While enjoyable and quite therapeutic, the advantage conferred by this respite from the harsh Siberian conditions was transitory. When the time came, the outcome of any confrontation between the two commands would be determined by other, more traditional factors. Orlov understood this. He also understood that combat is not an exercise in mathematics. The numerically superior force does not always triumph, nor can advanced technology guarantee success. Though they do tend to tip the scales in favor of the side who possesses them, many times it is the will and the confidence of a single man that determines the outcome of a battle. More often than not, this person is the commander.
History abounds with examples of armies that threw away a sure victory because its commander, for one reason or another, failed at a critical moment. Even in the age of digital warfare and precision guided munitions, the leader must be willing to look his foe in the eye while he drives his sword home in order to prevail. Such a failure of will had never been a problem for Demetre Orlov. He knew of the rumors concerning him spread by those who suspected that he derived a certain pleasure from making the kill. Since his effectiveness depended to a large degree on fear, he did nothing to discourage these stories since they served to enhance his reputation as an uncompromising foe.
As he picked his way forward toward the missile silo he had been assigned to defend, he found himself reflecting on this. While a reputation such as his was impressive to those who knew of it, the NATO troops he would soon be facing didn't have a clue about such matters. There would be no opportunity beforehand to do any psychological posturing. Nor did he suspect that he would be afforded much of an opportunity to size up his opponent. Based upon the situation he had been briefed on before leaving Likhatchev's regional command-and-control center, the best Orlov could hope for was to arrive at the site just ahead of the NATO troops. If that were the case, he would have little opportunity to do much other than take up hasty defensive positions, establish a few outposts, and wait for his foe to make his move.
Of all the uncertainties with which he had to contend, the thought of assuming a defensive posture bothered Orlov the most. His unit was an elite strike force, unsuited for static defense. Everything about it, from its weaponry to its unique organization, was tailored with an eye toward a stealthy approach and the delivery of a swift, decisive blow. They were so wed to this mode of operation that not a single member of his special-response team had a shovel, an item of equipment that had become all but standard issue for ground combat troops since the First World War. It proved to be somewhat of an embarrassment when he had to dispatch his deputy to scare up this simple, yet essential, piece of military hardware.
Thoughts of his deputy triggered another concern that had been nagging the Russian colonel. It was one thing to be ever mindful that one or more members of his handpicked team could, at a critical moment, turn on him. It was quite another to have experienced that and then find yourself marching back into action with the traitorous bastard still with you. As if in response to this apprehension, Orlov turned around and searched the column of soldiers struggling through the snow behind him until his eyes fell upon the major who had led his command in open revolt.
As if on cue, Petkovic looked up and locked eyes with his commanding officer. The two men stared at each other for a moment. Each was too far away to read the other's expression, so they could not be sure of what the other was thinking. But each could guess, and neither was far from the mark.
Ivan Moshinsky, who was in his usual spot immediately behind Orlov, took note of his colonel's expression. After glancing over his shoulder and seeing that Major Petkovic was grimly eyeing his superior, Orlov's self-appointed guardian knew what was transpiring. The veteran of many campaigns kept his thoughts to himself, even after the two officers turned their attention away from each other and back to their tortuous trek.
Good march discipline requires that units halt at regular intervals to allow soldiers to rest. A general rule of thumb many infantry officers follows is a ten-minute break every hour. As highly trained and well-conditioned soldiers, Orlov's special-response team could march on at a rate that would savage just about any other unit. But even the best unit in the world needs to pause every now and then to allow stragglers to catch up, overburdened soldiers to adjust their loads, and individuals to tend to personal needs, whatever they may be.
When he came upon an area that looked as if it would provide a good place to halt, Demetre Orlov stepped out of line, gave a sharp whistle to gain the attention of those who were ahead of him, and waved his hand over his head. "Ten minutes," he called out. He had no need to give any further orders. The lieutenant responsible for the vanguard automatically directed his men to fan out and establish a security screen, just as the senior officer charged with bringing up the rear ensured that some of his men were facing about in order to keep an eye open for anyone who might be following.
Standing off to one side, Orlov watched as his men settled down to take advantage of this respite. Once he was sure that all the appropriate security measures had been taken to protect his command from surprise, he sat down on the ground to rest his weary legs.
This did not mean that he could simply collapse and drift off to sleep as some of his men did at times like this. Even during a rest period, there was too much to do, too many things for a commander to think about. Pulling his map out of his pocket with one hand and his canteen with the other, Orlov laid the map on his lap opened to the section that showed their route of march. He studied it while he slowly unscrewed the cap to his canteen and took a drink of water.
Despite an agonizingly slow pace, they had passed the halfway point. Though they had one more major ridge to climb and a stream that might prove difficult to cross, he was satisfied that they could be at the missile site well before dark. This would give him an opportunity to study the ground by light of day before deploying his troops. With luck, he would even find enough time to send out an ambush patrol or two to cover the most likely avenues of approach leading to the silo. That his foe might do the same occurred to him for a moment, but he quickly discounted the thought. They were there for one purpose and one purpose only: to destroy the silo. If he had that mission rather than the one he was saddled with, he reasoned, he wouldn't dilly-dally with setting up an ambush. He'd swarm over the objective as soon as he reached it, set his demolitions, and then pull back as quickly as he could. While he did expect his opposite number to post security all around the site while the demolitions party set its charges, the guards would only be concerned with providing early warning and buying time for the demo party to complete its task, nothing more.
Having finished with his map, Orlov looked around. His men had already settled in as best they could to take advantage of the halt. Any thoughts he entertained about calling his officers together for a quick meeting was dismissed when he saw Major Petkovic wandering off away from the column in search of a place to relieve himself in private. It would be like that bastard, Orlov thought with a smirk, to be shy pulling his tiny pecker out in front of real men, where they could see just how poorly equipped he was.