Red Hammer 1994 (43 page)

“Got ’em all,” announced Pickford, returning out of breath. They had done it without having to use their carbines or the sniper.

“Get the FAV up here,” said Rawlings, massaging his red hair, hyperventilating from the rush of first combat. It had been too easy. He kneeled down to examine the collar tabs on the first man he had killed. Interior Ministry troops, he groused, nothing more than militia. He stood and kicked the ground. “Shit,” he huffed. They might not even be near an SS-25 site. They should have run into Strategic Rocket Forces troopers if they were on the trail.

The FAV rumbled up, the men storing excess weapons and then climbing in. “Which way, Captain?” asked the driver.

“Stick to the north,” Rawlings said, still breathing hard.

They motored on in silence, wondering if the men they had ambushed would be missed. Was the outpost due for a radio check? They would soon know. Covering another two or three miles, the forest parted, and they ran smack into a paved road. The instantaneous switch in their collective mood was palpable. Did they dare? They would be able to cover a hell of a lot of ground.

“Northeast,” instructed Rawlings, sounding like he knew what he was talking about. They took off with all fingering their weapons. The tension became unbearable. Rawlings felt numb, tearing down a paved Russian road, lightly armed, ready to get swallowed up by some Russian infantry company over the next rise. “God,” he prayed, “get us back in the trees.”

They crested a gently sloping hill, and there it was. “Lordy,” said Pickford, the first to see. Three-quarters of a mile below them, spread out in a meadow, were half-a-dozen huge camouflaged nets, small white lights outlining the shapes of TELs and trucks beneath. It was a sloppy job of concealment. Rawlings was winded by the discovery. Even without a moon, he could clearly count the vehicles. It was a full SS-25 battery—three TELs and support vehicles, including infantry BMPs. The racket rising from the meadow was a godsend. The clanging of heavy machinery echoed in accompaniment.

“Damn,” Rawlings said to himself, “there must be two hundred Russians down there.” The odds were overwhelming. The FAV driver had moved to the side of the road, parked behind a massive tree, and secured the engine. Rawlings bet the Russians had just set up camp. That meant there was a good chance security positions hadn’t been set. They could capitalize on the commotion if they moved fast.

Pickford couldn’t stop staring at the incredible sight. “My God.” He turned to Rawlings. “What now, Captain?”

“First thing is to get a satellite message off. We’ve got to get the target coordinates back to STRATCOM.” His communications man obliged, expertly fingering the coded keys. Rawlings signaled, and they huddled close. More than anything, he wanted to keep it simple—and get his men out alive.

“OK,” he whispered, “We’re gonna move in for sniper shots. There’s too many for a direct assault, and we’d need to get in close with the AT-4s to get a clean shot.” No one gave him an argument. “One round into the propellant will blow those babies sky high.” Everyone nodded in agreement.

“Sergeant Pickford,” Rawlings said in a tone that meant a shitty assignment was coming, “we need to find their picket line.”

Pickford swallowed hard. He knew it had to be him. He was the best stalker in the company. “Yes, sir,” he said as he moved off.

“Watch out for booby traps,” Rawlings added.

“No shit,” Pickford muttered under his breath, vanishing into the trees and brush.

The two staff sergeants moved to the FAV and quickly unloaded the sniper weapons. First was the formidable .50 caliber. Set on a tripod because of its bulk, it could reach out accurately to a couple thousand yards on a good day. They would leave it behind for this action. It was too much weight. The bolt-action 7.62mm Remington, a militarized hunting rifle firing match ammo, carried easily to eight hundred yards with a steady hand. Some experts could extend that to over a thousand. With a starlight scope, the netting, and the trees, less than six hundred would be the goal for a high-probability hit tonight. If they did it right, they could be hauling ass before the Russians knew what hit them.

Pickford returned in twenty minutes. He had spotted a Russian outpost six to seven hundred yards from the main camp. A newly dug machine-gun emplacement was flanked by hastily strung strings of antipersonnel mines, and sentries were posted every forty or fifty yards. He thought he saw a SA-7 missile team to the rear but wasn’t sure, and luckily, he hadn’t spotted any dogs. He hated messing with dogs.

