Red Hammer 1994 (32 page)

First came the blinding flash then the strange tingling sensation throughout their bodies. Lastly was the vicious punch of the shock wave. Five psi of overpressure hammered the plane, threatening to tear the weakened bomber apart in midair. The following dynamic winds added to the stress, bending and twisting the airframe. The bomber shuddered violently, struggling to stay whole. Buck vigorously fought the stiff controls to avoid burning into the earth. He pulled up the nose when the altimeter showed a scant fifty feet to the ground. The old, dirty bomb had been purposely detonated at altitude to expand its kill radius. Detonating at close to half a mile from their position, it deposited two-to-three-thousand-rem whole-body dose of radiation.

Buck clutched his chest, feeling like his insides were melting. Joe pitched forward, violently vomiting, writhing in his seat. He gasped and chocked, spitting up blood. Ledermeyer slumped in his seat, panting. No one could talk. No one moved.

Ionizing radiation is insidious. No two people react the same way. Four hundred and fifty rem kills half of those exposed in a few weeks; one thousand rem is certain death in a week or two. One thousand to five thousand means immediate incapacitation in varying degrees and an agonizing death in days. After the prompt effects wane, all experience a latency period, which lulls the victim into a false sense of hope shortly before the final throes of death. Massive doses of ionizing radiation disintegrate the soft tissues of the gastrointestinal tract, making recovery impossible and death inevitable.

Buck sat passively, conserving his strength. He waited for the onslaught he knew was coming, but the debilitating effects slowly subsided. Besides a lingering dizziness and a throbbing in his head, he appeared to have been spared the worst.

“Keep pushing,” he coaxed. “Don’t give up.” He gripped the stick and focused through the damaged windscreen, squinting to weave his way through the foothills.

Joe was semiconscious. Buck pulled him back from his stick, cinching his harness to support his body weight. Ledermeyer had loosened his and was leaning on his console, unable to sit upright. He took short panting breaths.

“I need you, Ledermeyer. Don’t crap out.”

Ledermeyer managed to turn his face sideways and stared at Jefferson. For a moment, he envied his dead comrade.

“I can’t move, Buck. My arms feel like lead.”

“Relax,” Buck coached. “Breathe deep. The effects will pass.”

Ledermeyer pushed himself up a few inches, groaning.

“Oh, man, I hurt.” How could the plane have survived? he thought. Years of analysis had convinced most STRATCOM flyers that their planes were much softer than their own bodies and that they would most likely perish in a blazing fireball, not slumped over, puking blood.

Buck shook his head to clear his vision. He had to come up in altitude, no matter what the consequences.

“You’ve got to help me get these bombs off. I can’t do it myself. Come on.”

A sharp, clacking noise grabbed Ledermeyer’s attention. Next to his station, an SHF satellite transceiver came to life. The Lacrosse downlink was live, spitting out a stream of characters across a small LCD readout.

“Shit,” Ledermeyer cursed.

“Read it,” ordered Buck.

Ledermeyer supported the thermal paper as it rolled from the printer. The first characters were an authentication, standard fare. The next began a target description, including a confidence factor and priority.

“Priority one. Possible SS-24 ICBM train. West of Kirov. Possible multiple targets.”

“They can’t mean us. Someone on the other side of the mountains will have to cover it,” answered Buck.

“No acknowledgement yet,” said Ledermeyer.

Lacrosse broadcast target data to all airborne platforms. STRATCOM added a header to the message that recommended assignment based on planned EWO routes. But it was up to the individual bomber commanders to roger up for an assignment. Only they could make a realistic assessment of their chances.

After five minutes, there were still no volunteers. Buck haltingly reached for a switch, which would trigger a transponder near the tail. The encrypted signal, a combination of a unique identifier and position data, would bounce off a satellite and wind its way to CINCSTRAT’s mobile command post. He paused before depressing it.

At this point, Kirov was no farther than Sverdlovsk, and the odds of him completing his primary mission were zilch. Taking out SS-24s would put more of a dent in the Russians’ war machine than blowing up power plants. The overpowering vision of his earlier weapon’s detonation still lingered. Each of the SS-24s RVs packed four times the wallop, and each missile carried ten of them. He could save a lot of lives. A quick jab signaled his commitment.

