Red Hammer 1994

by Ratcliffe, Robert

  “What about the Russians’ buildup? It’s real; I’ve seen it.” Thomas said.

  “I understand,” answered the president. “It’s not entirely clear who’s in charge over there. This could be some splinter group.” The president locked onto Thomas’s eyes. “But it could be legitimate. I have to take the chance.”

  Thomas nodded agreement. They both understood that they were on the threshold of renewed, large-scale fighting.

  “I’m asking you to go and meet the Russians in my place. My heart says it should be me, but my head realizes my duty is here.” The president leaned back. “You’ll have full authority to represent the government, and I’ll accept any terms you get. You pick your team.”

  Thomas was stunned. He believed with all his heart that the president was right—the fighting had to stop. But an inexorable force was building against them, a mountain of fear and hate pushing everything out of its way. He was tired, more tired than he had ever been in his life. He felt inadequate and very, very small.

  “You’re hesitating?”

  “I’m a soldier, sir, not a diplomat. There’s no room for error on this. Are you sure?”

  “That’s precisely why I picked you. There’s no time for analysis and rehashing proposals. No developing negotiating positions. One pass, that’s all we’ll get. The person I send has to think on his feet. I have the utmost confidence in you.”

  Thomas looked at the man he had come to respect. “I’ll do my best.” He couldn’t believe what he’d just said.

  “I know you will.” The president stood, signaling Thomas to do likewise. “So far, very few people know about this. I want to keep it that way for now. When you’re safely on your way, I’ll spread the word. There are leaders who would be bitterly opposed to this.”

  “I understand,” replied Thomas. Within seconds, he had come up with his own short list of people who would be more than happy to put a bullet in his head to stop such negotiations. “It won’t be easy on your end either, Mr. President.”

  “I’m prepared for the worst.” They would both be playing a dangerous game. The president stuck out his hand. It was steady as a rock. Thomas grabbed it firmly.

  “It’s up to you and me,” the president said, “Go make peace, General Thomas, and God be with you.” When Thomas let go of the president’s hand, the air force four-star general had tears in his eyes.

  CHAPTER 34

  Rawlings and Gonzales squatted, carefully examining a laminated map, which detailed the surrounding territory for fifty miles square, their assigned patrol area and supposed home to a battery of Russian SS-25 mobile ICBMs. The last satellite dump hadn’t provided the slightest clue as to where the transporter/erector launchers, or TELs, might be hiding, and the day’s ineffective patrolling hadn’t gleaned much either. The high point of the patrols had been tire tracks in a patch of damp soil that resembled an SS-25 transporter’s unique tread pattern. The telltale signature had disappeared after half a mile down a side road that dead-ended at an impassable ravine. They had been warned about the Russians’ proclivity toward deception, and the ICBM troopers were the best in the business. Rawlings and his men were looking for a needle in a haystack, where the haystack would be trying its best to kill them.

  The tall stand of trees surrounding the Green Berets’ clandestine base camp blocked the direct sunlight, scattering constantly varying shadows about but trapping the day’s heat. Rawlings wiped his dirty and sweaty brow with the back of his hand and replaced his floppy camouflaged bush hat. Black-and-green grease paint still covered his freckled face, the pattern now broken by cuts and scratches sustained when crashing through the thick underbrush in the right-hand seat of the FAV. They were all tired, nerves frayed. Rawlings secretly hoped for contact with the Russians. Anything to break the tension. The Special Forces captain stood and stretched while Gonzales stayed put, still studying the grease-pencil-marked map.

  “I don’t know. Maybe we should try more to the north. It looks open,” Rawlings said. The overwhelming stillness floating through the air made him feel like he was in a cathedral. The unnatural quiet wore on them.

  Gonzales frowned. “Maybe, but that terrain twenty miles out will play hell with trying to get the jump on the Ruskies.” Rawlings had given up on stealth or tactical surprise. Time was running out. And, for some crazy reason, he just wanted to get it over with. He wanted to search and clear their assigned map grid and then head west and try to make it to the Baltics. He grimaced. Hundreds of miles, much over flat, open steppes. It was a joke. But what the hell.

