Red Hammer 1994

“This will do for the Talon,” he remarked. “And the FAV’s will be here within the hour. Any problems on your end?” Banks shook his head in the negative. The colonel swiveled and locked on Rawlings.

“A word in private, Captain?” Rawlings nodded.

“I’d like Warrant Officer Gonzales and First Sergeant Pickford present, sir.”

Henson chewed on the request. “Fine,” he shrugged.

The others in Rawlings’s team wandered off without prompting. The British obediently headed for the door. The colonel waited until all were removed from earshot before beginning.

“Colonel Henson from SOCEUR, Captain. And this is Major Schultz from EUCOM intel and Major Alton from 39th,” he said. SOCEUR was the Special Operations Command in the European theater, the SPECOPS component for the commander in chief, European Command, while the 39th referred to the 39th Special Operations Wing based at Rhein-Main Air Base in Germany, the parent organization for all special-operations aircraft in Europe.

“You’ve got a mission, Captain, and precious little time to prepare.”

Rawlings’s eyes narrowed. “What’s going on, sir? Have we been attacked? With nukes? Are we at war?”

Henson scowled. “The answer to all is yes, but that’s all I’m authorized to say.” His frown was intended to discourage further queries.

“I think you owe us more than that, sir,” said Gonzales evenly. “We’ve been sitting on our asses for nearly three days, worrying about our families. We need to know the score.” The tough Hispanic locked his eyes on the colonel.

Henson’s face softened somewhat. “I sympathize, but no one knows what the hell is going on. It’s total chaos across the board. All I know is that you’ve got a mission, and the clock is running. The Brits will let us stage from here, but they might get a change of heart. We’ve got to move fast.”

Rawlings, Gonzales, and Pickford passed around a troubled gaze. “Is there fighting on the continent?” Rawlings pressed.

This time Henson didn’t respond, ignoring the red-haired captain. His cold stare categorized the question as irrelevant. Rawlings suppressed the urge to demand an answer. Gonzales had managed all they would probably get. Events were moving way too fast for all of them.

“You’re going after Russian mobile ICBMs,” Henson stated flatly. “You’ll infil by Talon, patrol with FAVs and take out any mobiles you find. Simple and straightforward.”

Jaws dropped in unison. Then bewildered looks were exchanged. Suicide mission, thought Rawlings to himself. He remembered the poetry lines from a college course, “ours in not to reason why, ours is but to do and die,” or something like that. Rawlings felt himself in a dream. Had everyone gone mad?

Gonzales stood passively, his olive-skinned face a study in contrast. He had seen combat on more than one occasion. Protests were pointless, and he knew it. He had already begun mentally preparing, gearing up his body and mind for the task ahead. Pickford felt hung out to dry. “Man, we’re not ready,” he whispered to himself. Gonzales picked it up and glanced at the sergeant.

“It don’t matter,” he replied softly. “We’ll make-do.” The questions started to flow from the Hispanic warrant. “You said FAVs, Colonel? Why not HUMVEEs?”

“The FAVs will give you more mobility. You need to go cross-country, into the forests. You don’t get much protection, but that’s the trade-off.” The FAV, or fast attack vehicle, was a militarized dune buggy with ample firepower and fantastic mobility. Its drawbacks were no armor and not enough range. Great for reconnaissance, it wasn’t designed for offensive operations.

“We don’t have much experience with them, sir. A couple guys worked with them in North Africa a few years back; that’s it.”

“We could get you experienced drivers from another Team, but that would mean giving up slots for your men,” Henson said.

Gonzales shook his head as if to say hell no. “I’d rather take my chances with our guys.” Rawlings agreed, beginning to settle back to earth.

“How soon?” asked Rawlings.

“Ten hours at the most. The aircraft will be here in four. You’ll get an MC-130E from the 7th Special Operations Squadron. The Germans have looked the other way while we’ve slipped a few out.”

Rawlings flushed the stale air from his lungs. He fiddled with the edge of his cap to relieve the tension. “No time for planning,” he said. “Everything goes out the window, everything.” He stood back to his full height; resigned to an uncertain fate at the hands of the man from SOCEUR. “You got anything, sir, an infil plan?”

“Major Schultz and Major Alton will assist you. They’ve got the details.” The two acknowledged the statement with nods.

“How about our weapons?” Gonzales asked.

“Within the hour,” answered the colonel. He cut off further questions with a wave of his hand. “You better get moving,” he suggested.

No shit, thought Rawlings.