Red Hammer 1994

by Ratcliffe, Robert

  Crossing into Russian territory had brought little change. Only spurious electronic signals danced on the airwaves, signatures of air-search radars or patrolling interceptors, none of which would be able to distinguish the Talon from ground clutter. Only once had they deviated from their base course to avoid a suspected surface-to-air missile site.

  “Let’s go!” Rawlings yelled over the cabin noise. He stood and stretched out his sore back. It took a few moments to catch his balance. Six SF soldiers on each side of the pallets shuffled to the rear, past the helmeted crewmen. They hooked-up to the wire static line, bunched nuts to butts, buffeted by a violent ride. They would bail out in one continuous run into empty space, followed by the heavy pallets coasting down the rollers two seconds apart. The goal would be to have minimum separation between the men and machines once on the ground.

  The loadmaster reached for the chest-high ramp lever. The whine of hydraulics triggered a rush of adrenaline to Rawlings’s body. The first crack of pitch black brought a deafening roar, and an unexpected backblast of swirling, frigid air that made them shiver. Nature’s violence, mixed with fear of the unknown, hit Rawlings. He breathed deeply, muscles tense, as the ramp lowered into place.

  “Two minutes.” The twin lines, led by Rawlings and Gonzales, edged aft and bunched even closer. The ramp was completely distended and locked, the edge dropping off into nothingness. Rawlings purged his lungs and suddenly felt invigorated. The thick forest below rushed by in a blur; his eyes were unable to focus for more than a second. At only six hundred feet, there was no margin for error. A good chute pop and two swings and they’d be hitting the ground hard.

  “Go.” The loadmaster gave a thumbs-up as an adjacent light panel flashed green. Rawlings gritted his teeth and leapt into Russian airspace, his static line jerking open his main parachute. It unfurled in a rush and roughly snapped him upright as he twisted back to glance at the departing Talon. The others were in various stages of deployment, and the first pallet had swung free of the plane, the huge chutes resembling mushrooms in a clump. Rawlings turned to see the ground rushing toward him. He aimed for a small clearing, smacked the dirt, and rolled. He sprang to his feet and reeled in his chute. His first thought was finding concealment. He didn’t want to be caught in the open by Russian troops.

  Catching his breath, he moved through the trees in search of the next man in the jump chain. The sooner they linked up, the better. Rawlings remembered the words of an old family friend who had seen action in Southeast Asia in the secretive late fifties, when death in the jungles brought only word of a “training accident” to a distraught family. “It all gets very real very fast when your feet hit the ground,” he had offered, and as Rawlings stared into the dense Russian forest with a lump in his throat—alone—he realized how true those words were.

  CHAPTER 33

  Thomas and Hargesty were waiting to see the president aboard NEACP, the National Emergency Airborne Command Post. The acronym was somewhat of a misnomer—it implied a single aircraft, but there were originally four in the inventory, identically configured for the complex mission of controlling US strategic forces during nuclear war. Two were still operational on this the fifth day of the war. One had been destroyed on the ground, while the other, with its battle staff, had fallen prey to sabotage while taking off from an air force installation. Flares popping off as the plane lifted from the runway had proved inadequate against two shoulder-fired, IR homing missiles. Both were sucked up by the huge turbo-fan engines, blowing them clean off the wings. The crew didn’t have a chance when the crippled plane splintered into chunks before bursting into flames.

  Cruising thirty-four thousand feet over the state of Arkansas, the converted Boeing 747 airliner had been airborne for over two hours. A hasty departure had been arranged from Polk AFB in North Carolina, for some reason not yet attacked. The pattern of bases hit and those spared made no sense. It was if the Russians had thrown darts at an alphabetical installation listing.

  At Polk, the president and his entourage had surfaced, risking attack while the giant plane refueled. Thomas and Hargesty had been pulled from other duties, merging from two separate azimuths for the last-minute rendezvous. The president had sent an urgent summons. He wanted both present. They sat impatiently while the cavernous wing tanks were topped off. The unique aircraft stuck out like a sore thumb under the blazing North Carolina sun. No one felt safe until the aircraft had cleared handheld missile range.

  Driven by the threat of nuclear or conventional attack, the president and his senior advisors resembled a high-tech band of Gypsies—never in one place for more than a handful of hours, looking over their shoulders. They shuffled between ground mobile command centers, slept in makeshift tent cities, held conferences in deeply buried bunkers, and endured twelve-hour stretches in the air. Rarely did they have more than two key people at any one meeting. It would be like consistently betting against the house in Vegas.

  The president wasn’t helpless. In the air, assorted aircraft such as the former Air Force One and theater CINC airborne command posts flew decoy missions around the clock, flooding the airways with bogus communications. Selective war-reserve frequencies had been intentionally compromised, and an occasional uncovered voice message was fed to the scores of Russians agents infecting the countryside. One plane had been shot down by an agentled Spetsnaz team near an airbase in Indiana. The weapon of choice had been a US made Stinger missile stolen from an army stockpile years before. The later-slain agent had been identified as a local, living for years in the surrounding community, employed as a high-school math teacher. The true number of such agents was anybody’s guess.

