Red Hammer 1994

“No, tactical aircraft. FB-111s or F-15Es with conventional ordnance. The teams could lase the target. If not, the aircraft could use cluster bombs based on GPS coordinates and carpet the area.” Thomas was getting on shaky ground. It would only work for southern targets, not in the northern heart of Russia where the preponderance of SS-25s roamed.

“You’ve got to be kidding. It would never work,” McClain snorted. “We have to use nuclear weapons, no question.” The nods around the table confirmed that the others felt the same way.

“I don’t agree,” Thomas countered. “We’ve got to wean ourselves from a knee-jerk use of nukes at every turn. Conventional weapons are the only feasible choice while we’re negotiating. We’ve got to de-escalate.”

“You’ve got a hard sell on that one,” interjected Hargesty. “If we’re lucky enough to find one of the bastards, we’ve got to be sure we get him. We can’t risk missing.” Hargesty stopped midthought and reconsidered. His frown indicated a tussle underway in his brain. “But we shouldn’t write off the idea completely.”

McClain didn’t like what he saw coming. “Fine, but where do we get the planes?”

“We’ve got a few aircraft left in Turkey. They can cover a thousand-mile arc with refueling,” answered Hargesty

“There are not going to be any tankers. The survivors are all reserved for the bombers.”

“Then it’s a one-way mission, and the aircrew comes out with the team or by themselves or ditch somewhere. They don’t launch until we have a positive ID on targets.”

McClain rolled his eyes. The stunned army general sat mumbling. But the decision was Hargesty’s. “It’s a long shot, but we’ve got try. John, coordinate the ops with SOCLANT and SOCEUR. I want forces in country within twenty-four hours.” Reluctant nods greeted the last comment. The plan smacked of a terrible waste of good aircraft and superbly trained men.

“Anything else?” Hargesty turned to an aide. “Do you have the marked-up map of CENTCOM?”

Thomas slumped and breathed easy. For the moment, he had held off the dogs. He prayed the Army Special Forces would make a dent in the Russian mobile ICBM inventory and save the president from even worse decisions.

CHAPTER 32

Rawlings paced a well-worn path around dim, dank hanger. His mood was getting darker by the hour. They had sat and slept on the cold, hard concrete for nearly seventy-two hours. Food service was provided like clockwork. Their gear was delivered the first night, minus weapons. The amenities were appreciated, but the fact remained that they were prisoners.

Enough bad news had filtered through the steel doors from sympathetic guards to turn their stomachs. Major Banks had punctually called every few hours at first, less as time wore on. While sympathetic, Banks and the other Brits wouldn’t mind if the Americans packed up and left their island for good. With each passing hour, the British fear and consternation mushroomed, the London leadership paralyzed by the very real threat of being dragged into a war they’d just as soon shun. Being hosts to units of America’s most-potent surviving military forces exacerbated the hand-wringing at Whitehall and Ten Downing. The worst rumor had the Americans being handed over to Russians to buy peace. Rawlings doubted the British would sink so low. The rest of NATO maybe, but not the British, even in a weak moment.

The idle chatter common to comrades in cramped quarters had ceased after the first chaotic hours, each man withdrawing into an emotional cocoon. The current mood was somber. Not knowing was the worst part. For Rawlings, being a bachelor brought some relief, but he was worried sick about his parents and two sisters at home in Birmingham, Alabama. He prayed they were unhurt. Rawlings shook his head. Nuclear war, it sounded crazy, unbelievable, yet that’s what they were being told.

“We got visitors, Captain,” one of the sergeants said, long before noon chow was due. Ears perked and heads swung toward the entrance. It wasn’t the food detail, but an assemblage of Special Air Service brass and what looked like an American contingent. Rawlings jumped to his feet, his men forming a huddle to his rear. A hard-looking lieutenant colonel spotted him and stepped his way.

The man was having trouble transitioning from the bright sunlight to the hanger and its poor lighting.

“Captain Rawlings?”

“Yes sir.” Rawlings gazed chest level and saw the name Henson on the man’s camouflage utilities. He had heard it before. A battalion commander in the 7th Group out of Bragg, he recalled. In a tight-knit community such as Special Forces, officers tended to know all the higher-ups by first-hand experience or word of mouth. The colonel had a reputation as a hard charger.

The Special Forces colonel placed his hands on his hips and surveyed the group. His perfectly starched cap was perched high on a shaved head, his middle-aged frame showed not the faintest traces of leisure or lack of exercise. The colonel turned to Banks.