Red Hammer 1994 (42 page)

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.

“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. “Get 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.

Pickford handed out silenced 9mm H&K MP-5 machine pistols. They would be for the close work. They’d use their noisy M-4As only as a last resort.

“Let’s move,” ordered Rawlings. The three Green Berets split and plunged headlong into the trees left and right. They would flank the camp and then spring the ambush. It was a straightforward routine they had practiced many times. Rawlings was in the group of two. Pickford, the most experienced, moved alone. He bobbed and weaved through the fallen trees like a cat. He easily got a fifty-yard lead on Rawlings.

The team CO moved more deliberately, using his NODs to keep an eye on the Russians as he and the other man moved forward. The figures in the camp seemed oblivious to their presence. Within minutes, they had closed to within one hundred yards. He could now see a lone sentry huddled near a tall pine. The man was closest to Pickford and would be his. Pickford waited until Rawlings had closed the gap before dispatching the guard with his knife.

Staying low, crawling where needed, Rawlings and his teammate worked their way thirty yards from the camp. Some Russians were seated, others standing; all seemed oblivious. Rawlings couldn’t believe how sloppy they were. The men pulled their NODs down around their necks and gave their eyes a moment to adjust to the light from the fire.

Rawlings took a deep breath and mentally rehearsed the last thirty yards. He signaled Pickford. The three rose together and sprinted over open ground. A Russian with his AK-47 slung and a cigarette stuck to his lower lip glanced over at the shadowy figures moving in the darkness like a broken field runner. The man’s eyes widened as he saw the nearly black silhouette suddenly on top of his position. Rawlings raised his MP-5 to the shoulder and squeezed a short burst. The gentle ripping sound from the silencer downplayed the ferocity of the steady stream of 9mm jacketed slugs that tore into the guard’s chest. Before the Russian hit the ground in a heap, all hell broke loose. Russians cursed, grabbing for weapons while the Americans fluidly moved among them, dispatching the entire complement in fifteen seconds. The Special Forces men surveyed the fringes of the camp for stragglers signaling each other as they ran among the corpses.