Over where the SAS commandos stood their ground to cover the legionnaires, there was a mixed response to the sudden and enthusiastic advance. Easing back from his weapon so as to get a better view, a soldier next to Patrick Hogg shook his head, muttering in utter disbelief, "They're bloody daft." The reaction of the man to Hogg's right was just the opposite. Caught up in the moment, he found the urge to join in on the shouting irresistible. "Give 'em hell, Frenchies!"
Concerned that his own men would be swept up in this momentary bout of insanity, Hogg nervously eyed his line. "Steady, lads. Steady. Keep your eyes open and watch your sectors." These words were spoken in a low voice meant to be soothing, yet firm. They had their desired effect. Up and down the line, his men turned their attention away from their NATO partners and back to the kill zone in search of survivors.
Even if Andrew Fretello had heard Hogg's words, they would have done little to calm his growing alarm that was now bordering on panic. As far as he was concerned, not only were the legionnaires totally out of control, they were coming close to endangering the mission. Amazed and angered by the accidental charge, he was consumed by an overpowering urge to chase down the legionnaires in an effort to restore some semblance of reason. Were it not for the steadfast manner with which the SAS held its place, he would have done so. Since the legionnaires were foreign and might not understand his orders, Fretello was quick to dismiss any thought of pursuing those wild men. Besides, he reasoned as he settled in to watch the advance, action now might just contribute to the already confused state of affairs.
The NATO troops and their commanding officers were not the only ones startled by the precipitous and somewhat uncoordinated movement of the legionnaires. Lying on the ground, a Russian who had sought survival by playing dead was completely unnerved by the stampede coming at him. Without thinking, he jumped to his feet, turned away from the howling legionnaires, and tried to flee. Even had he had the forethought to drop the assault rifle he continued to clutch, his sudden and unexpected action brought on a quick and violent response from both the SAS, charged with watching over the Legion's advance, and the legionnaires themselves. The fire directed at the Russian came from multiple sources in close proximity so that individual reports were all but impossible to distinguish. After a quick, vicious chattering of small-arms fire, the ill-fated Russian defender flopped back onto the ground for the last time.
Rather than throw a scare into the legionnaires and cause them to slow their pace and cease their war cries, the renewal of combat served only to raise their enthusiasm to an even higher state. When the drama being played out before him was too compelling for Patrick Hogg to ignore, he found himself mouthing the words of an old poem he had once been forced to memorize in schooclass="underline" " 'Half a league, half a league, half a league onward,' " he whispered, " 'all in the valley of Death rode the six hundred.'"
Looking away from his still-smoking barrel, Corporal James Cochran glanced back at his commanding officer. "I hope we do better than those chaps did, sir."
Caught by one of his men during an unguarded moment, Hogg smiled at his marksman. "Yes," he said sheepishly, "we can hope we do, can't we?"
Long before he felt that it would be safe to make a sharp turn to the right and begin a direct approach to the missile silo, the adrenaline that had spurred Demetre Orlov into action was pretty much used up. Now, as he struggled along he found that he was in no better shape than the fatigued men around him, whom he was suppose to be leading.
What had started out as something of a well-ordered dash, with officers to the front and soldiers maintaining prescribed distances between each other, had degenerated into a test of endurance run by a loose gaggle of winded soldiers. To a man, they were sweating profusely, gasping for breath, and grunting as they clambered over fallen trees and broken ground. Every now and then, one of them would trip and fall, or was suddenly jerked backward as a stray strap snagged a branch and arrested his forward movement. Each man responded to these unexpected occurrences in accordance with his particular nature. Some cursed and berated themselves, or the offending tree limb that had caused the mishap. Others said nothing as they nervously looked about to see if anyone had taken note of their clumsiness.
These calamities were no respecters of rank or position. The commander of commandos found his own forward progress arrested more than once by a misstep or a tangle of branches. Time and again, he bumped into the man in front of him who, for some inexplicable reason, stopped suddenly. Each of these incidents resulted in an exchange that started with the soldier uttering an oath, then mumbling a quick apology after realizing who had rammed him from behind. Only the fact that he himself caused the same sort of run-ins with the man behind him by stopping before an obstruction kept Orlov from losing his temper completely. If anything, he had to be a bit more forgiving, for in his haste to regain the lead, he had found it necessary to step on the back of a man who had fallen and had not had the presence of mind to get up quickly enough.
It was during this mad dash to reach their objective before it was blown up that it dawned upon Orlov that perhaps he had not given the situation sufficient thought. What would the result be, he asked himself as he waited for the man to his immediate front to climb over a fallen tree, if he failed to save the last of the Perimeter missiles? While it was true that a key piece of his nation's nuclear deterrent would be lost, it was equally clear that the most potent weapon in Likhatchev's arsenal would be taken away from him. Without a primed and functional Dead Hand, the rebellious general would be unable to threaten the government in Moscow. They could, if they chose to, dispatch another force to deal with him at their leisure. Or, if they were of a mind to, the duly elected central government could simply let Likhatchev and his loyal band of followers wither on the vine in an area devastated by the asteroid. Though this solution to the problem would not be as quick and direct as an assassination would be, Orlov began to appreciate that in the end, the result would be the same.
Pausing, the Russian colonel looked around pensively. The men with him ignored the strange behavior of their colonel as they continued to scramble past him. None bothered to ask why he was hesitating. Left alone like this, Orlov came to the realization that he could survive this entire affair by simply doing nothing. So NATO blew up the missiles. He could easily explain that to Likhatchev. After all, hadn't it been the General himself who had taken his sweet-natured time about calling him to the ops center and giving him the mission? His commandos, Orlov would explain, just could not cover the ground fast enough. Back in Moscow, after Likhatchev had been muzzled, Orlov could explain to his masters there that he had taken up the mission to save the Perimeter sites, not for the traitor, but in the name of the Russian people. Surely they would understand that, he found himself reasoning as he took up a more leisurely pace. After all, his past performance on their behalf and his unwavering loyalty to the government in all previous matters would be more than enough to convince those idiots in Moscow that he was telling the truth.
Only when the commander of the third section stopped beside him to ask if there was something wrong did Orlov refocus his thoughts on what his men were doing. Facing the puzzled officer, the colonel of commandos smiled. "No. Everything is going as it should."
Though the young lieutenant's gut instinct told him that everything was not going as it should, he didn't have the nerve to challenge his superior, especially in light of the fate that had befallen Major Petkovic.
With nothing to do until the demolitions team had finished setting its charges and was ready to execute, the American major in command of the small, polyglot force of NATO commandos had made his way down into the clearing in which the missile silo sat. He didn't climb up onto the silo cover where Sergeant-Chef Dombrowski was madly fiddling about, reconnecting wires that he had not been able to secure before moving out from their pre-assault assembly point. Standing on either side of Fretello were Hector Allons and Patrick Hogg. None of them said a word. They had no need to. Each understood that the Polish legionnaire, upon whom success or failure now rested, was best helped by being left alone to do his job.