With obvious concern in his voice, Fretello asked if that was going to present a problem. Shaking his head, Hogg replied in the negative. "In any other troop unit, one of my corporals would trump the best NCO they have. They'll do just fine. You have my word on that."
"Good, good," Fretello muttered, thankful that the SAS captain wasn't taking advantage of this opportunity to lord it over him like some officers he knew in the American Army would have done.
Hogg looked back toward the legionnaires bringing up the rear. "Though 1 haven't worked with that lot," he stated as he watched the column wind its way through the shattered landscape of toppled trees and ash-gray snow, "1 suspect the CRAP team with us is up to anything we encounter."
The mention of that unfortunate acronym brought a smile to Fretello's normally taut face. "That's one hell of a title to be saddled with, don't you think?"
Looking back at the American major, Hogg also smiled. "If I were you, I wouldn't go out of my way to point that out to them. When it comes to the Legion, they have less of a sense of humor about such things than a bonafide Frenchman. Besides, when we reach the silo, you'll be needing them."
"Yes, I know I'll be needing all of you, I suppose," Fretello countered.
Seeing that his commander didn't appreciate what he was trying to point out, Hogg turned once more to face the legionnaires. "You see that big fellow near the front?"
Fretello looked back along the long line of men until he saw the one he thought the SAS captain was talking about. "Yes? What about him?"
"I am told he's their demolitions expert, a Pole with a knack for blowing things up. He's got one of the two operational packages we'll be needing."
"Oh, I see," Fretello said as he looked closer in order to familiarize himself with a man who would soon become key to the success of their mission. "Thanks. That's good to know," he added as he looked up ahead, to the front of the column. Feeling a bit more at ease as a result of their exchange, Fretello decided to loosen up a bit as he continued to probe into his number two's background. "Married?"
In an instant, the smile disappeared from the Irishman's face.
This simple question, one that ordinarily required little more than a yes or no, threw Hogg back into the pits of despair. How did he answer? Not having been asked that since leaving Jenny in London, he had not found the need to sort out an appropriate response. Technically, the Irishman reasoned, he was still married. But in his heart he knew the relationship he so cherished was over. So, he wondered, was he in any sense of the word married?
The sudden change in mood that swept over them like an arctic chill cast a pall on their conversation. That such a seemingly innocent question could affect the SAS captain in this way served as a warning to Fretello. There were topics that professional soldiers didn't allow themselves to become involved in, he quickly reminded himself as he began to seek a graceful way of parting company with Hogg. Politics and personal lives. Both subjects were sure-fire ways of alienating both superiors and subordinates, something that a career soldier like himself did his damnedest to avoid.
Finding the silence that his companions had fallen into intolerable, Franz Ingelmann picked up his pace until he was able to close the gap between himself and Stanislaus Dombrowski. Without preamble, the Austrian legionnaire began to speak. "What do you suppose those two are discussing?"
Having closed his mind to all conscious thoughts other than those necessary to navigate his way through the maze of fallen trees and drifting snow, it took the Pole a moment to respond. As a means of buying himself a bit more time with which to refocus his thoughts and sort out what, exactly, his companion was concerned with, Dombrowski countered Ingelmann's question with one of his own. "Who are you talking about?"
"Them," the Austrian replied, pointing to the American major and the SAS captain marching side by side. "Our two intrepid leaders. They were chatting to each other a moment ago, looking back at us and pointing. What do you suppose they are saying?"
Annoyed that he had been shaken from his semiconscious slumber to discuss such a trivial matter, Dombrowski took the opportunity to poke some fun at his companion. "I would imagine," he stated in a manner that gave the impression he was being deadly serious, "they are asking each other how such a sorry little Austrian shit like you managed to steal his way into the Legion."
Undeterred, Ingelmann persisted with his original line of inquiry. "No, I'm serious, mon ami. The Englishman, he was pointing at us, telling the American major something not more than two minutes ago."
The big Pole corrected his friend. "Take care that the captain over there does not hear you call him an Englishman. He's Irish. Very Irish, from what I've been told."
The Austrian legionnaire shrugged. "What different does that make? English, Irish, Welsh. They're all the same, aren't they?"
Looking down, Dombrowski smiled. "You know, I was telling a friend the other day the same thing about the Germans and the Austrians. I told him you really can't tell the difference between them."
Smarting, Ingelmann glared at his companion. "That's not a fair comparison, you know. Austrians are much nicer."
Looking away, the Polish legionnaire's expression changed. "I don't think my father would agree with you on that, not after the last war."
Realizing what Dombrowski was saying, Ingelmann quickly got back to the subject he had first broached. "So, what could those two have been discussing?"
Befuddled by this line of questioning, Dombrowski shook off the gloom that memories of his native land and her sufferings had evoked, and looked down at his friend. "I imagine they are talking about officer things."
Rolling his eyes, Ingelmann threw his hands out in despair. "Why, of course they are talking about officer things. Even I could figure that out!"
"Then why in hell did you bother me with such a stupid question?" pombrowski roared.
In a gesture of hopelessness, Ingelmann shrugged as he slowly parted company with the big Pole. "You're hopeless, mon Sergeant. Utterly and completely hopeless. Go back to sleep."
Shaking his head as he chuckled to himself, Dombrowski waved his friend away. "Believe me, I intend to as soon as you leave me alone."
Though he heard his young companion say something, the words were muddled and unclear. Without another thought, the Polish legionnaire allowed his mind to drift back into the semi-numb state that made an arduous task such as this tolerable. Only the steady rhythm of the march concerned him at the moment. One foot up and out at a lime. Twenty-eight inches ahead, twenty-eight inches farther along. Always forward, ever closer to their objective.
Chapter 20
Man to man, there was little to differentiate between the two forces of highly trained commandos that were now converging on one point. In numbers and armament, they were about equal. In fact, due to their rather open policy concerning the procurement of weapons, individuals within both commands carried the exact same models. The terrain each unit faced conferred no great advantage to one side or the other. The shotgun pattern with which the asteroid had pelted the region left pockets of devastation that were no less daunting to the Russians. The snow, the ice. and the unending maze of pulverized trees reduced cross-country movement of both units to a virtual crawl.
There was one area in which the Russian commandos did have a decided advantage over their foes. Unlike the NATO troops, who had no option but to catch what sleep they could by curling up in the lee of fallen trees under open skies, the Russians had spent the previous evening at a fixed installation. There they were free to take over the bunks left unoccupied by troops that had been dispatched throughout the region to assist in disaster relief as well as to secure key sites and installations. Some of the bunks belonged to those members of the garrison who had repelled the American Special Forces teams. That they would not be coming back did not bother the Russian commandos who took their place for an evening. Even if they had known the fate of the former occupant with any degree of certainty, it would not have mattered. There wasn't a single man who belonged to Demetre Orlov's special unit that gave such things a second thought. After what they had been through, shelter and a hot meal were all that mattered.