Rawlings, a senior captain, was six months into the job as the commander of an Army Special Forces A-Team. His current orders had them conducting training with the British Special Air Service, direct action and strategic reconnaissance missions mostly. His A-Team was attached to Company B, 1st Battalion, 10th Special Forces Group based at Fort Carson, Colorado. The group’s area of expertise was the European theater, from the Arctic to the Med. All the Special Forces Groups were assigned an area of the world for specialization, but the once top-dog 10th had been racked by an identity crisis since the wall came tumbling down. He and his men had been in Great Britain for four weeks, had wrapped up training, and had packed for home when the mysterious lockup came down from on high.
As Rawlings sprawled on the couch and stared at a stack of old Jane’s Defense Weekly’s resting on a hardwood coffee table, Warrant Officer Frederico Gonzales snuck up. Gonzales was the second officer in the Team, a veteran of twenty years of special operations from one end of the globe to the other. Burly, with a wide, friendly grin, the medium-height Hispanic’s flashing black eyes, olive skin, and thick, jet-black crew cut contrasted sharply with the fair-skinned Rawlings. The assistant Team commander stood with his hands on his hips, one knee bent. His baggy cotton pants and loose sweatshirt made him look borderline fat. Gonzales’s body language strongly hinted for the Team commander to start the conversation. The warrant officer certainly wasn’t.
“I haven’t heard a thing,” is all he could say in his soft southern drawl. Gonzales had expected more and showed it with a sour face. Rawlings frowned. He hadn’t quite connected yet with his second in command, the result—he thought—of the army’s ingrained habit of keeping a good percentage of each Special Forces team together for what seemed an interminable period by conventional military standards. Operational efficiency was the justification; it was necessary for the Special Forces where personal relationships and teamwork were paramount. But the downside was the proclivity to exclude a new member until the man had earned his stripes. It was even worse for the Team commander. Most of his men had been together for over five years. The time, with the Brits, had helped. Rawlings had slipped into a comfortable leadership role. The men were beginning to warm to him.
“Something big, man,” Gonzales answered, his voice fingerprinting him as a Latino from a Texas border town. “Got to be.” The Brits had trouble understanding his inflected English, much to his annoyance. Gonzales had found a home in the army at the tender age of seventeen and never seriously considered anything else. A high-school dropout, he was now considered a hero in a town that numbered under one thousand and braved an unemployment rate of thirty percent.
Rawlings rose to place the exchange on an even footing. He ran his fingers through his short-cropped hair, stumbling for the appropriate words. “I’m gonna try to find out what’s going on. Maybe the guys over at the hangars know something.” Rawlings was chewing on a stubby thumbnail as he spoke. Gonzales wasn’t impressed. His expression judged it as patently stupid. Man, those guys have guns out there, and they’re jumpy as hell, he seemed to say.
A push on the swinging doors at the entrance to the lobby brought the young British soldier behind the front desk to attention.
Both men turned to watch a uniformed British SAS major step smartly forward. It was Major Banks, the American Special Forces liaison officer from the SAS battalion staff. He had been an amiable host, popular with the enlisted men, even graciously playing tour guide. Banks moved gracefully and mumbled a curt greeting with a face as lifeless as stone. Rawlings and Gonzales parted and bracketed the major.
“You’re to gather your gear,” he said coldly. “Be prepared to leave in ten minutes. You’ll be taken to a hangar for staging. First flight available, you’ll be off.”
Rawlings folded his arms. “Off where? What the hell is going on, Major?” he said with a touch of anger.
“’Fraid I can’t provide the details, gentlemen.” Perspiration gathered at his temples. It was uncharacteristic of the good major and signaled duress.
“That’s it?” Rawlings bellowed.
“You’ll be briefed later, gentlemen. Ten minutes.” Banks spun and marched off, leaving Rawlings and Gonzales bewildered.
The British military truck pulled up to the hardened aircraft shelter and braked. The camouflaged concrete half cylinder had steel blast doors big enough for a fighter-bomber at one end and backed into a mound of grass-covered dirt at the other. The structure was the typical NATO model designed to withstand direct hits from thousand-pound bombs.
