Red Hammer 1994

Captain Jim Rawlings, United States Army Special Forces, parted the off-white ceiling-to-floor drapes. The discolored folds of fabric covered the picture window in the lobby of the visiting officer quarters at RAF Woodbridge. The base was nestled in the lush English countryside ninety miles northeast of London. Pulling the bundle of material aside, Rawlings stole a peek. An early morning rain squall had left the concrete sidewalks and blacktop roads darkened. The overcast clung to the base, mounting streaks of grayish black threatening a repeat of the previous shower. Despite the season, Rawlings endured miserable weather during his stay in England for joint training operations with the Brits. He much preferred the muggy Caribbean or the hot, dry deserts of northern Africa or the Middle East.

Rawlings leaned his lanky six-foot-two frame against the window and sighed. He was an Irishman with red hair, freckled skin, and pure blue eyes. Usually he fought persistent sunburn, but not here. An Alabama boy, born and bred, Rawlings loved the climate of his youth. The English weather was getting old.

But it wasn’t just the weather. He didn’t like change, and the army had been nothing but change. If it weren’t for the challenge of Special Forces, he would have called a military-career quits long ago. But there wasn’t much for a physical-education major to do these days.

In the distance, battle-dressed British Commandos patrolled the grounds, while mobile Rapier antiaircraft batteries set up shop near the crossed runways at the center of the base. Woodbridge was home to numerous RAF military squadrons and the NATO host to two squadrons of US Special Forces aircraft. Woodbridge had a twin, RAF Bentwaters, four miles down the road. The 21st Special Operations Squadron flew the MH-53J Pave Low helicopter, while the 67th SOS handled the HC-130P, a variant of the C-130 Hercules cargo plane. The Papas, as they were called, served as tankers for the helos. The extra gas gave them twice the operational range, permitting clandestine forays deep into central Europe. The end of the Cold War had thrown the war-planning process into complete chaos. Targets became obsolete overnight, and new target folders were taking years to develop. Creative mission planning became the watchword.

Rawlings released the folds of fabric and frowned. Even his normally fertile imagination drew a blank. He wandered to an old burgundy leather couch and crashed into the supple contours formed through years of rough duty. Rawlings was dressed in a blue-and-white rugby shirt, well-worn Levis, and neon-splashed running shoes. He pulled the sleeves to his elbows and leaned back to examine the ceiling, placing both hands behind his neck.

The Brits had been polite but firm. Under no circumstances was Rawlings to leave the building or make contact with his men across the campus in the enlisted quarters. And none of the phones worked. It was all very disconcerting.

Rawlings, a senior captain, was six months into the job as the commander of an Army Special Forces A-Team. His current orders had them conducting training with the British Special Air Service, direct action and strategic reconnaissance missions mostly. His A-Team was attached to Company B, 1st Battalion, 10th Special Forces Group based at Fort Carson, Colorado. The group’s area of expertise was the European theater, from the Arctic to the Med. All the Special Forces Groups were assigned an area of the world for specialization, but the once top-dog 10th had been racked by an identity crisis since the wall came tumbling down. He and his men had been in Great Britain for four weeks, had wrapped up training, and had packed for home when the mysterious lockup came down from on high.

As Rawlings sprawled on the couch and stared at a stack of old Jane’s Defense Weekly’s resting on a hardwood coffee table, Warrant Officer Frederico Gonzales snuck up. Gonzales was the second officer in the Team, a veteran of twenty years of special operations from one end of the globe to the other. Burly, with a wide, friendly grin, the medium-height Hispanic’s flashing black eyes, olive skin, and thick, jet-black crew cut contrasted sharply with the fair-skinned Rawlings. The assistant Team commander stood with his hands on his hips, one knee bent. His baggy cotton pants and loose sweatshirt made him look borderline fat. Gonzales’s body language strongly hinted for the Team commander to start the conversation. The warrant officer certainly wasn’t.