Having dropped the idea of an officers' call, Orlov eased his head back until it came to rest on a tree stump. "Sergeant Moshinsky," he called out as he closed his eyes, "if I fall asleep, wake me in five minutes."
From behind him, Peter Spangen, the sniper, answered, "Yes, of course, Colonel. We will do so." Assuming that Spangen was sitting beside Moshinsky and simply answering in his stead, Orlov let his mind drift away.
When he was far enough from the column that he was sure he could be alone, Gregory Petkovic looked to his left, then to his right, to make certain that no one was watching. Satisfied that he had some privacy, he unbuckled the snap of his load-bearing equipment, pulled his winter camouflage smock up, and undid his trousers. After pulling the bulky winter coveralls down as far as he could, the Russian major dropped his drawers before slowly lowering himself to a squatting position. When he was sure that all of his clothing was clear of the line of fire, he relaxed as best he could, his bare bottom exposed to the frigid cold, and proceeded to relieve himself.
Like many of those belonging to the special-response team. Petkovic had gorged himself on the freshly cooked rations freely offered them at the command center they had been dispatched to destroy. It had been too long since their last full meal prior to reaching that site, and their efforts to get there had been demanding. Failure to take advantage of the hospitality that had been liberally heaped upon them, as some of the commandos had done out of some foolish notion of pride was in Petkovic's eyes a waste of a marvelous opportunity. That he was having to pay for that moment of indulgence at a time like this didn't bother him. It had been well worth it. Given a chance, he would have stayed behind, where he would have had the use of a decent, well-heated facility instead of being forced to let go while balancing himself on his haunches like a dog being curbed.
When it had come time to make his decision as to whether he would remain or continue on with the special-response team, Petkovic found that he really didn't have a choice. General Likhatchev had gone out of his way to make sure he understood that he did not have an option. As awkward as it would be, given his role in the mutiny against his colonel, Petkovic understood his duty. Despite his decision to turn against his own government, he was a professional soldier, an officer, and above all, a Russian. So he had saluted the General, as all good soldiers are trained to do, and fallen in behind Colonel Demetre Orlov as if nothing untoward had happened.
At the moment, that issue was the farthest thing from Petkovic's mind. Reaching out, he grabbed the stub of a charged branch with one hand while searching about the pockets of his rolled-up trousers for the tissue stuffed in them for just such an emergency. That he had overlooked placing it where it would be easy to reach annoyed the Russian major. Such laxness, he chided himself, was inexcusable and shameful, especially for an officer.
Gregory Petkovic was in the midst of chastising himself for this when his peripheral vision caught sight of a swift motion descending from above, like a bird swooping down upon him. Before he could do anything but tense up, he felt a hand grab the front edge of his hood and jerk his head back. Caught totally by surprise, he was too busy wildly flapping his arms about in an effort to regain his balance to do anything about the razor-sharp blade that began to bite into the soft, exposed flesh of his neck. He was going to die, Petkovic found himself thinking. Killed taking a shit.
There was no time to carry that thought any farther. With an ease that seemed unreal, the knife at his neck opened a gash that ran from just under the left ear, beneath his jaw, and across to the right ear. Without a pause, the knife was drawn away, the hand holding the front of his hood disappeared, and the stricken deputy commander was left to flop over forward, face.-first, into a pile of snow already stained bright red by his spouting blood.
With the same ease with which he was able to give way to a few moment's sleep, Demetre Orlov was able to snap back, fully awake, as soon as he felt a hand come to rest on his shoulder. "It is time, Colonel," a voice called out softly. Thrusting his arms out before him, the Russian colonel stretched before rolling over onto his side to push himself up and off the ground.
Once on his feet, he looked around in the same manner that a mother hen does when counting her chicks. All about him, his men were shaking themselves out and loosening up stiff muscles as they prepared to renew their march. "I don't see Major Petkovic," Orlov announced to no one in particular as he continued to search for any sign of his deputy. When he received no response, he turned to those around him. "Has anyone seen the major?" he asked more pointedly.
There was a moment's hesitation as those belonging to his immediate party looked at each other before turning their attention to Ivan Moshinsky. When he had first cast about to inspect his command, Orlov hadn't taken note of the fact that his self-appointed guardian was off to one side, kneeling on the ground. Now that his attention was drawn to him, Orlov looked closer in an effort to determine what was going on.
Sensing that all eyes were upon him, the Russian NCO looked up from the snow he had been using to clean his bloody hands and into the eyes of his colonel. Without any notable change in his expression, the Russian commando paused. "It is my duty to report, sir," he stated slowly in a deep voice that conveyed not the-slightest hint of feeling or passion, "that Major Petkovic is indisposed."
As hardened as he was to such things, a chill ran down Orlov's spine as he gazed into Moshinsky's eyes. It was not so much what his loyal subordinate had done that bothered him. Rather, as he stood there rooted in place, Demetre Orlov could not help but think that he was looking at a mirror image of himself. The fact that he found this cold and impersonal reflection unflattering only added to his discomfort.
Without a word, Moshinsky fished his knife out of the red tainted snow he had been using to clean it, gave it a quick swipe on his pants leg, and rose up. All the while, he continued to stare into his commander's eyes. It was, Orlov thought, almost as if the man was daring him to say something by way of condemnation. Yet, that solider knew that his commander would not do so. Besides his past service and unquestioning loyalty, Moshinsky appreciated the undeniable fact that he would be far more valuable in the sort of fight that his colonel had told them to expect than would a major whose loyalty was questionable.
Unable to find an appropriate response, Orlov turned away. It took him a moment to collect his thoughts, and he cleared his throat before he was able to call out to his remaining officers. "Prepare your men to move out."
In silence, the Russian commandos took up their trek. In the strange way that such things are relayed throughout the ranks of a unit, almost without a word being said, the fate of their deputy commanding officer became known. One by one, as the soldiers filed by the place where Moshinsky had cleaned up, each man stared down at the bloodstained snow. The message this sight conveyed was clear and unmistakable, just as Moshinsky had intended it to be.
Chapter 21
With the grace of feline predators stalking prey. Andrew Fretello, Patrick Hogg, and Hector Allons moved forward in search of a concealed spot from which to observe the object of their efforts. When the three NATO officers found a place that afforded them an unobstructed view of the Russian missile silo, they did their best to become part of their surroundings. Only alter the trio was safely tucked away did they commence a visual reconnaissance of their target.