Rawlings, now in his battle dress utilities, jumped to the ground and surveyed the hangar apron. The usual contingent of US Air Force personnel busily repairing aircraft were missing, replaced by still more British guards. A finger, owned by a sergeant, pointed him in the required direction. Rawlings and Gonzales grabbed their gear and waddled inside, duffels on each shoulder. Banks followed at a safe distance, sporting his own personal guards, armed, of course.
“Captain Rawlings,” shouted a tall, black man, sitting on his duffel bag by the side entrance. He rose and jogged over in loping strides. First Sergeant Anthony Pickford was the senior enlisted man in the team. His smooth ebony skin reflected the dim light thrown out by the fluorescents, the hangar resembling a poorly lit cave. Inside, the steel-reinforced enclosure contained only one Pave Low helo, a big, ugly charcoal thing pushed to the rear. The other Team members formed around their officers and the first sergeant, their faces capturing a wide range of feelings.
“We heard the States were attacked by the Russians,” one chimed in excitedly.
“Nukes,” added another.
“No shit?” The chatter rose till Rawlings couldn’t think. His mouth dropped. Gonzales winced, making eye contact with one of the staff sergeants. Banks stayed back and feigned ignorance, wagering that an explosion was a distinct possibility.
Rawlings’s world came crashing down around his ankles. He turned on Banks. “What the fuck is going on?” The SAS men with Banks fingered their weapons. Rawlings’s A-Team moved to flank their captors, no set plan in mind—an instinctive but stupid move, given the circumstances.
“There’s nothing I can say, Captain. We don’t know the details ourselves. A decision on your status is pending in London. You’ll have to sit tight, just like your aviators.” Banks surveyed the stunned group with studied concentration, cataloguing their reaction.
Rawlings stared unblinkingly at the retreating major, feeling completely helpless, emotion choking back any words.
“Good day.” He stepped away.
CHAPTER 30
General John McClain, the brash Commander-in-Chief, Strategic Command was at the end of his rope. Lying passively on his aluminum-frame cot, his penetrating gray eyes stared blankly at the olive-green canvas hanging loosely above. His thoughts were directed toward the fate of his brave bomber crews sent plunging into Russian airspace twenty-four hours earlier. Only a handful had reported in from locations scattered around the globe, some intact, some piles of useless junk. He gritted his smoke-yellowed teeth in frustration at his damned helplessness. His staff was scratching feverishly for any assets left in the depleted inventory that could reach the former Soviet Union. Even mothballed B-52Gs were being targeted for secret refurbishment at undisclosed sites in the Southwest. But they wouldn’t be ready for weeks, if then. He personally thought it a patently stupid idea, but it had the blessing of the reconstituted Joint Chiefs of Staff.
Meaningful search and rescue (SAR) missions for missing B-52H and B-1B crews were unthinkable. Widespread fallout, impossible distances, and thousands of Russian air-defense troops roaming the countryside made the effort a pipe dream. It burned his insides raw to realize he had no choice but to write those heroic young men off. He still hadn’t been able to piece together a worthwhile bomb-damage assessment of the strike results. It was still too early for the rolls of film from the high-speed cameras mounted in the bellies of the surviving bombers or the super-sec
ret reconnaissance aircraft close on their heels. Even the normal flood of satellite data had slowed to a trickle. The ASAT threat had forced him to move his prized KH-11 and Lacrosse birds to high-altitude havens, degrading their sensitivity. The few pieces he did have were tantalizing. The fragments painted a picture of success. But without consistent, high-confidence intelligence, he was groping in the dark. His carefully stashed reserve forces had to be committed soon, or they’d most certainly be lost. It was only a question of time until the Russians found them.
