The smoke that had concealed the silo for so long was finally dissipating. This allowed Orlov to see the three-legged shaped charge far sooner than his NCO had. He paid no attention to the two bodies lying on the ground between himself and the explosive package. With the same determination that Patrick Hogg had mustered in his struggle to get up, the Russian colonel continued on.
Any doubts he had once entertained about letting the NATO troops destroy the missile were gone. Any concern about surviving this combat were forgotten. He had but one more mission to accomplish, one more task to carry out. Stepping over the corpse of a big French legionnaire, Colonel Demetre Orlov prepared to save the missile, not for Likhatchev, and not for the men in Moscow who had sent him to this godforsaken region. Orlov was going to do his duty because he could not do otherwise, not after so many of his men had so freely given their lives doing likewise.
When he realized that there could be no other way, Andrew Fretello dropped his rifle, took up the blasting machine and began to connect the wires. Even as he did so, his nimble mind raced in an effort to find a more suitable solution, another way to succeed without taking the radical step he was preparing to make. There was no such thing as a no-win scenario. He didn't believe in that. He couldn't believe in that. The motto was victory or death, not victory and death.
Still, the reality was there. So too was a new threat he saw as he looked up before attaching the last wire. Where the second Russian on the silo cover had come from was beyond him. But there he was, reaching over to grasp the other end of the very same wire he held in his hand. To stop what he was doing and reach for his weapon would be futile. By the time he took up his rifle, the Russian would have made it to the demo pack. It was now a race, one that Fretello would be unable to celebrate even if he won.
The impact of a boot kicking him in the side was enough to rouse Stanislaus Dombrowski to a hazy state of consciousness. Opening his eyes, he saw what he thought was the leg of the Russian who had stabbed him. Without giving the matter any thought, he reached up, grabbed as much of that leg as he could and gave it a jerk.
Caught off guard, Demetre Orlov pulled back, away from the explosive charge and looked over his shoulder to see who had seized him. Amazed that it was the legionnaire, it took the Russian colonel a moment to figure out what to do about this sudden inconvenience.
This hesitation was all the big Pole needed. While holding on to the Russian with one hand, he searched for a weapon with the other. When his fingers came across a pair of needle-nosed pliers, he wrapped them around that ordinary tool, brought his arm up in a wide, sweeping arc, and jammed the point of the pliers into the Russian's thigh.
The sudden resistance by the legionnaire generated within Andrew Fretello a moment of hope. Perhaps there was another way? Perhaps he could manage to save some of his men and still accomplish his mission? Rising up on his knees, the American major watched and began to reconsider his options.
Patrick Hogg was also watching. He saw the desperate struggle at the silo. He saw the American major, blasting machine in hand, hesitate. He knew what was happening. Though the pain of drawing in a deep breath was unlike anything he had ever experienced, it was the last weapon he had available to him. After spitting out blood that continued to gather in his mouth, Captain Patrick Hogg leaned back before bellowing, as loud as he could manage, his last order. "Blow the goddamn thing! now!"
Startled, Andrew Fretello looked over to where Hogg sat, wavering as he fought the urge to faint. Again, in a voice that somehow rose above the din of battle, the SAS officer shouted, "Blow the damned thing!"
It wasn't a suggestion. It wasn't a recommendation. It was an order, something that Fretello understood. Something that he was in the habit of giving and taking.
Without bothering to look back at the silo where a dying Polish NCO struggled to hold back a wounded Russian colonel, Andrew Fretello brought Operation Tempest to a close.
EPILOGUE:
After standing in the doorway without drawing his commanding officers attention, the young staff officer reached around and lightly rapped on the open door. Looking up from the letter he was writing. Lieutenant Colonel Thomas Shields needed a moment to refocus his tired eyes. "Yes?"
In a hesitant manner, the lieutenant who served as his adjutant advanced into the room. "I was wondering, sir. if there would! c anything further this evening?"
Looking over at the window, then up at the clock. Sheilds realized that the normal duty day had ended hours ago without his taking any notice of it. "I didn't realize it was so late. Don't tell me the rest of the staff is still wailing on me to leave before slipping away?"
The young officer took up a relaxed stance with both hands behind his back before answering. "No, sir. The sergeant major chased everyone else out about an hour ago. He tried to toss me out as well, but I held my ground."
His response brought a wry smile to Shields's face. "Rucking for captain already?"
Now the lieutenant smiled as he bowed his head to hide his embarrassment. "Oh, I can assure you. sir, my motives are pure."
"Then what, pray tell, is keeping you chained to your desk wailing for a tottering old fool like me?"
The smile left the young officer's face as he gathered himself up into a position of parade rest. "I was wondering if you've made a decision about the decoration. General Shane's office has called twice today concerning its disposition."
Any vestige of a smile disappeared from Shields's face. "Do you have it with you?"
Slowly, the young officer brought a package out from behind his back and offered it to his commanding officer. Rising, Shields reached across his desk to receive it. "I've been putting this off, you know," he whispered as he took the oversized envelope, carefully laid it in the center of his desk on top of the half-written letter, and slumped back down in his chair.
Once relieved of his burden, the staff officer resumed his position of parade rest. "Yes, sir, I know."
Shields looked at the envelope for a moment. He didn't need to open it. He knew who the medal was for. He knew what the commendation attached to it said. He had no problem with either since he had been the officer who had drafted the recommendation. What was bothering the senior SAS officer was the fact that he would have to deliver it to a person who would have no appreciation of what it meant.
"If you would like, sir," the staff officer finally ventured when he saw that his commander was hopelessly lost in thought, "I can arrange for someone of appropriate rank at MoD to deliver it to her. She lives right there in London."
Shaking his head, Shields vetoed that idea without a word. Again, there was a long impasse as he continued to stare at the package before him. Finally, he looked up. "You know, there's an old Japanese saying that fits this situation quite well."
Not knowing where his commander was heading, the young officer just nodded. "Yes, sir?"
"They say that duty is heavy, but death is lighter than a feather.' "
The lieutenant didn't need to have his commander explain the meaning of that saying, or why it applied in this case. Everyone at Hereford knew about the rift that had taken place between Patrick Hogg and his wife just before he'd left for Russia. The officers' wives freely gossiped about how Jenny Hogg refused to return to Hereford to collect her husband's belongings or to attend the memorial ceremony held in September, after the last of the Tempest participants were repatriated. She had made it very clear to anyone who cared to listen to her how she felt about the Army. Which is why, the young officer thought, his commander had put off going down to London to present her with the medal.