Not every adversity was beyond his control. As he knelt down to connect a wire to the junction box on the leg of the charge, he glanced over his shoulder. Besides Franz Ingelmann, Adjutant Allons, and Major Fretello were watching his every move. Used to being left alone at times like this by his former commander, the presence of these anxious officers, literally breathing down his neck, was a burden the Pole didn't need.
Pausing, Dombrowski looked over to where Ingelmann waited with the spool of wire. Reaching into his pocket, the Pole pulled the manual blasting machine he preferred and tossed it to the Austrian. "Here," he shouted as Ingelmann reached out and grabbed the tried-and-true device. "Take this and start running your wire. He the business end off on my leg. I'll connect it as soon as I make this last splice."
Sensing that action was at hand, Andrew Fretello turned his attention from the firefight that was still spreading across the ridge above them. "Are you done?"
Without bothering to face the American commanding officer. Dombrowski continued to run his fingers along the last wire he needed to reconnect. "Almost. Just one more minute, another splice, and all will be well."
As he watched Ingelmann fasten a loop of the wire around the Pole's leg, Fretello looked about nervously. "Is there anything else you need from us?"
Under ordinary circumstances, the question would have solicited a cynical chuckle and a snide remark. But given the straits they were in, Dombrowski responded with a quick, curt, "No."
Knowing his man and his moods, Adjutant Allons took the American officer by the arm. "Come, sir. Let us go with Corporal Ingelmann. We can cover the sergeant from the edge of the clearing just as well as we can here."
Though he was reluctant to leave, Fretello appreciated the fact that he was being told, in a rather circumspect way, that his presence here was no longer appreciated. Since he himself was a loner when it came to his work, he understood how the Pole felt. After popping his last smoke grenade and tossing it upwind of where they stood, Fretello turned and began to make his way back to a point from which they could watch the silo as well as the action along the crest of the ridge.
Upon reaching the crest where his men were hotly engaged with the enemy on the reverse slope, Demetre Orlov found himself having second thoughts about his decision to let the NATO troops blow up the missile. This sudden need to reconsider had nothing to do with the logic of his previous choice, which he knew had been impeccable. But logic in battle is often a rare commodity. More often than not, decisions are based on a simple, primitive response to the sight of the dead and wounded lying scattered about on the ground. For those who have been afforded the opportunity to experience combat, there is nothing quite like the smell of warm, freshly spilled blood, mixed in with the pungent odors of burnt cordite and fear. A whiff of combat has the ability to clear the head and bring into sharp focus only those things that are truly important and relevant. Concerns over Machiavellian stratagems and political intrigue disappear as primeval instincts are triggered by the sickening-sweet scent of death. Even a professional such as Demetre Orlov was not immune to it.
Once more the Russian colonel was hesitant. Those were his men, he reminded himself as he surveyed the situation around him, alternately looking at a corpse, then over to a man actively trading shots with an unseen foe in the distance. They trusted him. As all soldiers did, they depended on their commanding officer to make the right decisions to keep them alive, or when that was not possible, to use their lives well. That he had wasted so much valuable time pondering how best to orchestrate his own personal survival at a time when he should have been bending every effort to exert some semblance of leadership and control over his troops suddenly became a source of embarrassment to the Russian colonel. Even his youngest junior officer, a lieutenant who had recently joined the unit, was doing his part despite a wound that soaked the sleeve of his uniform with blood. "How," Orlov asked aloud to no one in particular, "could I have been so stupid?"
Mired in this trauma of self-condemnation, Orlov wasn't paying attention to the small group that followed him like a shadow. Having been affected by the same sights, smells, and sounds that triggered Orlov's reevaluation of his decisions, Ivan Moshinsky and Peter Spangen left their commander's side and made their way to a place from which they could see what was going on. The remorseless Russian commando, who had dispatched his own deputy commander just hours before without a second thought, was able to catch sight of a party of three men making its way out of a cloud of smoke screening the concrete cover of the missile silo. Excitedly, he thrust his arm out and pointed at them, "Spangen!" he yelled. "Can you drop those bastards?"
Before the sniper was able to direct his full attention and the muzzle of his weapon to where his companion was pointing, a burst of fire from an enemy position below drove the pair to cover. "Damn!" Moshinsky screamed as the rounds unleashed against them smoked the other side of the log he was lying behind, showering the two men with splinters and dirt. As he struggled to compose himself after so narrowly escaping death, Moshinsky's eyes fell upon Kulinsky, the team's combat engineer. In an instant, the Russian put two and two together. "Those men," he called over to where Spangen was lying in wait for the enemy fire directed at them to cease, "they were running from the silo, weren't they?"
Busy doing his best to preserve life and limb, the sniper didn't give the sergeant's question much thought. "How the hell should 1 know? I didn't even see the men you were pointing at."
Convinced that he was right, Moshinsky continued. "They must have set the charge. They must be getting ready to blow the place up." Then, turning his attention back to Kulinsky he ordered him to his feet. "Kulinsky, you're with me." Turning once more to Spangen, he reached over and grabbed the Russian sniper by the arm. "Stay here. Cover us. We're going down there to disconnect the explosives."
Not sure of what Moshinsky was up to, Spangen answered with a nod, satisfied to remain where he was.
With that, Moshinsky rose to his feet, waved Kulinsky on, and headed down into the maelstrom below.
Belatedly, Demetre Orlov noticed that he was alone. Shaking his head as if to clear his thoughts, he caught sight of Spangen propped up behind a stump busily firing away at something on the far side of the ridge. Rising up, the Russian colonel made his way over to the sniper. "Where's Sergeant Moshinsky?"
The young sniper didn't answer at first. He had a target in his sight and was in the process of letting a bit of breath slip out before pausing, holding what air was left in his lungs while squeezing off a shot. A perfectionist to the core, Spangen didn't let anything interfere with a perfect kill, not even his commanding officer. Only when he was sure that he had hit his mark did he drop down behind cover and answer Orlov. "Sergeant Moshinsky took Kulinsky down there," he stated, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder to indicate the direction of the silo. "He said something about disarming the explosives."
Wide-eyed, Orlov looked at the sniper for a moment, then over the top of the log. Ignoring the zing of return fire that flew to the left and right of his head, he searched for any sight of his wayward NCO. "Which way did they go?"
Exercising more care than his commander had, Spangen raised his head above cover and joined in the search for his comrades before answering. "I don't know, sir. Sergeant Moshinsky just grabbed Kulinsky, told me to stay here and cover them, and zip, they were gone. That was the last I saw of them." Catching sight of the billows of smoke in the center of the clearing, he pointed to it. "I believe they are headed there."