To make matters worse, the new president was sticking his nose into McClain’s turf. He didn’t dispute the man’s constitutional legitimacy, only the questionable presumption that he possessed the requisite knowledge to juggle strategic war-fighting issues in the middle of an all-out war. McClain had willingly dedicated his entire adult life to just this purpose—to successfully prosecute a nuclear war—yet precious time was running through his fingers. The STRATCOM infrastructure was melting away under an unrelenting onslaught. Another two days, and it would be virtually impossible to launch any coordinated counterattacks. Repeated Russian ad-hoc strikes were taking a mounting toll, methodically shooting holes in McClain’s dwindling land-based forces. He sensed his men momentarily had the upper hand, despite a reserve force that favored the Russians. The ferocity of the US counterstroke had caught them unprepared, and US interceptors had shot the pants off of the lumbering Bear and supersonic Blackjack bombers. Only a handful had reached their intended targets in the United States.
The key for McClain was to act immediately to press this advantage while their enemy scrambled to regroup, in order to preserve the momentum gained by the sacrifice of countless lives. The ideal weapons for that particular mission were the navy’s Trident submarines safely burrowed in the seas, out of reach of the hapless Russian Navy. The Trident’s hundreds of hard-target-killing warheads could easily finish the job, but they were now denied to him by NCA fiat. A few of the devastating missiles had been fired early on, but the majority of the submarine skippers had been ordered to avoid detection at all costs. The president considered the Tridents his trump card, but McClain smelled Bob Thomas on that one.
McClain’s simple quarters, a ten-by-twenty-foot air-conditioned tent, was part of the extensive STRATCOM mobile-headquarters complex that stretched intermittently over ten miles, hidden in the Ozarks in Southern Missouri. He and his assembled battle staff had been evacuated from STRATCOM headquarters at Offut AFB minutes before the antiquated underground command center was pulverized by the direct impact of a six-hundred-kiloton Russian nuclear bomb delivered by an ancient SS-19. His team was just now getting organized. CINCSTRAT’s mobile command center was identical in appearance to the NCAs, but had twice the communications gear and enough computing power to run any of the national weapons labs. A spiderweb of fiber-optic cables wound through the forest, creating an entity whose sole purpose was planning the destruction of the neo-Soviet empire.
“Colonel, when does General Thomas arrive?” McClain asked the man framed in his tent entrance. He wasn’t pleased one bit at having to receive the emissary of the new president. Bob Thomas was a good man, but McClain feared he was about to be reined in by the bureaucrats. One day into the war, it had been McClain’s show, and his handpicked STRATCOM team was performing heroically. He wasn’t about to let them down.
“The general will be here any moment, sir. We’ve got comms with his helo.”
“Very well.” McClain eased his large frame up and grabbed his cap. “I’ll be in the operations tent.”
The Army Special Forces Blackhawk helicopter set down on a chalk-marked field two hundred yards from the nearly invisible complex. Thomas waited until his five-man guard detachment, lead by Benton, deplaned before he unbuckled his harness and eased himself to the ground. The reddened late-summer sun was beginning to dip beneath the tree line, and a welcomed cool breeze took the edge off the evening heat. Thomas stretched to work out the soreness from the long helo flight, scanning the horizon to get his bearings. His body still ached, and his arm hurt like hell. Painkillers helped, but he had to keep the dose down.
He was flanked by his guards; Benton was at his side. Thomas had requested the major be permanently assigned to his person. Benton had reluctantly agreed, much preferring to be thrown into battle with his comrades.
Thomas had spent the late-morning hours at the president’s side, absorbing the man’s character and concerns to guide him on his mission. The president’s steadfastness in the face of continued Russian attacks, his refusal to be goaded into overreaction, and his tireless attention to every detail revealed a rock-solid leader. Hargesty’s evaluation had been right on the money.
The president had methodically picked Thomas’s brain. He had sat passively at the table, resting his chin on his interlaced hands as Thomas told the whole story, every detail. Had the new president seen his own future? Would he have done anything different?
Late in the afternoon, hopes had soared. A back-channel communique hinting at the possibility of an immediate and unconditional truce had landed on their doorstep. Unfortunately, it had proved to be apocryphal. The postmortem catalogued it as a crude attempt to gauge the resolve of the American leadership. The Russians’ current leadership remained a total mystery. Thomas had huddled privately with the president shortly before the helo lifted off, soaking up final instructions. He clearly understood his marching orders. The power to remove McClain from his post on the spot fell squarely on Thomas’s shoulders. It was a dirty job he hoped to avoid, one that could have serious and unpredictable repercussions.
