Red Hammer 1994

“Fine, let’s go to my tent.” The two retraced McClain’s path to his nearby quarters. The encampment seemed organized and efficient, almost giving a sense of business as usual. Most likely the constant drilling and command-post exercises, Thomas surmised. The old Strategic Air Command had lived with the threat of nuclear war every single day since its inception, and the assigned air-force officers discussed nuclear warfare as casually as the next day’s weather. It had always struck him as callous, but he had been a fighter pilot critiquing the hardworking men and women who did the strategic grunt work. Developing the SIOP wasn’t glamorous, not by a long shot. It was a sobering, back-breaking job that produced one of the most tightly controlled and highly classified documents in the military. Paranoia about security and the arcane subject matter created a cult-like aura at STRATCOM.

Thomas sprawled backward across a metal folding chair, while McClain claimed the edge of his cot. He offered Thomas an ice-cold Coke from a small cooler by his feet. McClain took a second and popped the top.

“Thanks,” said Thomas.

“I couldn’t live without this stuff,” McClain mumbled, taking a long, slow swallow. “I’m trying to cut down on the cigarettes.” He chuckled at the ridiculous health concern.

Quickly growing serious, McClain held his can in both hands and looked Thomas square in the eye. CINCSTRAT’s irritation clearly showed; he was ready for a well-practiced speech.

“The new president thinks I’m out of control, right? Some warmonger seeking to destroy all life on the planet?” McClain rose and started stalking the cramped tent. His large frame loomed menacingly, while his voice took on a sharp edge.

“We lost over one third of the bombers and tankers on the ground. The rest have been chewed up worse than we expected. Hardly any of the B-1s have reported in; they got hit the hardest. We estimate losses at well over sixty percent. The B-2s fared better, but with only fifteen operational, I can’t do much.” McClain stopped and stared out the tent flap, tightly gripping the half-empty can.

“Preliminary results have been sketchy, but we hammered ’em, Bob, despite our losses. I don’t have all the data, but I can feel it.” McClain paused and drained the can.

“We even picked up some of the mobiles. Lacrosse came through like a champ. Their air defenses are in a shambles. We can’t let up, not now. They’ve still got a shitload of SS-24s and 25s waiting to strike any worthwhile target that raises its head. We can’t handle this tat-for-tat shit forever.” Thomas braced himself for the expected finale.

“I want to turn around the surviving bombers and hit ’em again, hard. Go for broke.” McClain glared at Thomas. He had many close personal friends among those sacrificed to breach the Russians’ formidable air defenses. His voice rose in intensity.

“But that means I need help from the Tridents to blast the last air defenses and hammer the surviving command and control sites. We’ve generated quite a target list for the navy boys. We’ve even found a couple of nuclear storage sites. All I need is the go-ahead.”

McClain thrust his hands on his hips, staring down at the man who could grant him his wish. “We’ve got to get the rest of those mobile missiles. That’s all they’ve got left. The navy has cleaned up most of their missile boats, while NORAD’s interceptors slaughtered their Bears and Blackjacks over the pole. If we can finish the job by destroying the majority of the mobiles, the Russians are finished. We’ll have them by the balls.”

Thomas silently conceded that McClain’s blunt assessment was on the mark. Military victory was within their grasp. But what did that mean? He didn’t know. And he had his orders. He waited a few seconds for the intensity to drain from McClain’s face. He set his can on the ground then placed both forearms on the chair back.

“The president wants you to hold back,” he said firmly. “No more strikes without his expressed approval. Hargesty concurs. And so do I.”

McClain’s explosion wasn’t long in coming. “That’s bullshit, Bob, and you know it!” McClain shouted. He flung his empty Coke can across the tent. His face boiled as fatigue and frustration erupted through a veneer of self-control.

“When are those stupid bastards going to learn? You don’t turn the SIOP on and off like a water faucet. It can’t be used like some god-damn peacetime saber-rattling exercise. We’ve got to let this play out; otherwise my surviving forces will get picked-off like pigeons. I’m asking for another twenty-four hours then I’ll back off. Twenty-four hours is all I need.”

Thomas ignored the diatribe. He folded his hands and locked on McClain’s face. He waited a few moments before answering. When he did, it was slow and deliberate.

“The president’s adamant. No more attacks, period. Your forces are to pull back to staging areas and await orders.”