Red Hammer 1994 (39 page)

“No, tactical aircraft. FB-111s or F-15Es with conventional ordnance. The teams could lase the target. If not, the aircraft could use cluster bombs based on GPS coordinates and carpet the area.” Thomas was getting on shaky ground. It would only work for southern targets, not in the northern heart of Russia where the preponderance of SS-25s roamed.

“You’ve got to be kidding. It would never work,” McClain snorted. “We have to use nuclear weapons, no question.” The nods around the table confirmed that the others felt the same way.

“I don’t agree,” Thomas countered. “We’ve got to wean ourselves from a knee-jerk use of nukes at every turn. Conventional weapons are the only feasible choice while we’re negotiating. We’ve got to de-escalate.”

“You’ve got a hard sell on that one,” interjected Hargesty. “If we’re lucky enough to find one of the bastards, we’ve got to be sure we get him. We can’t risk missing.” Hargesty stopped midthought and reconsidered. His frown indicated a tussle underway in his brain. “But we shouldn’t write off the idea completely.”

McClain didn’t like what he saw coming. “Fine, but where do we get the planes?”

“We’ve got a few aircraft left in Turkey. They can cover a thousand-mile arc with refueling,” answered Hargesty

“There are not going to be any tankers. The survivors are all reserved for the bombers.”

“Then it’s a one-way mission, and the aircrew comes out with the team or by themselves or ditch somewhere. They don’t launch until we have a positive ID on targets.”

McClain rolled his eyes. The stunned army general sat mumbling. But the decision was Hargesty’s. “It’s a long shot, but we’ve got try. John, coordinate the ops with SOCLANT and SOCEUR. I want forces in country within twenty-four hours.” Reluctant nods greeted the last comment. The plan smacked of a terrible waste of good aircraft and superbly trained men.

“Anything else?” Hargesty turned to an aide. “Do you have the marked-up map of CENTCOM?”

Thomas slumped and breathed easy. For the moment, he had held off the dogs. He prayed the Army Special Forces would make a dent in the Russian mobile ICBM inventory and save the president from even worse decisions.

CHAPTER 32

Rawlings paced a well-worn path around dim, dank hanger. His mood was getting darker by the hour. They had sat and slept on the cold, hard concrete for nearly seventy-two hours. Food service was provided like clockwork. Their gear was delivered the first night, minus weapons. The amenities were appreciated, but the fact remained that they were prisoners.

Enough bad news had filtered through the steel doors from sympathetic guards to turn their stomachs. Major Banks had punctually called every few hours at first, less as time wore on. While sympathetic, Banks and the other Brits wouldn’t mind if the Americans packed up and left their island for good. With each passing hour, the British fear and consternation mushroomed, the London leadership paralyzed by the very real threat of being dragged into a war they’d just as soon shun. Being hosts to units of America’s most-potent surviving military forces exacerbated the hand-wringing at Whitehall and Ten Downing. The worst rumor had the Americans being handed over to Russians to buy peace. Rawlings doubted the British would sink so low. The rest of NATO maybe, but not the British, even in a weak moment.

The idle chatter common to comrades in cramped quarters had ceased after the first chaotic hours, each man withdrawing into an emotional cocoon. The current mood was somber. Not knowing was the worst part. For Rawlings, being a bachelor brought some relief, but he was worried sick about his parents and two sisters at home in Birmingham, Alabama. He prayed they were unhurt. Rawlings shook his head. Nuclear war, it sounded crazy, unbelievable, yet that’s what they were being told.

“We got visitors, Captain,” one of the sergeants said, long before noon chow was due. Ears perked and heads swung toward the entrance. It wasn’t the food detail, but an assemblage of Special Air Service brass and what looked like an American contingent. Rawlings jumped to his feet, his men forming a huddle to his rear. A hard-looking lieutenant colonel spotted him and stepped his way.

The man was having trouble transitioning from the bright sunlight to the hanger and its poor lighting.

“Captain Rawlings?”

“Yes sir.” Rawlings gazed chest level and saw the name Henson on the man’s camouflage utilities. He had heard it before. A battalion commander in the 7th Group out of Bragg, he recalled. In a tight-knit community such as Special Forces, officers tended to know all the higher-ups by first-hand experience or word of mouth. The colonel had a reputation as a hard charger.