“Welcome, Bob,” McClain said sarcastically. Thomas’s four silver stars on each side of his woodland-cammie shirt collar matched McClain’s own, but CINCSTRAT didn’t consider him an equal. He towered over the younger general by four inches, and his thick silver hair and sharply chiseled features enhanced his presence. McClain was not known for his modesty, but then again, he personally commanded enough nuclear firepower to destroy half the planet.
“General McClain,” Thomas nodded. He looked sharp in freshly pressed fatigues and spit-shined boots. He wore a pistol on his hip with extra ammo clips. McClain scowled at Benton, resenting Thomas’s personal guard dog.
On signal, the respective security escorts backed away. CINCSTRAT eyed his adversary suspiciously.
“I assume you want a complete rundown,” said McClain preemptively. The thought turned Thomas’s stomach. He was sick of constantly rehashing the battle.
Thomas’s face eased. “No, just a talk in private.” He wouldn’t confront the general near his staff, not in such an emotionally charged atmosphere. McClain grunted halfheartedly. He was spoiling for a fight.
“Fine, let’s go to my tent.” The two retraced McClain’s path to his nearby quarters. The encampment seemed organized and efficient, almost giving a sense of business as usual. Most likely the constant drilling and command-post exercises, Thomas surmised. The old Strategic Air Command had lived with the threat of nuclear war every single day since its inception, and the assigned air-force officers discussed nuclear warfare as casually as the next day’s weather. It had always struck him as callous, but he had been a fighter pilot critiquing the hardworking men and women who did the strategic grunt work. Developing the SIOP wasn’t glamorous, not by a long shot. It was a sobering, back-breaking job that produced one of the most tightly controlled and highly classified documents in the military. Paranoia about security and the arcane subject matter created a cult-like aura at STRATCOM.
Thomas sprawled backward across a metal folding chair, while McClain claimed the edge of his cot. He offered Thomas an ice-cold Coke from a small cooler by his feet. McClain took a second and popped the top.
“Thanks,” said Thomas.
“I couldn’t live without this stuff,” McClain mumbled, taking a long, slow swallow. “I’m trying to cut down on the cigarettes.” He chuckled at the ridiculous health concern.
Quickly growing serious, McCla
in held his can in both hands and looked Thomas square in the eye. CINCSTRAT’s irritation clearly showed; he was ready for a well-practiced speech.
“The new president thinks I’m out of control, right? Some warmonger seeking to destroy all life on the planet?” McClain rose and started stalking the cramped tent. His large frame loomed menacingly, while his voice took on a sharp edge.
“We lost over one third of the bombers and tankers on the ground. The rest have been chewed up worse than we expected. Hardly any of the B-1s have reported in; they got hit the hardest. We estimate losses at well over sixty percent. The B-2s fared better, but with only fifteen operational, I can’t do much.” McClain stopped and stared out the tent flap, tightly gripping the half-empty can.
“Preliminary results have been sketchy, but we hammered ’em, Bob, despite our losses. I don’t have all the data, but I can feel it.” McClain paused and drained the can.
“We even picked up some of the mobiles. Lacrosse came through like a champ. Their air defenses are in a shambles. We can’t let up, not now. They’ve still got a shitload of SS-24s and 25s waiting to strike any worthwhile target that raises its head. We can’t handle this tat-for-tat shit forever.” Thomas braced himself for the expected finale.
“I want to turn around the surviving bombers and hit ’em again, hard. Go for broke.” McClain glared at Thomas. He had many close personal friends among those sacrificed to breach the Russians’ formidable air defenses. His voice rose in intensity.
“But that means I need help from the Tridents to blast the last air defenses and hammer the surviving command and control sites. We’ve generated quite a target list for the navy boys. We’ve even found a couple of nuclear storage sites. All I need is the go-ahead.”
Red Hammer 1994 Page 27