  Once airborne, Thomas prepped with Hargesty for a meeting with the president. Resting in front of the generals was a heavily marked map of Europe, including western Russia to the Urals. An army colonel seated at the table, pen pointer in hand, described American, Allied, and Russian troop deployments. US forces on the European Continent were trapped like rats, while the Allies had dispersed their ground troops to defend in depth against any invasion from the east. But the Russians weren’t inclined toward such a rash maneuver. The once-formidable Red Army was hunkered down in the Ukraine and Western Russia, weathering US attacks. The remaining armored divisions in Germany, leftovers from the Cold War, strong-armed their hosts into obedience. A nervous German Army acted as traffic cop, praying that the two belligerents on their soil wouldn’t turn united Germany into rubble reminiscent of the Second World War.

  “That’s good enough, Colonel,” Hargesty said. “Let’s go see the president.” Getting US forces out of Europe and back home to help with reconstruction was high on the president’s agenda. Nervous allies suspected more sinister motives. In other words, doing something stupid that would drag them into the conflict. No one completely trusted the wounded United States, a country with too many nuclear bombs and lacking the necessary resources for recovery. The dollar was literally worthless. How would the United States pay for anything? IOUs? Erstwhile, allies expected some nuclear arm-twisting.

  The two generals traversed to the forward part of the aircraft, past the rows of operator consoles aligned neatly two by two. The battle staff worked around the clock. By now, they had fallen into a perfunctory routine of damage assessment and tracking US military units around the globe. The picture was confused and fragmented.

  NEACP was literally a flying radio. The plane’s exterior from nose to tail sprouted the full range of wire, blade, and flush-mounted satellite antennas to handle the entire communications band from VLF to EHF. The airship could transmit and receive simultaneously over multiple channels to nuclear or conventional forces worldwide.

  An aide herded the duo to a lounge just outside the president’s private cabin. He had spent the better part of the day on the ground, locked in tense negotiations with a delegation of hostile House and Senate members eager to immediately reconvene somewhere, anywhere. They had been among the fortunate survivors and were beating up the presi
dent to loosen the reins of martial law and turn over many emergency powers to a rump Congress. The idea was anathema to the military, and even the president had grown apart from members of his own party. He slowly absorbed the reality that only a strong, almost dictatorial, chief executive had any hope of rescuing the crippled nation.

  The chief of staff stuck his head through the oval cabin door. “The president will see you now.”

  They joined the president around a large circular conference table bolted to the cabin deck. Thomas and Hargesty were in fatigues, caps in hand, while the president and the civilians were in an assortment of casual clothes. Secret Service agents stood guard around the periphery. The president dispensed with any greetings. He looked exhausted. He got right down to business.

  “General Hargesty, what’s the status of the Russian redeployments?”

  Hargesty folded his hands in front of him. “Our satellites have detected definite changes in Russian military activities. It’s too early to detect any patterns. General McClain swears they’re staging for a major attack, as soon as they acquire targeting data. But he’s exhausted any means of breaking up the formations short of committing the Tridents.” There was that awful word again.

  The president let out a pained sigh and closed his eyes momentarily.

  “We need to turn our attention to the people. We’re in a race against time. Winter is just over the horizon,” the president said.

  The president was at the end of his rope. The tit-for-tat exchange since the initial waves of nuclear bombs was down to a tolerable level—only two detonations reported the last twenty-four hours. But both sides were under unbelievable pressure to finish off the other before they collapsed. Communications were degrading; intelligence from satellites had dropped off, and conventional military forces were melting like heated butter. A breakdown in logistics left both sides floundering around the world. Only the remaining nuclear forces held the promise of a quick fix.

  “I don’t care what the Russians are doing,” said the president softly, “I want to disengage our forces. I want to show the Russians we’re serious about negotiations.”

  Hargesty let out a huff. “Untangling conventional forces will take quite a while, Mr. President. Maybe months. And I’m not sure if it makes sense.”

  The president was unfazed. His troubled thoughts were elsewhere. “I understand how you feel. But I want it clearly understood that nothing is to be done that could jeopardize our efforts at negotiations. Our forces are to be disengaged as planned and only act in self-defense. Any offensive operations must be explicitly approved by me. That includes actions against third parties.” It was a short, well-rehearsed speech that he had given repeatedly in the last two days. The tone told the story. Military commanders were dragging their feet. No one wanted to throw away hard won gains.

  “Yes, sir,” Hargesty nodded. He himself had heard it on more than one occasion.

  The president slid a red plastic folder marked, “Damage/Civilian Casualties Estimate,” in front of him. He opened it. His mood darkened noticeably. Military matters provided a temporary refuge, a chess game to avoid the pain and suffering beating at the door. They were all reluctant to face the terrible civilian death toll and destruction head-on.