  “This crap around here is too thick. We can’t make decent time or cover any ground. It is great for an ambush—theirs.”

  Gonzales rolled his parched tongue around his lips and furrowed his brow. “You might be right. They’d expect our flyers to concentrate on the thicker forests. Maybe we should move the camp?”

  “We’ll stay put, and see how it goes tonight.”

  “Sounds good, Captain,” Gonzales said with a touch of indifference. He rose and moved off to check on the Team. He too had drawn a blank on creative thinking.

  Rawlings walked over to his men sprawled out next to one of the FAVs. “Sergeant Pickford,” he said in a hushed voice, “we’ll move out at 1900 hours.”

  Pickford glanced up, and then the lean, black sergeant nodded slowly and turned to the others. “OK, fellows, let’s draw straws and see who stays.” The twelve men in an A-Team come in twos. There are two officers, medics, comms, ops/intel, heavy weapons, and light weapons. Four would stay with the gear and one of the FAVs, the backup. Everyone begged to go, figuring that the stragglers would be dead meat once the shooting started.

  Rawlings broke open a box of MREs and rummaged to find something suitable. He headed to the nearest fallen tree for a backrest. Not really hungry, he sliced open the heavy olive-green pouch with his knife and began to pick at the food. He sighed and looked off into the distance. The day had been unproductive. Rawlings knew he was being cautious. The others sensed it but didn’t complain or second guess. He wanted to get oriented, get his feet on the ground. Tonight would be their first real test.

  The previous night had been a near disaster. The temperature had been incredibly cold for late summer. The dense forest canopy had made a shambles of their timetable. It took over an hour just to assemble the men, and then they scrambled to collect the gear and outfit the FAVs and stash the pallets and cargo chutes in the brush and clear the area. Fortunately, all the FAVs had survived the drop intact. The whole exercise took way more time than he thought it would. He still worried about the amount of gear hidden under tree branches and dirt. If the Russians discovered the stuff, they’d swarm the area with hundreds of soldiers. He prayed the vast forested expanse worked as much against the Russians as it did against them.

  Morning had peeked over the horizon by the time they got underway at a little after 0600. The three-vehicle convoy had moved cautiously, gear piled high in the FAVs. Rawlings called a halt five miles from the drop zone, not wanting to risk detection. The suppressed exhaust from the engines seemed to echo forever in the thick, primeval forest. Choosing a concealed site for the camp, the team set up claymores on the two most likely approaches. At 1000, Rawlings had split the men into three sections, each hiking out on a radial 120 degrees apart. In retrospect, it had been a bad plan. Isolated from each other, unfamiliar with the lay of the land, they would have been easy prey for Russian patrols. Luckily, everyone drew a blank. No signs of anything out to a four-mile radius.

  Rawlings took a final bite of the half-eaten MRE and flung the remainder into the bushes. Maybe the Russian squirrels can stomach that shit, he groused. He glanced back at the supply cache. They had food and water for a week and plenty of ammo. And later? The land was most likely stripped bare. The only hope for supplies would be pillaging the Russian soldiers they could kill while on the run. Stop the daydreaming and get moving, he admonished himself, and sort out a plan for the night’s patrol.

&nb
sp; “All set, Captain,” said Sergeant Pickford. Rawlings was seated on the hard dirt taking one last look at the grid map with a penlight. A few minutes before 7:00 p.m., the fading Russian twilight was transformed into total blackness near the forest floor. There’d be no moon tonight, a mixed blessing. He ran his finger over the intended route, memorizing the significant landmarks. Once underway, there wouldn’t be time to take another look. Bounding along over the rutted dirt trails or going cross-country at thirty to forty miles per hour, he’d be lucky to think straight.

