Reaching out with his good hand, Shields patted Hogg's arm. "Colonel Hightower informed me that he would make sure his major understands that you are a crackerjack SAS officer, one who's opinion is to be taken into account in all operational matters."
"Well," Hogg replied dryly, "that's sure to smooth things out and serve as a foundation for a healthy working relationship."
"You're not going to marry the bastard," Shields snapped. "You're both professionals. Hightower is doing what he can to make sure that his subordinate understands that and conducts himself accordingly. I expect the same from you."
For a moment, Hogg wasn't sure which part of his commander's reprimand cut the deepest, the rebuke itself or the comment about marriage. For as hard as he tried, the memory of his recent separation from his wife was never far from his mind. Seeing that there was little more to be gained by spending time here, he stood up. "If there is nothing else, sir, I need to get back to the men."
Not realizing how personal his remarks had been, Shields smiled. "Yes, of course." Then, just as Hogg was about to turn away, the major called out. "By any chance, do you have a roll or biscuits handy?"
Hogg looked back at Shields and shook his head. "No sir, sorry.
I gave my last to a poor legionnaire who was wandering about this morning in search of food."
After waiting while his commanding officer mumbled a response that he did not pay attention to, Patrick Hogg turned his back on the distressing scenes of pain and suffering that permeated the open air aid station. Lost in thought, he made his way back to where his men were waiting for word of their next assignment. While their thoughts were on what the immediate future held for them, those of the Irish captain were focused on what, for him, lay beyond the completion of this mission.
Chapter 18
The opening of the door, the sudden rush of noise from outside, and the flood of light were more than enough to wake Demetre Orlov. Even before Captain Anna Zudiev called to him. the Russian colonel was swinging his feet up off the sofa on which he had slept. "The General needs to see you. Colonel," the staff officer said in a voice that was a bit too sweet for a professional soldier.
Before he could speak, Orlov tried to clear his throat. The irritation from inhaling foul air the previous day had left a gritty dryness, making that effort quite painful. Coming to his feet, he took a moment to stretch before looking around the room in an effort to reorient himself.
After Likhatchev left him, Orlov had tried to venture out of the room where he had been sequestered. That effort had been short-lived. Even before he had finished opening the door leading out into the corridor, one of the two armed sentries posted there had moved to block any effort by the Russian colonel to leave. When he asked the man if he was being held prisoner, the sentinel did not reply. While the man was Asiatic. Orlov was sure that he had understood his question. He was simply doing his duty, in the manner the General expected of all subordinates.
Sensing that the direct approach would not work. Orlov tried a different tack in his effort to explore his surroundings. "I need to use the latrine." he stated. While the sentinel still refused to speak, this time he at least acknowledged that he had understood what his charge had said. Keeping one hand securely wrapped around the rear grip of his assault rifle, the mute guard pointed over Orlov's shoulder at a door in one corner of the room. Then, stepping back, the man reached down, grasped the door handle, jerked it away from Orlov. and pulled the door shut.
Left alone again. Orlov had wandered back over to the sofa.
Settling down, he poured himself another glass of vodka. While he nursed his drink, he tried to sort things out. This effort soon petered out as his exhaustion, the alcohol Likhatchev had served him, and the inviting softness of the sofa conspired to put an end to all conscious thought.
Without a word. Orlov made his way over to the latrine that the guard outside had so brusquely pointed to the night before. "Colonel," the female captain standing in the doorway stated in a manner that irked him, "the general is expecting you."
Pausing, he turned and faced her. In a deliberate effort to embarrass her, he began to open his fly as he responded: "I do not think the general would appreciate it if I pissed over his boots. Now, if you are in such a hurry, you are free to come along and see if you can squeeze it out any quicker than I can."
His words and gesture had their desired effect. Red-faced and unable to find a suitable response, Captain Zudiev withdrew from the entrance and pulled the door partially closed. In her haste, she did not hear Orlov's parting shot. Redirecting his efforts, he resumed his leisurely advance to the latrine, shaking his head as he went and mumbling just under his breath, "Silly bitch."
Once in the small, spartan latrine, Orlov went about tending to his needs without much thought. It wasn't until he turned toward the sink to wash his hands that he looked at himself in the mirror. While the reflection was not totally unexpected, it did cause him to pause. The two-plus days of beard was barely visible through the grime and smudges of soot that covered his face. In the field, surrounded by others exposed to the same conditions, a soldier does not notice just how filthy he is until he finds himself in a place where his appearance is the exception and not the norm. It was only after he had taken time to scrub his hands and face twice and look at himself in the mirror again that he noticed just how bloodshot his eyes were.
With water still dripping down his face, — Orlov leaned forward in order to inspect his work in greater detail. There was no doubt that he could have done a better job of it, he told himself. That he had tarried here long enough, leaving the staff captain to cool her heels a bit in an effort to put her in her place, was equally clear. Straightening up, he took the thin towel that hung on a ring next to the sink and dried his hands and face. When he was finished, he balled the towel up before tossing it into the bowl of the sink. "Well," he announced firmly as he stared at himself in the mirror, "let us see what our great General has to say."
After leaving the room where he had spent the past few hours, it did not escape Orlov's attention that there were no longer any sentinels outside his door. Nor could he help but notice the extreme sense of urgency with which everyone in the corridor moved. Though he was tempted to ask Zudiev what was going on, he knew better, especially after having treated her the way he had.
The captain escorted Orlov into the main operations center of the regional headquarters complex. The center was like every other operations center the Russian colonel had been in. Every square centimeter of the large room's walls were adorned with charts listing the status of units and facilities, as well as maps of all descriptions. Equally telling was the tension, which was almost palpable, and the near-frantic pace. Without bothering to give any of the maps or charts a close look, Orlov smirked as he mused to his escort. "I see the folks in Moscow have got you hopping."
Captain Zudiev, looking over to where General Likhatchev was busy giving instructions to a handful of staff officers, shook her head while she waited for him to finish. "No," she stated curtly. "Moscow is giving us fits at the moment. NATO troops are active in the region."
Ordinarily, Demetre Orlov could absorb even the most outrageous pronouncements, or listen to incredible news, without showing even the slightest hint of surprise. In part, this was due to the fact that he went to extremes to make sure that he was never surprised. The colonel of commandos was an absolute fanatic when it came to keeping himself abreast of the situation, not only as it existed in his own little sphere of influence, but also ensuring that he was aware of developments within the operational and strategic realms. Before departing Moscow, he had made it a point to personally visit each one of the many contacts he had within Russia's intelligence community. He had specifically looked for evidence of any unusual activities by American or NATO forces, for even the slightest hint that they might be preparing for intervention. That Russia's traditional enemies could somehow launch an attack on them, out of the clear blue without even the slightest warning, was all but unimaginable to Orlov.