“A bloody compass!” called out the Australian.
“A little better than that, Mr. Lewis,” replied Rye easily. “Sar’Major will fill you in on that. As far as the choppers go, we would have liked to have used something with a smaller silhouette than the Stallions, but each Stallion can carry enough fuel and can get thirty-five of you out in one haul — providing you can reach them. The fourth Stallion will be manned by American medical personnel. I believe they have everything aboard except the kitchen sink.” Another smarter of laughter. “Again, vertical-landing Harriers, the only fighters we can put down without an airfield, will be with them, waiting for you. I won’t insult your intelligence, gentlemen, by pretending that even if you reach Naro-Fominsk, the evacuation’s going to be any picnic. Within five minutes of you hitting the drop zone, I estimate that all SPETS outside as well as those inside the Kremlin will be alerted. Hopefully they will also be confused for a minute or so, at least when you go in, and that should give you a vital edge. Best of luck.”
With that, Major Rye let Cheek-Dawson take over. It was unstated, but the men drew confidence from the fact that the spearhead of the mission — the job of carrying out the “flush-out,” in SAS parlance, of the enemy commanders from their various offices along the eastern wing of the Council of Ministers Building — had been assigned to a veteran of such a raid: the American, Brentwood, and not automatically assigned, as often happened in line units, to the most senior officer, in this case Captain Cheek-Dawson. Every leader, despite his generalist SAS training, had sensibly been chosen because of his experience as well as SAS training, and not his rank.
“Very nice,” said Aussie, looking down at one of the lists of Russian phrases several of the NCOs were handing out. “Very nice — twenty bloody phrases to learn off by heart, but who’s the Russian specialist in our group, may I ask?”
“Why,” said Schwarzenegger, surprised that Lewis didn’t mow. “I am. I speak Russian as well as German, you know. Many Germans do. It’s—”
Lewis turned on him. “You boxhead! You never told me that. Christ — you’ve cost me a bloody fortune!”
“You never asked me,” Schwarzenegger repeated, unruffled. “Besides, I thought you were so sure that we were going to Malaya, then Korea—”
“Ah, piss off!”
David Brentwood didn’t join in the ribbing. The full realization of his awesome responsibility was now upon him like a backpack twice the weight of the 110-pound load he’d take with him out of the aircraft. And now, too, he was confronted by the memories of how he had lain petrified in the shelled moonscape during the botched-up drop of the airborne outside Stadthagen: how he had been unable to move, too afraid to move, until the SPETS bayonet appeared before his face and he’d surrendered. Oh, he’d escaped from Stadthagen, all right, but that, like the actions of so many others, had been motivated more by fear of what would happen to him if he didn’t escape. Physically he felt fit and ready enough for “Operation Merlin,” but that had all been training. Now it would be the real thing—again.
Cheek-Dawson was taking the roof off the model of the Council of Ministers, indicating to the sappers the points of the building where charges would exert most stress with the least resistance. The man in Laylor’s group passing out the list of Russian-English phrases to be memorized and practiced by morning wondered aloud what the word “Kremlin” actually meant.
“Fortress,” Cheek-Dawson answered, without looking up.
“Oh, lovely,” said Aussie, “Does that tell you something, fellas?”
“Yeah, long way from Korea, Aussie,” commented a cockney, who, turning to his mate, continued, “Poor bugger’ll owe over three hundred quid, I reckon.”
“Less than that,” said the Welshman they called “Choir” Williams.
“How come?”
“Work it out, lad. Fortress an’ all. How many you think’ll make it in? More to the point, how many of us’ll get out?”
“You’re a cheery one,” said the first cockney.
“Just facing facts, ducky.”
Lewis, listening in, depressed by the ribbing directed his way, was suddenly seized with an inspiration. As if in a vision, he rose, took out his ever-ready purple indelible pencil, knowing its imprint on paper wouldn’t run in either snow or rain, and, licking it, he wandered about the hall, making bets on how many would make it back. If any.
For David Brentwood, the worst of it was that Thelman, Schwarzenegger, and the Australian, Lewis, along with the other sixteen men of his troop, thoroughly approved of his selection as leader of B Troop. His experience on Freeman’s Pyongyang raid now made him feel as he had once at college when, unexpectedly having achieved high grades in several subjects, he was automatically expected to continue to lead the field. Adding to his apprehension was Rye’s mention of Freeman in the past tense, as former C in C.
Approaching Cheek-Dawson with a nonchalance, the very pretense so unlike him, it only further fueled his anxiety, he asked casually whether the general had “bought it.”
Cheek-Dawson didn’t glance up from the model of the Kremlin. Like Gulliver, he was still peering down at the Lilliputian world, making notes on precisely where the charges would have to be placed. “Suspect so, old boy,” he answered. “Apparently the general went MIA somewhere up near the Yalu. Chaps at Brussels HQ say it was typical, though. I mean, doing his own reconnaissance. From all accounts, he was some general.”
“Yes,” said Brentwood with a heartfelt sincerity he doubted anyone else in the room, except perhaps Thelman, who’d also served directly under Freeman, could fully comprehend. “Yes—” David stopped, unsure as to whether he should say, “He was,” or “He is.” Somehow he had always thought of the general as invincible.
The regimental sergeant major was on the hailer before they were due to leave for lunch and then on to the “house” for the dry run-through with live ammunition and full pack. The RSM was holding an “extra roll” above his head, which he explained would have to be put atop the 110-pound pack that would be carried by each man into the drop zone. There was a collective groan.
“Steady on, girls,” he responded breezily. “No need to get your knickers in a knot. You’ll like this one.” The roll of white plastic was no larger than a tightly compressed hand towel, and, he assured them, no heavier. “This little charmer’ll go atop your main pack.” With deliberate flourish, he unraveled the plastic along the floor. It was a white plastic overlay, the shape of a boiler suit, elasticized at the waist, a fly running all the way up from the crotch to the neck, where two white cord drawstrings were attached to the hood, its design quite different in its hip and shoulder cut from the NATO winter overlay the men had used on all the HALO exercises.
“We’ve already got overlays,” said Lewis.
“That’s for the attack, Aussie. This is standard SPETS overlay issue. Compliments of Captain Cheek-Dawson.”
Momentarily Brentwood felt better. It was simple yet quite brilliant. During the withdrawal, it would be pitch darkness because of Moscow’s air raid curfews — but there would be SPETS everywhere after the attack. Identification of SAS, if they were dressed as SPETS, would be difficult and might buy valuable time, aiding escape.
“How ‘bout me?” It was Thelman, the white overlay a stark contrast to his black skin.
“Yer own bloody fault, Thelma!” shouted Aussie. “Told you blokes to quit suntannin’!”