  The two FAVs would transit five or six miles in single file then split at what looked like a road junction. Staying in a rough line abreast, they would continue north, never straying more than two or three miles from each other, staying in reasonable support range if trouble struck. If either FAV got a bite, they would signal via an encrypted satellite link to provide a heads-up to the other crew. Problem was, even with a spot beam, the US satellite downlink transmission could be detected by the Russians with a wide-band receiver. They would have to take their chances. If no targets were found, they would link up at 0330 and backtrack to camp. The next cycle of darkness, they would repeat the process on a different azimuth. If they had two nights of no contact, Rawlings would consider packing up and moving the camp. Then it would most likely be day and night patrols. Time would be running out. With multiple A-teams combing the vast countryside, it would only be a matter of time before the Russians caught on and flooded the area with troops, helicopters, and fighter jets.

  Rawlings clicked off the tiny strobe and stood, gathering his M-4A carbine in the process. He checked his watch then walked over to Gonzales’s FAV. Looking like the VW dune buggies that plied the trails of Baja, California, the FAV sported a custom tubular frame with a smattering of Kevlar panels for protection. The four-cylinder engine had decent power and specially designed manifolds and mufflers to reduce exhaust noise. Tires were standard off-road types.

  The FAV’s two distinctive features were the gunner’s swivel seat, resting on a caged platform behind the driver’s and navigator’s heads, and the two meshed baskets on either side, like those attached to helicopters for transporting the injured. The gunner had a short-barreled .50 caliber machine gun aimed forward, but by releasing a pin, it could pivot and man a rear-mounted M-60 7.62mm machine gun. AT-4 anti-armor missiles were strapped to the frame within easy reach. The navigator had a mount for an additional M-60. Tonight both baskets were full—the port with a fourth man cradling an extra AT-4, and the starboard with extra gas, additional small arms and ammo, and sniper weapons, both 7.62mm and .50 caliber, for taking out targets at long range.

  Rawlings turned to the troopers left behind. “If y’all get compromised, get the hell out. Try and make it to the rendezvous.”

  Gonzales turned his head toward Rawlings. He was harnessed in and wore a black motorcycle helmet with the night-vision goggles protruding three inches from each eyeball, just like the driver. The gunner and the fourth man settled for clear-lensed motorcycle goggles, needing the wider field of vision to accurately fire their weapons and provide a wide-area search capability underway. Gonzales hated the night-vision monstrosities. It was like staring down a wrapping-paper tube. But testing had shown them indispensable for driving the FAVs at high speed at night. Each man had a small microphone hanging in front of his lips for close-range communications.

  “We’re ready, Captain,” he said formally yet calmly. Gonzales always did that before an evolution, adopting a serious tone, no matter how insignificant the task. Rawlings swore Gonzales had ice water in his veins. Personally, he was scared shitless.

  “You lead to the road junction.”

  Gonzales nodded. “It ain’t so bad, Captain. If they’re out there, we’re gonna nail them assholes.” The same words from anyone else would have sounded boastful. From the warrant they were reassuring. Gonzales signaled his driver to start the engine.

  Rawlings appreciated the pep talk. When the lead FAV’s engine kicked over, his heart leapt out of his chest. Damn, they were noisy! His driver followed suit. Three strides put Rawlings by the passenger side of his FAV. He stepped into the right-hand seat and buckled the heavy harness, cinching his back tight against the padded seat. The FAVs rode surprisingly well, the racing-quality suspension removing all but the most egregious bumps and potholes.

  Gonzales’s man pulled out, accelerating smartly, with Rawlings twenty yards to the rear. The four Special Forces men left behind stood helplessly. They would spend the night a few miles from the camp, buried in the brush in case visitors came calling. Hopefully, the morning’s first light would bring the dull throbbing of the returning FAVs and not the sound of Russian infantry BMPs.

  The run to the junction had brought nothing unexpected. The decent dirt and gravel road allowed them to settle in, get into a rhythm, and adjust to the conditions. After the first few miles, they had forgotten about the racket. They were convinced they could outrun anything coming after them. The key was to keep on the move.

  At the junction, Gonzales split hard left, waving as they disappeared. Rawlings and his men bore right. The dirt road narrowed, becoming more of an improved trail. They were on their own now, blasting along in the moonless night, plunging into a world where the difference between winners and losers was only a matter of seconds and facing down your fears was half the battle.

