Red Hammer 1994

Rawlings took a final bite of the half-eaten MRE and flung the remainder into the bushes. Maybe the Russian squirrels can stomach that shit, he groused. He glanced back at the supply cache. They had food and water for a week and plenty of ammo. And later? The land was most likely stripped bare. The only hope for supplies would be pillaging the Russian soldiers they could kill while on the run. Stop the daydreaming and get moving, he admonished himself, and sort out a plan for the night’s patrol.

“All set, Captain,” said Sergeant Pickford. Rawlings was seated on the hard dirt taking one last look at the grid map with a penlight. A few minutes before 7:00 p.m., the fading Russian twilight was transformed into total blackness near the forest floor. There’d be no moon tonight, a mixed blessing. He ran his finger over the intended route, memorizing the significant landmarks. Once underway, there wouldn’t be time to take another look. Bounding along over the rutted dirt trails or going cross-country at thirty to forty miles per hour, he’d be lucky to think straight.

The two FAVs would transit five or six miles in single file then split at what looked like a road junction. Staying in a rough line abreast, they would continue north, never straying more than two or three miles from each other, staying in reasonable support range if trouble struck. If either FAV got a bite, they would signal via an encrypted satellite link to provide a heads-up to the other crew. Problem was, even with a spot beam, the US satellite downlink transmission could be detected by the Russians with a wide-band receiver. They would have to take their chances. If no targets were found, they would link up at 0330 and backtrack to camp. The next cycle of darkness, they would repeat the process on a different azimuth. If they had two nights of no contact, Rawlings would consider packing up and moving the camp. Then it would most likely be day and night patrols. Time would be running out. With multiple A-teams combing the vast countryside, it would only be a matter of time before the Russians caught on and flooded the area with troops, helicopters, and fighter jets.

Rawlings clicked off the tiny strobe and stood, gathering his M-4A carbine in the process. He checked his watch then walked over to Gonzales’s FAV. Looking like the VW dune buggies that plied the trails of Baja, California, the FAV sported a custom tubular frame with a smattering of Kevlar panels for protection. The four-cylinder engine had decent power and specially designed manifolds and mufflers to reduce exhaust noise. Tires were standard off-road types.

The FAV’s two distinctive features were the gunner’s swivel seat, resting on a caged platform behind the driver’s and navigator’s heads, and the two meshed baskets on either side, like those attached to helicopters for transporting the injured. The gunner had a short-barreled .50 caliber machine gun aimed forward, but by releasing a pin, it could pivot and man a rear-mounted M-60 7.62mm machine gun. AT-4 anti-armor missiles were strapped to the frame within easy reach. The navigator had a mount for an additional M-60. Tonight both baskets were full—the port with a fourth man cradling an extra AT-4, and the starboard with extra gas, additional small arms and ammo, and sniper weapons, both 7.62mm and .50 caliber, for taking out targets at long range.

Rawlings turned to the troopers left behind. “If y’all get compromised, get the hell out. Try and make it to the rendezvous.”

Gonzales turned his head toward Rawlings. He was harnessed in and wore a black motorcycle helmet with the night-vision goggles protruding three inches from each eyeball, just like the driver. The gunner and the fourth man settled for clear-lensed motorcycle goggles, needing the wider field of vision to accurately fire their weapons and provide a wide-area search capability underway. Gonzales hated the night-vision monstrosities. It was like staring down a wrapping-paper tube. But testing had shown them indispensable for driving the FAVs at high speed at night. Each man had a small microphone hanging in front of his lips for close-range communications.

“We’re ready, Captain,” he said formally yet calmly. Gonzales always did that before an evolution, adopting a serious tone, no matter how insignificant the task. Rawlings swore Gonzales had ice water in his veins. Personally, he was scared shitless.

“You lead to the road junction.”

Gonzales nodded. “It ain’t so bad, Captain. If they’re out there, we’re gonna nail them assholes.” The same words from anyone else would have sounded boastful. From the warrant they were reassuring. Gonzales signaled his driver to start the engine.