Red Hammer 1994 (14 page)

“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 concerned. 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 intensely 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.

His apartment complex was less than a mile from Interstate 20, and only five miles from Dyess Air Force Base, home of the Strategic Command’s 96th Bomb Wing. Within minutes, he was cruising down the interstate at seventy miles an hour, the wind whipping through the open windows, a slight smile on Buck’s handsome face. He felt like shit, but flying was flying.

Buckmeister, as his parents still called him, had let down the family by choosing an air-force career over their preference—following his older brother and father into law. Even as a child, he wanted to fly. Fun-filled hours were spent reading magazines and books, building models, and doing anything pertaining to aviation. Secret flying lessons started at sixteen and continued through high school. On the happy day he had gotten his pilot’s license, his mother had burst into tears. His father had been more understanding, certain, as fathers are, that his preoccupation would fade as his thoughts turned to college and girls. Opting for air-force ROTC at Penn State prompted a major rift, one that still haunted holiday get-togethers at the elder Grants’.

Buck’s was flying what he now considered the most demanding aircraft in the air-force inventory—the B-1B bomber. His initial preference had been fighters, hopefully F-16s, but somehow he lacked that special ingredient to be a fighter pilot. To the hotshot fighter jocks, it was a combination of coolness and confidence—not hesitating to press the outer edges of the envelope. To Buck, it was a mixture of cockiness and craziness—the word stupidity came to mind. His marks and flying skills would have secured him a seat in the next fighter class, but instead he selected the more sedate world of bombers, signing his young soul over to the stodgy Strategic Air Command. His nightmare was getting stuck in B-52Hs, those aging monsters that never seemed to die—most of them older than he or anyone else in STRATCOM for that matter. They were now relegated to a standoff attack role, carrying cruise missiles, both the older AGM-86B ALCM and the new AGM-129A Advanced Cruise Missile. But luck was with him, and he drew B-1Bs.

The stealthy, black batwing B-2A, whose production line had been terminated at a scant twenty aircraft, had been billed as the answer to everyone’s prayers. But despite its advertised superlative performance, Strategic Command still hadn’t figured out how to use it. Many felt the B-2As were too valuable and too few in numbers to risk. That left the ninety B-1Bs to carry the brunt of day-to-day operations.

Pulling up to the main gate at Dyess, Buck fumbled for his ID amid squealing brakes. The air-force gate guards were used to these clever maneuvers during major alerts and calmly waved him through, saluting politely as he passed. He ignored the posted twenty-five-mile-per-hour speed limit and the numerous stop signs between the gate and his squadron. In five minutes, he had parked next to the fence and bounded up the stairs to the squadron operations office on the second floor.