  The FAV flew down the trail at over forty miles an hour, due north, bucking and jerking, and everyone instinctively gripped the frame despite the harnesses. The cold wind stung Rawlings’s face, the occasional bug strike feeling like a sharp slap or a beesting to the cheek. The incessant bouncing made it almost impossible to see through the goggles. Both he and the driver had to flex their neck muscles and shrug their shoulders to steady the thin tubes which sucked up faint IR signatures. Trees on either side flashed by, blurring like a picket fence seen from a highway, their branches arching into an impenetrable canopy. Aircraft or satellites wouldn’t have a prayer of spotting anything underneath. Just maybe, Rawlings thought, the Russians will have their guard down.

  They slid around a corner and were startled by the sight. The driver slammed on the brakes, and hunks of dirt were kicked skyward by the spinning wheels, a cloud of dust billowing up around the FAV. Ahead, timber scraps littered the ground as far as they could see, and the narrow path was blocked by tree trunks, remnants of clear cutting.

  “Damn it,” said Rawlings as the dust cleared. He stared at it for the longest time. The map didn’t mention anything about this.

  “Are we going to backtrack, Captain?” asked Pickford from the basket. The prospect didn’t thrill him. Covering the same ground twice was asking for trouble. But they had to do something and fast. Sitting still was a cardinal sin.

  Think, Rawlings scolded himself. The only sound was the purring of the idling FAV. It seemed like an eternity before something came to him. “They had to get this timber out of here somewhere,” he said. “Even a tractor would leave a trail. We’ve just got to find it.” The crew’s reaction indicated a thumbs-up. “Go back a couple hundred yards; see what we can find.” The driver nodded and spun a fast U-turn then headed out at low speed.

  “There,” shouted Pickford, his arm extended toward an almost-invisible cut through still-standing trees. They had easily missed it at forty-five miles per hour. It angled off to the northwest. “Take it,” ordered Rawlings.

  For two hours, they picked their way through the crude path cut by a tractor and beaten down by logging trucks. In some places the trees still stood, while in others they were cut clean like summer wheat. Their pace had slowed to a crawl, the rough going exhausting and frustrating them. If they didn’t find a main road soon, they’d never make the return rendezvous. The satellite channel had been conspicuously silent; Gonzales’s team had evidently drawn a blank as well.

  Suddenly Rawlings’s night-vision goggles filled with minute ghostly figures four hundred yards ahead below a ridge-line. He grabbed the driver’s arm. “Ge
t in those trees,” he said, pointing to the right twenty yards from the trail. The soldier obliged and cut the engine. Pickford unbuckled and leapt from the basket; the gunner stayed put and swung the .50 caliber toward the target. All he could see was a small fire in the distance that looked like a flickering candle.

  “Think they saw us?” Pickford asked.

  “Don’t think so,” answered Rawlings. He couldn’t believe it. The Russians must have heard the FAV. Down near the Russian camp, an engine roared to life. They heard a truck rumble off. So they have vehicles in the area. Maybe we caught a break, Rawlings thought. But we’d have to move fast.

  “How many of them, sir?”

  Rawlings strained with the goggles. Eight, maybe ten, he wasn’t sure. Four or five sat around a fire, others milling about. “Count on a dozen, worst case,” he said. They all unsaddled and huddled around Rawlings. He crouched and drew a crude map in the dirt. They had about four hundred yards to cross with some cover. The maze of broken trees and branches would work in their favor.

  “We’ll go in like this,” he said, drawing imaginary lines above the ground. They’d have two on one flank and one on the other. “Sergeant Pickford, we’ll need a sniper over-watch. Somewhere around here. What do you think?”

  “I’d put him more down the right side, better line of fire.” One of the other soldiers was already unbundling the 7.62mm sniper rifle. With a nod from Pickford, he moved out smartly.

  Rawlings thought for a minute. “If we don’t do this quietly, we’re screwed. We’ll try NODs, but see how it goes.” NODs, or night-vision goggles, were great for room clearing, or confined spaces, or anywhere you have the edge in numbers and surprise in the pitch black. In the open and outnumbered, they would need their full range of vision for the final assault. The NODs would just get them in position.