The Special Forces colonel placed his hands on his hips and surveyed the group. His perfectly starched cap was perched high on a shaved head, his middle-aged frame showed not the faintest traces of leisure or lack of exercise. The colonel turned to Banks.

“This will do for the Talon,” he remarked. “And the FAV’s will be here within the hour. Any problems on your end?” Banks shook his head in the negative. The colonel swiveled and locked on Rawlings.

“A word in private, Captain?” Rawlings nodded.

“I’d like Warrant Officer Gonzales and First Sergeant Pickford present, sir.”

Henson chewed on the request. “Fine,” he shrugged.

The others in Rawlings’s team wandered off without prompting. The British obediently headed for the door. The colonel waited until all were removed from earshot before beginning.

“Colonel Henson from SOCEUR, Captain. And this is Major Schultz from EUCOM intel and Major Alton from 39th,” he said. SOCEUR was the Special Operations Command in the European theater, the SPECOPS component for the commander in chief, European Command, while the 39th referred to the 39th Special Operations Wing based at Rhein-Main Air Base in Germany, the parent organization for all special-operations aircraft in Europe.

“You’ve got a mission, Captain, and precious little time to prepare.”

Rawlings’s eyes narrowed. “What’s going on, sir? Have we been attacked? With nukes? Are we at war?”

Henson scowled. “The answer to all is yes, but that’s all I’m authorized to say.” His frown was intended to discourage further queries.

“I think you owe us more than that, sir,” said Gonzales evenly. “We’ve been sitting on our asses for nearly three days, worrying about our families. We need to know the score.” The tough Hispanic locked his eyes on the colonel.

Henson’s face softened somewhat. “I sympathize, but no one knows what the hell is going on. It’s total chaos across the board. All I know is that you’ve got a mission, and the clock is running. The Brits will let us stage from here, but they might get a change of heart. We’ve got to move fast.”

Rawlings, Gonzales, and Pickford passed around a troubled gaze. “Is there fighting on the continent?” Rawlings pressed.

This time Henson didn’t respond, ignoring the red-haired captain. His cold stare categorized the question as irrelevant. Rawlings suppressed the urge to demand an answer. Gonzales had managed all they would probably get. Events were moving way too fast for all of them.

“You’re going after Russian mobile ICBMs,” Henson stated flatly. “You’ll infil by Talon, patrol with FAVs and take out any mobiles you find. Simple and straightforward.”

Jaws dropped in unison. Then bewildered looks were exchanged. Suicide mission, thought Rawlings to himself. He remembered the poetry lines from a college course, “ours in not to reason why, ours is but to do and die,” or something like that. Rawlings felt himself in a dream. Had everyone gone mad?

Gonzales stood passively, his olive-skinned face a study in contrast. He had seen combat on more than one occasion. Protests were pointless, and he knew it. He had already begun mentally preparing, gearing up his body and mind for the task ahead. Pickford felt hung out to dry. “Man, we’re not ready,” he whispered to himself. Gonzales picked it up and glanced at the sergeant.

“It don’t matter,” he replied softly. “We’ll make-do.” The questions started to flow from the Hispanic warrant. “You said FAVs, Colonel? Why not HUMVEEs?”

“The FAVs will give you more mobility. You need to go cross-country, into the forests. You don’t get much protection, but that’s the trade-off.” The FAV, or fast attack vehicle, was a militarized dune buggy with ample firepower and fantastic mobility. Its drawbacks were no armor and not enough range. Great for reconnaissance, it wasn’t designed for offensive operations.

“We don’t have much experience with them, sir. A couple guys worked with them in North Africa a few years back; that’s it.”

“We could get you experienced drivers from another Team, but that would mean giving up slots for your men,” Henson said.

Gonzales shook his head as if to say hell no. “I’d rather take my chances with our guys.” Rawlings agreed, beginning to settle back to earth.

“How soon?” asked Rawlings.

“Ten hours at the most. The aircraft will be here in four. You’ll get an MC-130E from the 7th Special Operations Squadron. The Germans have looked the other way while we’ve slipped a few out.”

