Red Hammer 1994

by Ratcliffe, Robert

  Genser glanced furtively at the less-than-happy Wilks to register his impatience with the usual Pentagon line. The meeting shaped up as usual, the director and secretary of state siding against the chairman and the secretary of defense.

  “You’re overreacting,” said Wilks. “You’re suggesting a change in our force posture equivalent to a Defense Condition increase. Are we ready to increase the DEFCON level, gentleman, over two submarines? The Russians will go ballistic. Their paranoia threshold has been lowered significantly these days.” He raised his silvery-black eyebrows in challenge.

  The group sat glumly, no one taking the bait. A change in DEFCON would advertise a heightened alert status for all the world to see and give a propaganda bonanza to the Russian ultranationalists.

  “I’m not proposing a DEFCON change,” answered the chairman. “I’m only suggesting that we show resolve, Mr. President.” The president hid any visible response.

  “Matt, what are your impressions?” he asked the secretary of defense.

  Alexander was pleasantly surprised. Usually at this point he was playing catch-up, but the score was about even.

  “I agree with the chairman, Mr. President. We must be pro-active. As I asked earlier, is this Delta the same one the Russians led us to believe had been lost? At this point, we know nothing. We need hard facts and in a hurry. We need to shake all the trees and see what falls out. In the meantime, we should do what the chairman has recommended. I fear we may be drifting toward a confrontation with our Russian friends.”

  “Explain,” remarked Genser testily. “I certainly don’t feel we’ve experienced a breakdown in relations. The Russians are going through tremendous upheaval. My last few meetings with the foreign minister have been strained, but we have made definite progress on outstanding issues. I’m optimistic.”

  “I second Jonathon,” sputtered Wilks. “All this loose talk is provocative and dangerous. We need time to gather intelligence. Right now, we’re rushing in blind.” Thomas had never seen the director so upset.

  “We don’t have the luxury,” countered Alexander firmly. “Gather your intelligence after we secure our forces.”

  “What’s the real issue, Matt?” scolded Genser. “It’s the same old nonsense about START and the Russian mobile missiles, isn’t it? Why do you insist on resurrecting that dead horse?”

  Genser had caught Alexander off guard. The secretary of defense leaned back, biding his time while shaping a response. The president appeared puzzled. Alexander cleared his throat, his audience ready to pounce.

  “START I and II screwed up by letting the Russians keep their mobile missiles. We knew it at the time but ignored the issue to get a deal. Now it’s come back to bite us.”

  “Reopen the treaty?” interjected Genser, feigning shock. “You’re one hundred and eighty degrees out of synch with the policy of this administration.”

  “I understand that,” replied Alexander patiently.

  Thomas winced. This was not going well for his boss.

  “The Russian mobile missiles are spending less time in garrison and more time deployed. In short, they’ve been very successful at mobile missile deployment. We have to be very sensitive to Russian deployment patterns that threaten our forces.

  “Interesting,” admitted the director, “but your vulnerability thesis rests squarely on old Cold War thinking.” The others exchanged glances, waiting for the president. He sat passively, rubbing his chin. He straightened, having come to a decision.

  “Matt, General, I’ll accept your recommendations, but I want it done discretely.” Genser and Wilks were shocked, expecting an “I’ll think about it” answer and time for them to maneuver.

  “Yes, sir,” answered the chairman, pleased.

  “I want to emphasize, Matt, the bomber movements should be limited, understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The president continued. “We’ll reconvene late tomorrow afternoon. By then the national security advisor and the vice president will be back in town. In the meantime, Jonathon will visit the Russian ambassador and test the waters. Any questions?”

  “Mr. President, I must protest dispersal of the bomber force,” interjected Genser. “It will destroy any chance of a useful dialogue.”

  “I’m convinced it’s a prudent move,” replied the president.

  “Let’s hope so,” said Genser, shaking his head.

  “Anything else? If not, we’ll adjourn. I want to be informed immediately of any new information.”

  The president rose and quickly left the room. Following on his heels were the secretary of state and the director, huddled in conversation.

