Red Hammer 1994 (37 page)

“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, McClain 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.”

McClain thrust his hands on his hips, staring down at the man who could grant him his wish. “We’ve got to get the rest of those mobile missiles. That’s all they’ve got left. The navy has cleaned up most of their missile boats, while NORAD’s interceptors slaughtered their Bears and Blackjacks over the pole. If we can finish the job by destroying the majority of the mobiles, the Russians are finished. We’ll have them by the balls.”

Thomas silently conceded that McClain’s blunt assessment was on the mark. Military victory was within their grasp. But what did that mean? He didn’t know. And he had his orders. He waited a few seconds for the intensity to drain from McClain’s face. He set his can on the ground then placed both forearms on the chair back.

“The president wants you to hold back,” he said firmly. “No more strikes without his expressed approval. Hargesty concurs. And so do I.”

McClain’s explosion wasn’t long in coming. “That’s bullshit, Bob, and you know it!” McClain shouted. He flung his empty Coke can across the tent. His face boiled as fatigue and frustration erupted through a veneer of self-control.

“When are those stupid bastards going to learn? You don’t turn the SIOP on and off like a water faucet. It can’t be used like some god-damn peacetime saber-rattling exercise. We’ve got to let this play out; otherwise my surviving forces will get picked-off like pigeons. I’m asking for another twenty-four hours then I’ll back off. Twenty-four hours is all I need.”

Thomas ignored the diatribe. He folded his hands and locked on McClain’s face. He waited a few moments before answering. When he did, it was slow and deliberate.

“The president’s adamant. No more attacks, period. Your forces are to pull back to staging areas and await orders.”

McClain shook his head in disgust. He couldn’t believe the crap he was hearing from a fellow officer. “Tell your so-called president to cram it up his ass. His party cancelled the mobile ICBM programs and then gutted the bomber force. So we let those Russian bastards get away with launching a surprise attack? Is that our stated policy? You’re full of shit, Bob.” The big man glowered menacingly, seemingly on the verge of physical violence.

Thomas slowly stood to his full height and folded his arms across his chest. He empathized with McClain, but his heart and head were with the Commander-in-Chief, and his patience was wearing thin. He would give McClain one more chance.

“I’ll forget I heard that last comment.” If Thomas had expected a thank you, all he got was a fuck-off glare.

“You don’t get it, John. The country can’t take any more. Physical damage and casualties are to the point where recovery is questionable. We’ve got to ensure that we survive as a nation. That’s number one. Nothing else matters. What if the Russians let loose their entire ICBM reserve in response to stepped-up attacks? Or have a few missile boats we didn’t get and target the cities? You’re the one who says their SLBMs can’t hit shit. Well, they could hit a city. So far, our casualties are tolerable—if millions dead could ever be tolerable. No, we’ve got to press for a truce, and if need be, a return to the status quo, no matter how bad that seems.” Thomas paused. The explanation appeared to have fallen on deaf ears.

Thomas continued, “The president has ordered the carrier battle groups to pull back from the Russian mainland, and the fleet commanders are mad as hell. They were ready to launch air strikes against Russian coastal targets and had taken heavy casualties en route. But we simply can’t afford to lose what’s left of the fleet on a suicide mission. The Russians aren’t the biggest threat anymore.”

McClain cocked his head. His face scrunched up as if encountering a crazy man. “What?”

“It’s resources, John. We can’t survive more than a couple months without a massive influx of food and fuel, and no one is going to offer them up willingly. We have to have the military clout to get what we need to survive. Even the Europeans are sitting on the sidelines, waiting to see how this plays out. The world’s waiting for us to fall. Screw the Russians. They won’t make it through the winter anyway. The more strategic weapons we have left, the better off we’ll be.”

McClain sat down and didn’t say a word. He took a deep breath and exhaled loudly. A cynical gaze came Thomas’s way.

“So I’m supposed to sit on my ass and let the Russians lob an occasional nuke our way and do nothing?”

“That’s not what I said. The president wants individual release authority for any weapons launched.”

McClain pondered his choice—acceptance of a distasteful direct order or a messy removal. It wasn’t like him to turn tail and run. The seconds dragged by before he finally answered. He felt like kicking Thomas’s teeth in.

“I’ll rescind the general release order immediately. Happy? A lot of my men are going to die.”

Thomas was relieved but wondered where he stood with the hardnosed general. Time would tell. As he stood to leave an out-of-breath major barged through the entrance.

“General, we’ve just picked up SS-25s coming from Rybinsk. The alert’s been passed.” He left as fast as he entered.

McClain jumped to his feet and grabbed Thomas by the hurt arm. “Follow me, General, and you can personally witness the destruction of our forces.” McClain’s peevishness grated on Thomas. Unknown to McClain, the president’s messenger held the delegated authority to authorize limited counterstrikes. The president wasn’t a fool.

The pair hustled to the operations tent. Inside, a crisis action team had sprung into action, forecasting the Russian RV impacts. Hampered by the total loss of the ground-based radars, they manipulated satellite short-wave IR data into crude track estimates. After repeated practice in an intense pressure cooker, they had become proficient at pinning the impact circle to within twenty miles of the intended target—close enough to sound the klaxon to military units about to be incinerated.

“Over here, sir,” a colonel said to his leader. He pointed to a map of the United States covered by heavily marked-up velum. It was secured to the folding table by stacks of field manuals. His finger quickly tapped at five separate locations, a nuclear weapons storage area, an airfield, and Minuteman III silos in the Midwest.

McClain leaned forward, soaking up the report. “How in the hell did they find the storage site?” He straightened and faced Thomas, a frown on his face. “The airfield was a decoy. At least that worked.” He stood rigidly and thought for a moment.

“Those god-damn bastards have agents and special forces crawling over the entire country, designating targets for their mobile ICBMs. We’ve even caught groups scouting our ICBM bases.” McClain shook his head. He wished he owned an army of the handy SS-25s. He walked toward a bank of computer workstations. “I don’t know how they discovered the storage site. Colonel Jenkins!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get word to the unit at Fort Bliss to get the hell out of there. Take what they can. They’ve got less than thirty minutes.”

“Yes, sir.”

A young air force captain behind a 19-inch graphics monitor had retrieved data on the Minuteman III wing. On his display was the silo-field geometry, with color coding for silo status. A green icon indicated a surviving silo containing one of the few reserve Minuteman’s still in STRATCOM’s arsenal. They were being held in reserve to counter high-threat Russian targets. Number-one priority was the surviving Russian military and party leadership bunkers, the linchpin of the Russian army’s command and control infrastructure. McClain leaned over his shoulder and studied the screen.