those lost out there in the frozen wastelands of Siberia would be honored and revered. In the annual ceremony in Corsica during which the Legion recalls its past deeds and fallen heroes, their names would be added to a long and glorious roll. The sacrifice that those men had made would be heralded and held up as an example to the young, unbloodied recruits striving to follow in their footsteps. At the moment, however, Dombrowski could find nothing to rejoice over. First he would need to mourn the loss of so many of those who had become his brothers.
Patrick Hogg was up long before the pitch-black of night grudgingly gave way to a cold, foggy morning. He spent the better part of an hour conversing with Colonel Hightower, going over the operational details of the plan that was being cobbled together to deal with the two remaining Perimeter missiles. Not once during the time Hogg spent with the American did that officer volunteer any hope that one or more of the teams dispatched to eliminate those targets would still, somehow, manage to accomplish their assigned tasks.
It was light when Hogg returned to his teams. By the time he arrived there, the NCO's were in the process of rousting their charges. After pausing only long enough to wolf down a few biscuits and a cup of freshly brewed tea, the SAS captain personally checked each British commando in an effort to assess his condition, inspect his weapons, and provide the sort of command presence that was so essential in a unit such as theirs.
When he was satisfied that all was in order with those who were fully mission-capable, Hogg turned his attention to those who had been wounded. Alone, he made his way over to the American medics, who had set up an open-air aid station. Twice along the way, as he stumbled about in the fog, he had to stop and ask others he came across for directions. While the assembly area in which all the teams were resting was relatively small, the sameness of the broken terrain and the thick fog was disorienting. Only when he came across a bloody pile of discarded field dressings and torn medical packaging did he know he had found the aid station.
The original operational plan for Tempest had not included provisions for a medical team. It had been envisioned that each team, which included its own highly trained medics, would take care of its own. Colonel Hightower, however, had wisely chosen to add a qualified combat surgeon, a physician's assistant, and a pair of medics to the troop list for his forward operations command-and-control team. As Hogg made his way into the spot they had staked out, he came to appreciate the wisdom of this move.
When they had reached the assembly area earlier that morning, the SAS captain had thought that the experience of the other Tempest teams had been like theirs: a few men lost, a couple of casualties, and a lot of bumps and bruises. He was quite taken aback when he found out that the SAS teams had been, in comparison, lucky.
Hogg found Sergeant Kenneth McPherson straight off. A medic was in the process of removing the dressing Hogg had hurriedly applied in the predawn darkness after having picked out the worst of the splinters and shrapnel from his NCO's face. With the light of day now available, and all those who had more serious wounds tended to, the medics were going back to check work that had been done in haste.
Not wanting to interfere, Patrick Hogg stood off to one side and watched. "Now keep your head still while I change the dressing and clean you up," the medic warned.
The sight of McPherson's face shocked Hogg. Though he had known the man's injuries were bad, he had thought that there had been but one big gash and a few smaller, superficial ones. The light of day, however, revealed that much of the skin on the left side of his NCO's face had been peeled back. Strips of shredded flesh clung to the old dressing as the medic lifted it away. The cavity where there had once been an eyeball was now a torn, bloody hollow. Upon seeing this, the medic gently eased the blood-soaked dressing back into place. "I'm sorry, man, but I'm gonna have the surgeon look at this."