  “Mr. Secretary, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get the necessary orders to STARTCOM,” said the chairman.

  The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs left Alexander and Thomas alone. “Bob, I need you at the National Military Command Center. Watch the bomber and tanker dispersal closely. If STARTCOM screws it up, we’re all in deep shit.”

  “I understand, sir,” Thomas replied. “I’d come to the same conclusion.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Thomas strode into the National Military Command Center, sheltered deep beneath the Pentagon. Expertly engineered in the days of propeller-driven aircraft carrying thousand-pound bombs, it was now hopelessly obsolete in the modern era of intercontinental thermonuclear weapons deposited with pinpoint accuracy. The NMCC served as the electronic nerve center that linked the spiderweb of US military bases encircling the globe. Huge DSCS III satellite dish antennas and high-speed trunk lines funneled streams of digital message traffic and raw intelligence from distant radar sites, listening posts, overseas commanders, and even ships at sea. The all-seeing eyes of the NMCC were the far-flung assets of the North American Aerospace Defense Command’s Missile Warning Center and the CIA’s secretive photo-reconnaissance satellites, while its ears were the NSA’s eavesdropping ELINT satellites, mostly hovering over former Soviet territory. Their sensitivity was legendary, sucking up incredibly minute packets of RF energy, uncovering the slightest indiscretion or hint of hostile intent. This electronic one-two punch had created a cornucopia of data, an around-the-clock surveillance blanket that smothered the earth. Addicted US decision makers were paralyzed without their steady diet of intelligence summaries and real-time imagery fed by this creation.

  The NMCC was large, the size of a gymnasium, with row upon row of state-of-the-art computer terminals. The only light bathing the floor was the soft glow emanating from bright graphics displays, subtly augmented by buzzing red fluorescents that marked one of the hundreds of phones directly linked to someone important. The front section was reserved for the battle watch. The frequent guests were relegated to a glass-enclosed balcony perched high above the floor. Plush chairs and secure phones provided the necessary comforts. This viewing cage shielded visitors from the constant commotion on the floor, which on occasion could rise in pitch to rival the Chicago Mercantile Exchange.

  Thomas camped out upstairs. He stared at the “big board” as it was still called. The two errant Russian subs off the Mexican west coast stood out like a sore thumb. The display rammed home how frighteningly close those boats were to US soil. US military installations up and down the Pacific coast were within quick striking range of the Delta’s SS-N-23 ballistic missiles. Flight times would be as short as six to seven minutes. Too short to do anything but cover your head and pray. A glance toward the Atlantic showed a solo Delta III two hundred miles closer to the East Coast than normal. Most of the other Russian boats were near the Barents, close to Russian home waters. Thomas yanked the chair-mounted phone handset to his ear, triggering a flashing red light below. The Battle Watch Commander, an air force brigadier, answered promptly and politely.

  “What steps have been taken to implement the NSC directive?” Thomas asked dryly. The officer knew who he was.

  “STRATCOM has begun to move aircraft to secondary bases; ten or fifteen have been identified so far, all B-1Bs. The chairman is c
oncerned. Says they’re moving too fast. Overhead reconnaissance sweeps have increased, but the space-borne platforms we have in orbit are getting low on fuel. A replacement photo recon bird is scheduled to go up in three weeks, but JCS is pushing SPACECOM to make it sooner.” Thomas grunted a curt thank you.

  Leaning back, he mentally filtered the pieces and players. In terms of numbers of platforms, the Russian deployments were not that unusual, except for the Delta off Mexico. But he’d never witnessed such firepower. Two Typhoons at sea plus the Deltas, Blackjack bombers at an Arctic staging base, and SS-24s and 25s still absent from garrison. Was Laptev indulging in a little saber rattling? The last few years had dulled America’s Cold War sense for mischief. Changes in Russian military operations that used to trigger alarms were now below the threshold of pain. Too many other issues competed for attention. People’s receivers had become desensitized by the constant background noise of fiscal and domestic policy.

  Thomas frowned, his chin cradled in his right hand. He swiveled and spotted a secure phone. He scooted to the edge of a nearby chair and dialed Alexander’s private number. The secretary answered on the first ring.