  “These are the latest casualty numbers,” the chief of staff remarked. His voice trembled. Thomas grimaced as he scanned the summary. The figures were lower than early initial estimates, but still abhorrent, and climbing daily. A number over fifteen million was shocking, unbelievable. The military dead paled in comparison. But he had yet to witness the devastation firsthand. None of them had. They circumvented the duty based on security concerns, but deep down they were terrified it would cripple their objectivity and decision making. Sooner or later, they would have to face the devil in person.

  The president spoke softly to the group, in a matter-of-fact voice. “I’m told that if we don’t act decisively in the next week, these numbers could double within two months. Food shortages are epidemic, and fuel is almost nonexistent. Civil order is collapsing.”

  The president looked straight at Hargesty. His face tightened. “I need all our troops for reconstruction and soon. That means a total pullback from overseas.”

  Hargesty took a deep breath and tugged at the stubble on his head. He had been prepared for this. Juggling conflicting requirements from the president and the theater Commanders-in-Chiefs was proving impossible. Time and the numbers were against them.

  “It’s not that easy, Mr. President. A total pullback would leave a vacuum that would lead to anarchy. Foreign governments are biding their time, waiting to see what happens to us. Skirmishes have already started on more than one border. There are old scores to settle, and most have correctly concluded that they won’t have to worry about the United States sticking its nose in their business. Then there are overseas resources. We’ve got to be able to play that game.”

  The president began to doodle intently on the yellow legal pad resting before him. He drew a box and inscribed the word “survival,” then underlined it repeatedly. He seemed totally absorbed but suddenly looked up.

  “The country’s recovery is paramount. Nothing else matters. Continuing to fight overseas is pointless. If the world goes to hell, so be it.”

  Hargesty leaned forward to answer. He’d give it one more shot. “I have to disagree, Mr. President. Once we retreat, it will be impossible to reverse course. Forward deployment has been the cornerstone of our military strategy since World War II. We should hang on as best we can. We need the clout to secure resources. We need to rebuild coalitions.”

  Hargesty’s argument was lost on the president. He continued to scribble, disinterested. “I’m well aware of that. But we have to establish economic viability at home. Otherwise we’re doomed. People are terrified. The country is at a standstill. We need to reestablish order. And the troops can do that.”

  “We’ll never get economic viability without access to overseas resources,” replied Hargesty forcefully.

  The president looked up sternly, cutting off the debate. “My mind’s made up. I want to see a redeployment plan. General?” the president inquired, arching his brow.

  “I will ensure your orders are carried out, sir.”

  The president stood, leaning on the back of his chair. His eyes were glued to a large map of the United States hanging from the far bulkhead. State boundaries were superimposed on a two-dimensional colored-relief format. “The country’s falling apart. The States are screaming, and there’s nothing I can do. Anarchy’s spreading from coast to coast. FEMA has been overwhelmed. I fear a total breakdown of authority then mass starvation and epidemics. God knows how we’re going to make it through the winter.”

  The president closed his puffy eyes and slowly rubbed his brow. One of his now-frequent headaches was returning. “Have you read about Europe during the Black Death?” he addressed no one in particular. “One-third of the population of Europe perished, maybe more. Corpses were stacked like cordwood, waiting to be burned. Starving peasants ate grass, and in some cases, each other. Whole towns ceased to exist. Terror gripped their lives for years; recovery took decades.” An uncomfortable silence ensued, broken only by an occasional cough.

  “We need every American soldier we can get our hands on. Governors and military commanders are grumbling. A few have openly defied orders, questioning the legitimacy of the government. That’s why we need to seize control of all surviving industrial production to ensure equitable distribution. I never dreamed I’d be an ardent supporter of martial law, but it’s the only path leading out of this wilderness.”

  Finished, he gazed at his audience. His voice had a pathetic touch of sadness. “I want a plan to get those troops home, General Hargesty.”

  Thomas didn’t say a word. He had been uncharacteristically quiet during the discussion. He sensed the president had something else in mind for him.

  “That’s all,” the president said abruptly. They all rose in unison and formed
a loose file. “General Thomas, please stay. I have a matter I’d like to discuss.”

  Thomas extracted himself from those exiting and stood with his hands on his hips. He ignored the glares of the others. He was used to it.

  “Let’s sit on the couch,” the president said with a sweep of his arm. Thomas obliged.

  The president offered a warm, pleasant expression, not a smile, but a face filled with gratitude.

  “You’ve served me well these past few days. I appreciate your candor and loyalty.”

  Thomas appreciated the words. He needed them. “You’re welcome, sir.”

  The president pulled himself closer, his tired eyes suddenly alive. “But now, I have a critical mission for you.” The president pulled a folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket and handed it to Thomas. Thomas unfolded the message and began to scan the twenty or so lines of text.

  “It’s a transmission from our ambassador in Switzerland. He received it from the Japanese Ambassador. Supposedly, it’s credible. We have no way of knowing for sure.” By then Thomas was halfway down the page, studying each line. It was an offer from the Russians for direct negotiations, at a place of the Americans’ choosing. Thomas had to force down his cynicism. So far contact with the Russians had been spotty at best and through questionable intermediaries. But this was different, more direct. It had the proper tone that piqued Thomas’s interest.