Rawlings flushed the stale air from his lungs. He fiddled with the edge of his cap to relieve the tension. “No time for planning,” he said. “Everything goes out the window, everything.” He stood back to his full height; resigned to an uncertain fate at the hands of the man from SOCEUR. “You got anything, sir, an infil plan?”

“Major Schultz and Major Alton will assist you. They’ve got the details.” The two acknowledged the statement with nods.

“How about our weapons?” Gonzales asked.

“Within the hour,” answered the colonel. He cut off further questions with a wave of his hand. “You better get moving,” he suggested.

No shit, thought Rawlings.

The sun was dipping low on the horizon, shafts of crimson and orange bathing the open hanger, the mustard-colored interior lights having yet to take effect. The massive steel doors had been rolled back moments earlier, revealing the lone MC-130E, dark green and gray, poised for the long mission ahead. The spec-ops bird appeared menacing as the ground crew towed the Combat Talon into the twilight. The FAVs were loaded nose to butt, three of them, and the fourth pallet, bearing weapons and such, was perched near the aircraft’s rear ramp. Rawlings and his men stood to the side, burdened with full battle dress and parachutes, faces blackened under protective jump helmets, weapons slung, silent and contemplative. In the spreading darkness, they appeared as apparitions, blending into the surroundings—secretive men on a hopeless mission.

In the cockpit, the air force crew concluded their preflight. Rawlings surveyed his team. He fought to focus on the mission, pushing thoughts of home and family out of his mind. The last few hours had been controlled chaos, but had relieved the tension.

The planning had been superficial, with a concept of operations that resembled Swiss cheese. Unpredictable fallout, tens of thousands of Russian regular and militia troops roaming the countryside, and battalion-level forces guarding the mobile missile camps were just some of the obstacles the team would face. Their target was an area one hundred miles north of Moscow, a place called Konakovo. The mobiles were expected to be ten to twenty clicks to the north of there. They’d be covering 1350 nautical miles on the infiltration. It would be a total ballbuster. Four and half hours at 290 to 300 knots.

If Rawlings thought they had it tough, he felt for the air-crews. They were on one-way missions. The best they could hope for was to limp into Eastern Europe then ditch. The worst was ending up on the ground in Russian territory.

A voice from the tarmac broke Rawlings’s train of thought. “Three minutes, Captain.” His men instinctively began pairing up and checking their gear. They shuffled closer to the rear of the MC-130E. The overwhelming reality began to press home. Rawlings gazed skyward at the plane’s prominent vertical tail that seemed to never end.

The special-operations aircraft had arrived on schedule from the 39th’s base in Germany. The Combat Talon II was an extremely capable aircraft, modified from the ground up for special operations. It featured a full array of avionics to fool enemy sensors, and, if necessary, defeat them with a flood of bogus electronic emissions. The interior lighting supported night-vision goggle operations—a must for clandestine insertion, but brutal on pilots flying at treetop altitudes. A long refueling probe graced the nose. In the rear, a modified cargo ramp permitted low-level delivery for heavy equipment. The key piece of avionics was terrain-following/ terrain-avoidance radar supported by dual altimeters and dual inertial navigation systems. It gave the Talon its renowned insertion capability in any weather and over any terrain. The plane’s capacity was formidable—fifty-three passengers or twenty-six jumpers, 35,000 lbs of cargo

“Load up.” Rawlings’s stomach began to churn. He patted each soldier on the back as they passed in single file.

Gonzales was last in the line and paused by the boss. “We’re gonna make it, Captain. No sweat.”

Rawlings forced a smile. Without Gonzales, he’d be lost. The stocky Hispanic jogged up the ramp and took his seat, his eyes focused intently on the bulkhead. The others on the Team strapped themselves in, no one saying a word. Rawlings stood alone at the base of the ramp. He glanced to his right and saw Henson in the fading light. The colonel had just seen another Team off, a stateside A-Team that had rendezvoused with a similarly equipped Talon two hangers away. He covered the tarmac in hurried strides. Rawlings stiffened and saluted. The colonel’s face showed the fatigue from three days straight on his feet.