“How about sensors?” Rawlings asked. Tiny acoustic or IR detection devices could be spread out randomly on the most logical approaches and tip the Russians off.

“No way to tell,” Pickford said.

“I didn’t detect any radar,” Rawlings offered. He had used the equivalent of a police radar detector to scan for low-power, antipersonnel radar. Nothing had showed. The place looked clean.

They sat in a tight circle behind the FAV, eyes glued on Rawlings. He drew his plan in the dirt, the penlight cupped in his blackened hand. “Snipers set up here and here,” he said, highlighting two locations outside the security perimeter. It would push the shots to maximum effective range, but they had no choice.

“If nothing blows after a couple rounds, you’re probably shooting at a dummy. Switch to another target. Fall back after thirty seconds to here,” he said, jabbing the ground. “Sergeant Pickford and I will split the difference between your positions and cover your retreat. We’ll meet back here and get out as fast as we can. Remember, our job is to get a quick, clean kill and get away.”

Rawlings pulled himself up on his knees. “Any questions?” Nothing. He pulled back his sleeve to read the luminescent dial of his watch. “Open fire at 2250. That should give you plenty of time to get in place.” The men got up and moved off, sniper weapons slung over their shoulders, M-4As across their chests. What a group, Rawlings thought. Not a hint of hesitation.

“Let’s get in position,” he said to Pickford. They both carried their carbines and hefted an AT-4 for cover fire.

Dampness had crept into the meadow, glistening drops of moisture clinging to needles and leaves, illuminated by the faint light radiating from the camp. They stepped deliberately, searching for booby traps or sensors, traveling a few yards, then crouching and scanning the tree line. Rawlings and Pickford settled into a depression that overlooked both the road and the camp. They would be no more than two hundred yards from each sniper. It was 2248 by his watch. Rawlings flicked off the safety of his M-4A and waited, staring intently at the shadowy figures under the nets. For a moment, he felt good.

Rawlings instinctively flinched as a Russian voice boomed in the distance. Before the unintelligible words disappeared into the night, a BMP mounted heavy machine gun lit off, the rapid retort shattering the calm, tracers spraying the location where the left-hand sniper was positioned. A flare popped overhead, and Rawlings could see Russian infantrymen surging forward in a wave. There were so many of them! Panic welled up in his chest.

The right-hand sniper opened up, the sharp crack signaled a well-aimed shot, but no detonation. Shit? wondered Rawlings. Did they put bulletproof panels over the missiles? They should’ve used the 50 caliber, he scolded himself.

“We got to move, Captain,” said Pickford, “or we’re goners.” The heavy gun ceased, only to be replaced by AK-47 fire and grenade explosions, the Russians overrunning the position on the left. He felt sick to his stomach. Another crack to his right brought an incredible brilliant flash that lit the night, followed by a deafening roar that rocked the entire meadow. The copper jacketed 7.62mm slug had pierced the rocket-motor casing and ignited the solid propellant, shattering the TEL into a thousand pieces. An incredible orange fireball roiled the camp, the heat palpable even where they crouched. The Russians nearby had been incinerated.

The Russians turned their attention to the Special Forces sniper on the right, unleashing a blistering volley that swept his position like a firestorm. “Captain,” Pickford insisted, grabbing his arm. “We got to go. Nothing we can do here.”

Rawlings followed Pickford, moving low back toward the FAV. So far the Russian troopers hadn’t spotted them. When they reached the hidden vehicle, Rawlings collapsed on the frame, panting. He turned and faced Pickford. The experienced sergeant had an expression that brought no solace to Rawlings. You know what you’ve got to do, it said. This was not the plan.

Rawlings struggled to catch his breath. The clatter of small arms continued in the background, the missile camp in chaos, a conflagration fueled by dry timber raging, consuming everything in its path.

“If we’re gonna hit them, it better be now,” Pickford said evenly.

“OK,” Rawlings replied. He said it without thinking what it meant.

“You drive, I’ll man the fifty.”