“We’re going,” he announced, mostly for himself. Ledermeyer didn’t answer.

Transiting the Urals had been surprisingly easy. The Russians’ principle air-defense threat axis was north, not east, and the plane was masked by the radar clutter reflected off the numerous craggy peaks. Buck crossed south of Vuktyl then steadied on a course that would cover a stretch of sparsely populated territory before approaching Kirov from the northeast. It was only three hundred miles to the target area, less than half an hour.

The desolate landscape of the eastern slope had been replaced on the west by lush, green forests extending as far as Buck could see. He hugged the treetops, tightly gripping the stick, fighting an abrupt, periodic shudder that started at the nose and rippled to the tail. The bomber seemed to be deteriorating at the same pace as he was. He felt nauseous, and a tenderness in his lower abdomen sent shooting pains throughout his body. Hold together, he prayed.

“Ledermeyer?”

“Yeah, I’m still here.” The words came slowly and were slurred.

“Get weapons ready. At least three”

“I’m ahead of you, Buck.” Ledermeyer flashed a confident thumbs-up that Buck caught out of the corner of his eye. He acknowledged it with a nod.

The miles rolled by as the sky began to thicken with grayish-black clouds. Each passing minute increased their survival against the endless stream of interceptors. But their biggest concern would be the rings of SAMs around Kirov. Buck would forego any defensive suppression shots and hope to slip past the Russian defensive positions.

Ten minutes from Kirov, Lacrosse spit out an updated target position. A second satellite had crossed the target area and a comparison to earlier data provided fresh intelligence. Ledermeyer updated the location residing in the SRAMs guidance computer. The target was on the move, heading east toward Glazov. Buck eased the bomber to port to intercept the new track. In his mind, he could picture the slow train crammed full of nuclear warheads just waiting for destruction. He would gladly oblige.

Suddenly, the threat emitter alarm blared. To starboard, thin white exhaust trails rose from the forest, at first two, then a total of five. The intermediate range SAMs were fired too close, and he was too low for them to be effective, but their position was exposed. Searching the horizon, Buck noticed a sparsely forested depression dead ahead. And through it, he saw a glimpse of railroad tracks.

“Son-of-a-bitch,” he muttered. “Dead-on.” He maneuvered to follow the tracks, rising slightly to obtain a better perspective. Ledermeyer kicked in the electronic countermeasures. There was no sense holding back at this juncture.

“Bracket the DGZ, plus one on top.”

Ledermeyer had read his mind. “Missiles armed,” he announced.

The sweat streamed down Buck’s forehead. His flight suit was soaked. He tightened his grip on the stick with two hands, settling back in the ejection seat, guiding the broken bomber. He summoned his last ounces of strength. Every breath brought more pain.

“This is it, Russ. Let’s cream those bastards.” His earlier hesitancy was gone. This attack had become personal.

Ledermeyer hugged the console, his right forefinger resting on the first launch switch. He watched a counter decrement inches from his face. It was all he could do to stay conscious.

Directly ahead, the afternoon sky lit up with fireworks. Mobile antiaircraft guns pumped out hundreds of 30mm rounds. Handheld missiles flashed skyward, only to be deflected by the red-hot flares popping outward every ten seconds. Fragmentation rounds ripped holes in the fuselage and wings, shattering equipment and spraying the interior with shrapnel. More SAMs arced upward but passed harmlessly overhead. The furious barrage was more than anyone could possibly survive.

“God damn, Buck. We’ve hit the jackpot. They’re throwing everything at us,” Ledermeyer yelled. “Must be something big down there.”

“Ten seconds…” A handheld SAM slammed into the starboard wing, blasting away the outboard nacelle, leaving the engine dangling and in flames. The mortally wounded bomber pitched violently upward, presenting a fat target to the defenders. Buck fought to keep her in the air.

