Red Hammer 1994

McClain shook his head in disgust. He couldn’t believe the crap he was hearing from a fellow officer. “Tell your so-called president to cram it up his ass. His party cancelled the mobile ICBM programs and then gutted the bomber force. So we let those Russian bastards get away with launching a surprise attack? Is that our stated policy? You’re full of shit, Bob.” The big man glowered menacingly, seemingly on the verge of physical violence.

Thomas slowly stood to his full height and folded his arms across his chest. He empathized with McClain, but his heart and head were with the Commander-in-Chief, and his patience was wearing thin. He would give McClain one more chance.

“I’ll forget I heard that last comment.” If Thomas had expected a thank you, all he got was a fuck-off glare.

“You don’t get it, John. The country can’t take any more. Physical damage and casualties are to the point where recovery is questionable. We’ve got to ensure that we survive as a nation. That’s number one. Nothing else matters. What if the Russians let loose their entire ICBM reserve in response to stepped-up attacks? Or have a few missile boats we didn’t get and target the cities? You’re the one who says their SLBMs can’t hit shit. Well, they could hit a city. So far, our casualties are tolerable—if millions dead could ever be tolerable. No, we’ve got to press for a truce, and if need be, a return to the status quo, no matter how bad that seems.” Thomas paused. The explanation appeared to have fallen on deaf ears.

Thomas continued, “The president has ordered the carrier battle groups to pull back from the Russian mainland, and the fleet commanders are mad as hell. They were ready to launch air strikes against Russian coastal targets and had taken heavy casualties en route. But we simply can’t afford to lose what’s left of the fleet on a suicide mission. The Russians aren’t the biggest threat anymore.”

McClain cocked his head. His face scrunched up as if encountering a crazy man. “What?”

“It’s resources, John. We can’t survive more than a couple months without a massive influx of food and fuel, and no one is going to offer them up willingly. We have to have the military clout to get what we need to survive. Even the Europeans are sitting on the sidelines, waiting to see how this plays out. The world’s waiting for us to fall. Screw the Russians. They won’t make it through the winter anyway. The more strategic weapons we have left, the better off we’ll be.”

McClain sat down and didn’t say a word. He took a deep breath and exhaled loudly. A cynical gaze came Thomas’s way.

“So I’m supposed to sit on my ass and let the Russians lob an occasional nuke our way and do nothing?”

“That’s not what I said. The president wants individual release authority for any weapons launched.”

McClain pondered his choice—acceptance of a distasteful direct order or a messy removal. It wasn’t like him to turn tail and run. The seconds dragged by before he finally answered. He felt like kicking Thomas’s teeth in.

“I’ll rescind the general release order immediately. Happy? A lot of my men are going to die.”

Thomas was relieved but wondered where he stood with the hardnosed general. Time would tell. As he stood to leave an out-of-breath major barged through the entrance.

“General, we’ve just picked up SS-25s coming from Rybinsk. The alert’s been passed.” He left as fast as he entered.

McClain jumped to his feet and grabbed Thomas by the hurt arm. “Follow me, General, and you can personally witness the destruction of our forces.” McClain’s peevishness grated on Thomas. Unknown to McClain, the president’s messenger held the delegated authority to authorize limited counterstrikes. The president wasn’t a fool.

The pair hustled to the operations tent. Inside, a crisis action team had sprung into action, forecasting the Russian RV impacts. Hampered by the total loss of the ground-based radars, they manipulated satellite short-wave IR data into crude track estimates. After repeated practice in an intense pressure cooker, they had become proficient at pinning the impact circle to within twenty miles of the intended target—close enough to sound the klaxon to military units about to be incinerated.

“Over here, sir,” a colonel said to his leader. He pointed to a map of the United States covered by heavily marked-up velum. It was secured to the folding table by stacks of field manuals. His finger quickly tapped at five separate locations, a nuclear weapons storage area, an airfield, and Minuteman III silos in the Midwest.

McClain leaned forward, soaking up the report. “How in the hell did they find the storage site?” He straightened and faced Thomas, a frown on his face. “The airfield was a decoy. At least that worked.” He stood rigidly and thought for a moment.