Rawlings crawled into the left seat and fired up the engine. Pickford climbed into the gunner’s seat and chambered a round in the .50 caliber. Rawlings shifted into first gear and eased onto the road. He was headed smack into the middle of a hundred angry Russians.

Hitting asphalt, Rawlings gunned the engine, lifting the front wheels on the ground. The FAV’s engine spun to maximum RPM, the exhaust echoing ominously down the road.

“There,” shouted Pickford excitedly. The surviving TELs had pulled away from the spreading fire, seeking safety. They were dead ahead, bare-assed in the open, along with BMPs and mobile antiaircraft batteries. Pickford began to pour continuous fire into the lead TEL, the tracers arching into the lumbering transporter. Rawlings roared down the road. The Russians were stunned by the volume of fire, but recovered quickly. The 25mm chain guns from the BMPs ripped the road with withering fire, the explosive shells blasting chunks of concrete skyward, but labored to find the range. Rawlings zigzagged with AK-47 slugs pinged off the frame. He felt one crease his right leg. He gritted his teeth and drove on.

The lead TEL suddenly disappeared in a gut-wrenching concussion that looked like a mini A-bomb detonating in their faces, consuming nearby support troops in an incredible yellowish-orange fireball. The second TEL in the train careened of the road into some trees. The surviving Russians fired even more intensely. One of the BMPs finally got calibrated. Rounds walked up the road and into the FAV, spinning it off the road where it tumbled end over end, coming to rest as a pile of useless junk.

Rawlings unbuckled himself and crawled out from under the wreck. He gagged and vomited as he turned to see Pickford literally ripped to shreds by the chain gun’s 25mm rounds. He could barely right himself against the twisted frame. His right leg was shattered, pain shot throughout his body. His head was ringing. He struggled to focus. He was alone and nearly in tears. The smoke stung his eyes; the noise assaulted his ears, shattering his sensibilities. He sat dazed. Nearby was an AT-4. He managed to grab it and crawl a few yards from the FAV.

An RPG round swished through the trees and clipped a nearby fir, detonating in a roar, hot metal fragments tearing unmercifully at the branches. The remaining SS-25 TEL gunned its engine desperately trying to escape. Small-arms fire continued to strafe Rawlings’s position. He managed to get himself upright behind a log. He was only eighty yards from the last TEL.

Shouting came from his right. They had him. A searchlight swept his position, a heavy machine gun kicked in, splintering the nearby trees. Rawlings steadied the missile tube on his shoulder, the helpless TEL filling the sight. Tears filled his eyes as he pulled the plastic trigger. The rush of the small rocket brushed his cheek, the stabilizing fins deploying, the solid propellant accelerating the deadly antiarmor warhead. As the missile flew true to the target, the Russians raked his position with fire, flinging him backward. Captain Jim Rawlings died without seeing the thunderous explosion that ignited the surrounding forest like matchsticks and consumed everything in its path.

CHAPTER 35

Thomas sat in the private quarters on board
Air Force One
. The newest model of the presidential plane made the one retired in the early nineties look like a flying Greyhound bus. He had protested the arrangements, but the president had issued a direct order. He lacked the attendant staff that normally accompanied the president. The huge plane held only eleven passengers besides the normal four-man air-force crew and two attendants.

Besides Thomas, Benton, and four other Rangers were the acting secretary of state, an interpreter, a doctor, and two military officers—one army for communications and one air-force computer expert for proposal analysis. The latter was most likely a McClain plant. The lieutenant colonel had come direct from CINCSRAT’s staff in the field, and most certainly had his orders—warn the general if Thomas was giving away the farm. The ranking civilian in the crowd, an ex-senator and now acting secretary of state, had been told to keep his mouth shut. Thomas would be running the negotiations. It was quite a cast, but Thomas only truly trusted Benton. The tough Ranger had become much more than a mere bodyguard; he was a confidant and friend. Benton possessed a simple Southern charm and educated dry wit that put the chaos and pain into perspective. Easily passed off as a dull country boy, the physically hard major possessed an unshakable faith that uplifted Thomas. He didn’t want to face the Russians without Benton watching his back.