Red Hammer 1994

The sun was dipping low on the horizon, shafts of crimson and orange bathing the open hanger, the mustard-colored interior lights having yet to take effect. The massive steel doors had been rolled back moments earlier, revealing the lone MC-130E, dark green and gray, poised for the long mission ahead. The spec-ops bird appeared menacing as the ground crew towed the Combat Talon into the twilight. The FAVs were loaded nose to butt, three of them, and the fourth pallet, bearing weapons and such, was perched near the aircraft’s rear ramp. Rawlings and his men stood to the side, burdened with full battle dress and parachutes, faces blackened under protective jump helmets, weapons slung, silent and contemplative. In the spreading darkness, they appeared as apparitions, blending into the surroundings—secretive men on a hopeless mission.

In the cockpit, the air force crew concluded their preflight. Rawlings surveyed his team. He fought to focus on the mission, pushing thoughts of home and family out of his mind. The last few hours had been controlled chaos, but had relieved the tension.

The planning had been superficial, with a concept of operations that resembled Swiss cheese. Unpredictable fallout, tens of thousands of Russian regular and militia troops roaming the countryside, and battalion-level forces guarding the mobile missile camps were just some of the obstacles the team would face. Their target was an area one hundred miles north of Moscow, a place called Konakovo. The mobiles were expected to be ten to twenty clicks to the north of there. They’d be covering 1350 nautical miles on the infiltration. It would be a total ballbuster. Four and half hours at 290 to 300 knots.

If Rawlings thought they had it tough, he felt for the air-crews. They were on one-way missions. The best they could hope for was to limp into Eastern Europe then ditch. The worst was ending up on the ground in Russian territory.

A voice from the tarmac broke Rawlings’s train of thought. “Three minutes, Captain.” His men instinctively began pairing up and checking their gear. They shuffled closer to the rear of the MC-130E. The overwhelming reality began to press home. Rawlings gazed skyward at the plane’s prominent vertical tail that seemed to never end.

The special-operations aircraft had arrived on schedule from the 39th’s base in Germany. The Combat Talon II was an extremely capable aircraft, modified from the ground up for special operations. It featured a full array of avionics to fool enemy sensors, and, if necessary, defeat them with a flood of bogus electronic emissions. The interior lighting supported night-vision goggle operations—a must for clandestine insertion, but brutal on pilots flying at treetop altitudes. A long refueling probe graced the nose. In the rear, a modified cargo ramp permitted low-level delivery for heavy equipment. The key piece of avionics was terrain-following/ terrain-avoidance radar supported by dual altimeters and dual inertial navigation systems. It gave the Talon its renowned insertion capability in any weather and over any terrain. The plane’s capacity was formidable—fifty-three passengers or twenty-six jumpers, 35,000 lbs of cargo

“Load up.” Rawlings’s stomach began to churn. He patted each soldier on the back as they passed in single file.

Gonzales was last in the line and paused by the boss. “We’re gonna make it, Captain. No sweat.”

Rawlings forced a smile. Without Gonzales, he’d be lost. The stocky Hispanic jogged up the ramp and took his seat, his eyes focused intently on the bulkhead. The others on the Team strapped themselves in, no one saying a word. Rawlings stood alone at the base of the ramp. He glanced to his right and saw Henson in the fading light. The colonel had just seen another Team off, a stateside A-Team that had rendezvoused with a similarly equipped Talon two hangers away. He covered the tarmac in hurried strides. Rawlings stiffened and saluted. The colonel’s face showed the fatigue from three days straight on his feet.

“Good hunting, Captain. You know the score.” He hesitated for a moment, searching for the right words. “It’s critical we knock out those mobiles. No sense holding back or playing it too cautious, if you know what I mean.”

Rawlings knew exactly what he meant. Day patrols instead of waiting for darkness, taking on superior forces if necessary, foregoing laser designation for the fighters if they could get a direct kill. It had all been clearly spelled out for them.

“I understand, sir.” That was all he could say. He entered the aluminum cavern and counted heads, making sure his boys were all there. They sat passively, weapons resting on their laps. There were twelve in all, his men, his Team.