Red Hammer 1994

“I haven’t heard a thing,” is all he could say in his soft southern drawl. Gonzales had expected more and showed it with a sour face. Rawlings frowned. He hadn’t quite connected yet with his second in command, the result—he thought—of the army’s ingrained habit of keeping a good percentage of each Special Forces team together for what seemed an interminable period by conventional military standards. Operational efficiency was the justification; it was necessary for the Special Forces where personal relationships and teamwork were paramount. But the downside was the proclivity to exclude a new member until the man had earned his stripes. It was even worse for the Team commander. Most of his men had been together for over five years. The time, with the Brits, had helped. Rawlings had slipped into a comfortable leadership role. The men were beginning to warm to him.

“Something big, man,” Gonzales answered, his voice fingerprinting him as a Latino from a Texas border town. “Got to be.” The Brits had trouble understanding his inflected English, much to his annoyance. Gonzales had found a home in the army at the tender age of seventeen and never seriously considered anything else. A high-school dropout, he was now considered a hero in a town that numbered under one thousand and braved an unemployment rate of thirty percent.

Rawlings rose to place the exchange on an even footing. He ran his fingers through his short-cropped hair, stumbling for the appropriate words. “I’m gonna try to find out what’s going on. Maybe the guys over at the hangars know something.” Rawlings was chewing on a stubby thumbnail as he spoke. Gonzales wasn’t impressed. His expression judged it as patently stupid. Man, those guys have guns out there, and they’re jumpy as hell, he seemed to say.

A push on the swinging doors at the entrance to the lobby brought the young British soldier behind the front desk to attention.

Both men turned to watch a uniformed British SAS major step smartly forward. It was Major Banks, the American Special Forces liaison officer from the SAS battalion staff. He had been an amiable host, popular with the enlisted men, even graciously playing tour guide. Banks moved gracefully and mumbled a curt greeting with a face as lifeless as stone. Rawlings and Gonzales parted and bracketed the major.

“You’re to gather your gear,” he said coldly. “Be prepared to leave in ten minutes. You’ll be taken to a hangar for staging. First flight available, you’ll be off.”

Rawlings folded his arms. “Off where? What the hell is going on, Major?” he said with a touch of anger.

“’Fraid I can’t provide the details, gentlemen.” Perspiration gathered at his temples. It was uncharacteristic of the good major and signaled duress.

“That’s it?” Rawlings bellowed.

“You’ll be briefed later, gentlemen. Ten minutes.” Banks spun and marched off, leaving Rawlings and Gonzales bewildered.

The British military truck pulled up to the hardened aircraft shelter and braked. The camouflaged concrete half cylinder had steel blast doors big enough for a fighter-bomber at one end and backed into a mound of grass-covered dirt at the other. The structure was the typical NATO model designed to withstand direct hits from thousand-pound bombs.

Rawlings, now in his battle dress utilities, jumped to the ground and surveyed the hangar apron. The usual contingent of US Air Force personnel busily repairing aircraft were missing, replaced by still more British guards. A finger, owned by a sergeant, pointed him in the required direction. Rawlings and Gonzales grabbed their gear and waddled inside, duffels on each shoulder. Banks followed at a safe distance, sporting his own personal guards, armed, of course.

“Captain Rawlings,” shouted a tall, black man, sitting on his duffel bag by the side entrance. He rose and jogged over in loping strides. First Sergeant Anthony Pickford was the senior enlisted man in the team. His smooth ebony skin reflected the dim light thrown out by the fluorescents, the hangar resembling a poorly lit cave. Inside, the steel-reinforced enclosure contained only one Pave Low helo, a big, ugly charcoal thing pushed to the rear. The other Team members formed around their officers and the first sergeant, their faces capturing a wide range of feelings.

“We heard the States were attacked by the Russians,” one chimed in excitedly.

“Nukes,” added another.

“No shit?” The chatter rose till Rawlings couldn’t think. His mouth dropped. Gonzales winced, making eye contact with one of the staff sergeants. Banks stayed back and feigned ignorance, wagering that an explosion was a distinct possibility.

Rawlings’s world came crashing down around his ankles. He turned on Banks. “What the fuck is going on?” The SAS men with Banks fingered their weapons. Rawlings’s A-Team moved to flank their captors, no set plan in mind—an instinctive but stupid move, given the circumstances.