  “Mr. Secretary, I’m recommending we push for an increase in DEFCON. I can’t put my finger on it, but the Russians have too many frontline assets deployed.” Thomas heard a sigh on the line. He felt his own heart sink.

  “No way, Bob. A DEFCON change would be an escalation; remember the meeting? It’s a dead issue.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Thomas, hanging up the phone, frustrated. His pulse quickened. What the hell is going on? He had to find the missing piece.

  Thomas crossed the deck in quick strides and took a seat at one of the computer workstations and flicked on the power to bring up the display. After a few seconds to whir, click, and boot, the nineteen-inch color CRT depicted a brilliant three-dimensional globe peppered with iconic symbols for friendly and non-friendly units worldwide.

  Thomas could rotate the earth with the computer’s three-button mouse, then select a specific location and zoom for detail, all the way down to a relatively minute ten-mile square chunk. Within minutes, Thomas was able to status every major Russian installation.

  As he sucked in the detail, Thomas shifted uncomfortably. A handful of key units appeared at full alert, while most conducted business as usual. He was missing something. Laptev’s boast to pacify the Ukraine filtered through. Check the airborne divisions, he told himself.

  Moving the cursor over the map to central Russia, he searched for a minor city with a name he couldn’t pronounce. The local airborne division was gone. They had left two days earlier for a training exercise. He pushed the cursor to the north, tracing a path toward Moscow. To the southeast of the city, he remembered the newest SS-25 garrison. A quick click exploded a table listing the unit’s assets. Twenty-five erector launchers, all participating in Operation Vigilant Shield. Thomas’s greatest fear was all these mobile SS-25 ICBMs strewn about forests and roads. Russian mobile missiles had been operating away from home base more and more the last two months.

  Staring at the screen, impulsively swirling the cursor in slowly expanding circles, Thomas spotted a new symbol, distinct from the horizontal missile denoting a mobile ICBM unit. This one had the missile icon superimposed on a building. He activated the symbol and was greeted with a screen dump of data. “This site scheduled to become a depot for SS-25 reloads. Operational July time frame.”

  A sense of panic gripped Thomas. “You idiot!” he cursed out loud. He racked his brain for other sites. He found the first. No missiles. Likewise for the second, the trucks reported having left two or three weeks before.

  “No,” he said, “it can’t be.” He was incredulous. Thomas leapt out of the chair and ran to the bank of phones near the window. He buzzed the battle watch commander once more. The brigadier looked up curiously as he answered the blinking phone.

  “Yes, sir, General Thomas?”

  “Did you know all the SS-25 storage depots are empty?” he blurted out.

  “No, sir.” It didn’t seem to click with the man.

  “How about the command trains?”

  “The last pictures we have are from two days ago. They were in station. But the weather has been lousy lately.”

  Thomas slouched, catching his breath. The panic subsided only slightly. “Let me know if you get anything on the mobiles.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Thomas hung up the receiver and massaged his forehead and temples. A premonition overtook him—the image of a Russian military move against US forces somewhere around the globe. He could see it now. Laptev moves into Ukraine in force then proceeds toward Poland for real or for bluff. The effect would be the same—chaos and confusion, the Europeans falling all over themselves to get out of the way. Of course Laptev would have placed his prized nuclear assets in a safe place. The West thought him a buffoon, but the crafty Russian had fooled them all. How about the US nuclear forces?

  Thomas buzzed the brigadier. “How do I get NORAD on the line?”

  The brigadier sounded incredulous. “What?”

  Thomas realized what he had said and paused. He was out of line, way out. “Never mind,” he said with a gush of air, “I had a question about one of the recon satellites.” He hung up, still holding onto the receiver, tapping it in his palm. They’d think I’m crazy, he reflected. Maybe he was becoming hysterical—reading too much into the data. He prayed he was wrong.

  CHAPTER 13

  Major Buckmeister Grant rolled over in bed, groping for the ringing telephone resting on the adjacent nightstand. He simultaneously plucked a fresh Kleenex with his free hand to wipe his runny nose. “Hello,” he mumbled, half asleep, propping himself on one elbow. “Major Grant.”