On cue, the B-1B’s three missiles dropped and ignited, one after the other. The rotary launcher’s whine was drowned out by the intense racket from exploding shells. As the third bird disappeared in the distance, a stream of tracers tore through the forward fuselage, disintegrating Ledermeyer’s station and blowing out the windscreen. Buck groaned, struck by shrapnel, the rushing wind tearing at his face. He struggled to reach back, gently touching Ledermeyer’s leg.

“We did it, man. We did it.” The starboard wing snapped upward, tearing away, leaving an ugly scar of broken structure and dangling hydraulic lines. The B-1B bomber nosed into the trees, disappearing in a tremendous fireball fueled by thousands of gallons of JP5.

Seconds later, the SRAM trio detonated in sequence. The farthest warhead went first, the blast wave rolling outward, flattening concentric circles of trees. The relentless wave caught the command train parked on a spur with the full fury of twenty psi overpressure and five-hundred-mile-an-hour winds. The train, crushed by the overpressure, splintered into chunks, which bounced across the landscape, leaving a trail of debris and rubble for hundreds of yards. Not a living soul was left alive within three miles.

CHAPTER 27

At 0420, Jackson rang up all stop and pulled the plug.
Michigan
settled to the bottom, resting mid-channel, splitting the distance between Port Townsend to port and Whidbey Island Naval Air Station to starboard. They had observed only an occasional flickering light on shore—possibly headlights from some terror-stricken civilian—and no surface craft whatsoever. Normally the choppy waters of the Puget Sound would be thick with vessels of all flavors, but not now. It was unsettling, as if everyone and everything had mysteriously dissolved into the ether. The boat’s sonar hydrophone arrays had detected intermittent screw noises tentatively classified as possible bulk carriers or container ships, but the acoustics were worthless for pinpointing the source. As the ops officer had predicted, their sonar performance stunk. The shallow, muddy bottom sucked up any man-made noise like a vacuum cleaner. God help them if the Russian Akula had crept farther east than they had estimated. In the meantime, Sonar would be working overtime to weed out any buried acoustical emissions from the background biologics that fouled the sensors.

A short-lived emotional lift had been triggered by an acknowledgement of their message telling the world they were alive and in one piece. The response had meant that others had survived as well, most likely tucked away in mobile command centers in the mountains of the West or the dense forests of the Southeast. Their orders—stand by for missile launch—had been sent by the Commander-in-Chief Strategic Command, or CINCSTRAT. Any forthcoming launch order would be immediately followed by a satellite dump of critical target data. The stuff they had was hopelessly out of date. The EAM could arrive over a variety of frequencies, but the target data, compressed and transmitted in a series of burst transmissions, would have to come over the satellite submarine broadcast channel. An identical volume of traffic would take hours over a VLF circuit with its sluggish seventy-five baud data rate. Besides, Jackson doubted that any of the navy’s fleet of E-6A TACAMO aircraft would still be airborne. Their time on station was barely twelve hours; then they would have to call it quits and reel in the miles of VLF trailing wire antennas. The handful of shore-based VLF transmission sites was surely rubble.

Over an hour later, the executive officer had the conn. “Blow ballast. Come to periscope depth. Maneuvering, make turns for two knots, be prepared for emergency bells.” Each order was crisply repeated, followed by an “Aye, sir.” The crew was holding up surprisingly well.

“Up periscope.” The XO wanted the scope fully extended even before they settled at the proper depth. They might be farther from the channel centerline than he originally gauged, and he would have to react instantly. There was little margin for error.

Michigan
rumbled as high-pressure compressed air forced seawater from the fore and aft ballast tanks. The diving officer, a senior chief petty officer, had the unenviable job of trying to trim the huge boat in shallow water at minimum speed. With a jerk
Michigan
let loose of the bottom and floated upward, with a slight five-degree forward angle. The senior chief patiently encouraged the junior enlisted men manning the ballast control panels, leaning over their backs, pointing here, then there. Within two minutes, he had leveled the boat, no mean feat. To his immediate right, the helmsman and the planesman struggled with the stern control surfaces to maintain course and to gently drive the boat upward. Prudence dictated that they maintain slight negative buoyancy to avoid broaching and exposing the sail. Turns for two knots barely provided needed steerageway.