Orlov didn't have time to scream in anguish. Nor did the sight evoke sorrow. This was neither the time nor the place for such things. Rather, the Russian colonel brought his weapon up, flipped the safety off, and pulled it tight against his side as he continued on. Instinctively, he cocked his head slightly to the right, in the direction from which the enemy fire had come. Fully aware of the possibility that his foe would still be there, waiting to shoot anyone who might have been following Kulinsky, Orlov intended to open fire just before he burst forth from cover, keeping his finger down on the trigger as he went and sweeping the area to his right with a steady burst. Even if he didn't hit his foe, the Russian colonel hoped the sudden return fire would cause him to duck and seek cover, a move that would buy him a second, maybe two seconds, in which he could take better aim.
He was nearly ready to start shooting, when the movement of a figure caught his attention and brought him to a halt. Turning to face this new threat, he saw that someone was running away from him, out toward the middle of the clearing, where smoke hid the missile silo from sight. By the pattern of the camouflage, Orlov could tell that the figure was British. Beyond him was a second soldier, this one in a Russian uniform. That man, Orlov realized, could only be Moshinsky. If the Brit was the one who had killed Kulinsky, it didn't matter at the moment. By the look of things, he was after Moshinsky, who was doing his best to reach the silo.
Had he been afforded an opportunity to think things over, Colonel Demetre Orlov would have appreciated that the solution to many of his problems was right there, in the hands of the British commando he was watching chase his NCO. All Orlov had to do was to keep watching. But the Russian colonel was a soldier, trained to seek out and destroy his nation's enemies. While he was well aware that there were Russians who posed a far greater threat to his homeland than this lone Englishman did, at the moment, such distinctions were impossible to make. Demetre was in the midst of a vicious and bloody fight where action, not debate, is the order of the day.
With the ease of a professional, Orlov brought his AK-74M up, took aim, and cut loose with a burst of fire.
Ordinarily, when he finished setting a charge, Stanislaus Dombrowski would step back and carefully examine the entire device, from top to bottom, just to be sure. But the situation was such that this nicety had to be abandoned. The Pole didn't even bother reaching over to pick up the tools that lay scattered about his feet. Instead, he brought his assault rifle down to his side, turned, and prepared to make his way. The only thing he took time to do before heading off toward the edge of the field where the others were waiting w,. to look around in order to assess the tactical situation.
It was only then that he saw his adjutant running at full speed directly toward him, yelling as he came. It took a moment for Dombrowski to appreciate the danger he was in, a moment that allowed Sergeant Ivan Moshinsky an opportunity to reorient himself as he stormed out of the smoke and turned toward the bewildered legionnaire. Before Dombrowski could do anything to defend himself, the Russian was on top of him. The impact of body against body threw the Pole back and onto the ground, barely missing one of the legs of the shaped charge.
Despite the shock of impact, the two men tore at each other with a viciousness that is often written about but seldom experienced in war. Pinned beneath the big Russian, Dombrowski freed one of his hands, brought it around and covered the face of his assailant. With all his might, he pushed, forcing Moshinsky's head up at an awkward angle. With equal determination, the Russian resisted the Pole's effort to push him away or to snap his neck. Redoubling his effort to hold the legionnaire close to him with his left hand, Moshinsky brought his right hand down and slipped it between them. Then, with a simple twist of his wrist, the Russian tilted the point of the knife he held in that hand downward until he felt the handle against his own midsection. Ready, Moshinsky gave the knife one mighty shove.
The swift, sudden penetration of the Russian's knife was a shock. Dombrowski's body stiffened for a moment, then went limp. Though he could still see and hear, the Pole suddenly realized that he was unable to move. How terrible, he found himself thinking as his field of vision slowly closed in to have a Russian as his last worldly image. How terrible.
In horror, Andrew Fretello watched the drama unfold before him. No sooner had the Russian emerged from the smoke and tackled the Pole than the Spanish legionnaire was dropped by a sniper, just as his corporal had been. As clear as all of this was to the American major, a voice from somewhere in the back of his head was screaming that none of this was happening. It couldn't be! Things had to work out to his advantage. They always did. His plans always succeeded. Always. But the reality of the situation before him could not be ignored, just as the Russian who had made it to the missile silo could not be made to disappear simply by wishing him away.
Setting the blasting machine down, Fretello scrambled to bring his rifle up. The M-16 he carried was his weapon of choice. He had fired it time and time again, never failing to qualify "Expert." But now, when he needed to finally put that skill to work for him in combat, he found that he was all thumbs. The faster he tried to bring his rifle to bear on his enemy, the more he seemed to fumble. It was absolutely unnerving.
Yet, bring it to bear he did. With the weapon finally tucked up firmly on his shoulder, the American major prepared to fire. Easing his cheek against the plastic stock, Fretello looked through the tiny peephole of the rear sight and brought the muzzle of his weapon about until the post on the front sight was superimposed over the figure of the Russian before him. Composed and ready, Fretello held his breath and squeezed once, twice, three times. Each time, he fought the recoil. Each time, he brought the muzzle of his weapon back down and went through the process of aligning its sights before squeezing off the next round. And each. Time, the round he fired found its mark.
The pain of moving was unlike anything Patrick Hogg had ever experienced. That his wounds were mortal was without doubt. Struggling to prop himself up on his knees, he imagined that he had felt every round as it had hit him. Throughout the whole terrible ordeal, he had never lost consciousness. Instead, he had maintained an acute awareness of what was going on. He not only saw the boots of the Russian who had shot him from behind, he had actually felt the ground shake as his assailant ran past him and on toward the silo. Try as hard as he could, the Irishman was unable to muster the strength to coordinate his arms in time to reach out and grab those bloody damned boots as they passed within inches of his face.
He had also been a hapless spectator to the death of the two legionnaires as they rose up from safety and did their best to go to the assistance of their comrade. Hogg watched now with a Strange detachment as the American major, having fired his weapon and discarded it, was madly connecting the wires running from the charge on the silo to a blasting machine he held. Unsure of whether his commanding officer was going to wait or set the charge off from where he was, the SAS captain gathered up all his strength, clenched his teeth, and slowly pushed himself up and onto his knees.
The effort and the pain it sent shooting through his body was staggering. Dizzy, Hogg found that he needed to take a moment to choke back the nausea he felt welling up. Unable to swallow the blood that filled his mouth, he simply let his lower jaw drop so it could spill out. When he had managed to collect himself, lie opened his eyes and watched the final act unfold before him.