  “Buck, get back to the base pronto. We’ve got an alert.”

  It was the duty officer from the squadron. “Ah, bullshit, give me a break,” Grant groaned, sitting up. He took a swig from the water glass that he had almost tipped reaching for the phone. The water didn’t relieve the sticky taste in his mouth. “I flew last night. Then the debrief took all morning. I got a cold that’s busting my head open.”

  “This is a no-shitter, Buck. Code Sierra. I can’t say any more.”

  The sudden click left Grant staring incredulously at the handset. Code Sierra? What the hell? He hung up and looked at the clock radio sitting next to the phone. A little after two thirty in the afternoon. At least he had got a few hours’ sleep. He eased his six-foot-three body out of bed and grabbed another Kleenex, throwing the used one on the floor amid a growing heap of pink and blue. Step two was a shuffle across the small bedroom and a stiff tug on the shade over the window. Bright sunlight poured through, bathing his aching body. Buck recoiled like a vampire caught by the rising sun.

  “Crap,” he complained, “where did I put the damn aspirin?” The unsuccessful drug search was quickly abandoned for a better remedy, a strong cup of black coffee.

  Grant could have been a recruiting-poster model for the US Air Force. Well built, handsome Nordic features, thick brown hair that lightened in the summer, hazel eyes that were greener than brown, and a wide, white-toothed grin that melted most women and commanding officers alike. His easygoing manner and soft drawl pegged him as a local Texas boy, but he originally hailed from the Midwest.

  His small, studio apartment was in shambles. Dirty clothes were strewn the length of the L-shaped bedroom, and his open sliding-door closet revealed a tangled pile of messy laundry begging for attention. He had moved to the run-down apartment building when his beautiful, charming wife had abruptly walked out only six short months ago. Their lovely four-bedroom, two-story suburban home was on the market for a steal.

  Buck had met his upscale future bride on a blind date his senior year at Penn State. She was a gorgeous business major from Pittsburgh who wanted to go into banking. They immediately fell in love. His six-year commitment to the US Air Force was conveniently overlooked. Frustrating separation, broken by intense
ly passionate weekends and holidays, solidified the storybook relationship. The culmination was a spectacular summer wedding at her parents’ huge Pennsylvania estate. Her prosperous investment-banker father provided an incredible spread, while Buck’s flying buddies provided the questionable entertainment.

  His perfect mate never really adjusted to the transient military life, nor the role of an officer’s wife. A meaningful career was out of the question when traipsing all over the country after her man. One Texas winter morning, after five tumultuous years, she bailed, leaving a neatly typed three-page letter that spelled out Buck’s faults and transgressions in nauseating detail. He had got falling-down drunk, but the next morning, with his head resting in the toilet, he concluded that it was for the best. His first love was flying; he had always told her that. In retrospect, he didn’t blame her and held no grudge.

  Twenty minutes later, Buck burst out the door dressed in a greenish-gray flight suit, polished black boots, and carrying an overnight bag. The Texas summer sky was deep crystal blue, and the gusting breeze felt like a foundry blast furnace against his exposed, tanned skin. He jogged down the stairs to his waiting pickup parked next to the curb, tossing the bag in the bed. It was an old, beat-up Ford that looked like it hadn’t been washed in months, which it hadn’t. An ugly gash on the left side commemorated the latest unidentified run-in.

  “Must be a hundred today,” he grumbled, opening the truck door. He climbed in, engulfed by stifling heat. He danced in place as the blue vinyl seat burned his butt clear through the heavy flight suit. The steering wheel was so hot he had to use a dirty T-shirt from the floor to grip it.

  “I’ve got to get one of those stupid-looking window shades,” he groused.

  Most in the squadron complained about the hot, humid weather, but usually not Buck. After back-to-back tours in the Dakotas, he swore he never wanted to be cold again. And today’s intense heat certainly helped clear his sinuses. He pumped the accelerator, started the engine, and pulled off, leaving a cloud of blackish-gray smoke lingering by the curb.