Red Hammer 1994

Rawlings strained with the goggles. Eight, maybe ten, he wasn’t sure. Four or five sat around a fire, others milling about. “Count on a dozen, worst case,” he said. They all unsaddled and huddled around Rawlings. He crouched and drew a crude map in the dirt. They had about four hundred yards to cross with some cover. The maze of broken trees and branches would work in their favor.

“We’ll go in like this,” he said, drawing imaginary lines above the ground. They’d have two on one flank and one on the other. “Sergeant Pickford, we’ll need a sniper over-watch. Somewhere around here. What do you think?”

“I’d put him more down the right side, better line of fire.” One of the other soldiers was already unbundling the 7.62mm sniper rifle. With a nod from Pickford, he moved out smartly.

Rawlings thought for a minute. “If we don’t do this quietly, we’re screwed. We’ll try NODs, but see how it goes.” NODs, or night-vision goggles, were great for room clearing, or confined spaces, or anywhere you have the edge in numbers and surprise in the pitch black. In the open and outnumbered, they would need their full range of vision for the final assault. The NODs would just get them in position.

Pickford handed out silenced 9mm H&K MP-5 machine pistols. They would be for the close work. They’d use their noisy M-4As only as a last resort.

“Let’s move,” ordered Rawlings. The three Green Berets split and plunged headlong into the trees left and right. They would flank the camp and then spring the ambush. It was a straightforward routine they had practiced many times. Rawlings was in the group of two. Pickford, the most experienced, moved alone. He bobbed and weaved through the fallen trees like a cat. He easily got a fifty-yard lead on Rawlings.

The team CO moved more deliberately, using his NODs to keep an eye on the Russians as he and the other man moved forward. The figures in the camp seemed oblivious to their presence. Within minutes, they had closed to within one hundred yards. He could now see a lone sentry huddled near a tall pine. The man was closest to Pickford and would be his. Pickford waited until Rawlings had closed the gap before dispatching the guard with his knife.

Staying low, crawling where needed, Rawlings and his teammate worked their way thirty yards from the camp. Some Russians were seated, others standing; all seemed oblivious. Rawlings couldn’t believe how sloppy they were. The men pulled their NODs down around their necks and gave their eyes a moment to adjust to the light from the fire.

Rawlings took a deep breath and mentally rehearsed the last thirty yards. He signaled Pickford. The three rose together and sprinted over open ground. A Russian with his AK-47 slung and a cigarette stuck to his lower lip glanced over at the shadowy figures moving in the darkness like a broken field runner. The man’s eyes widened as he saw the nearly black silhouette suddenly on top of his position. Rawlings raised his MP-5 to the shoulder and squeezed a short burst. The gentle ripping sound from the silencer downplayed the ferocity of the steady stream of 9mm jacketed slugs that tore into the guard’s chest. Before the Russian hit the ground in a heap, all hell broke loose. Russians cursed, grabbing for weapons while the Americans fluidly moved among them, dispatching the entire complement in fifteen seconds. The Special Forces men surveyed the fringes of the camp for stragglers signaling each other as they ran among the corpses.

“Got ’em all,” announced Pickford, returning out of breath. They had done it without having to use their carbines or the sniper.

“Get the FAV up here,” said Rawlings, massaging his red hair, hyperventilating from the rush of first combat. It had been too easy. He kneeled down to examine the collar tabs on the first man he had killed. Interior Ministry troops, he groused, nothing more than militia. He stood and kicked the ground. “Shit,” he huffed. They might not even be near an SS-25 site. They should have run into Strategic Rocket Forces troopers if they were on the trail.

The FAV rumbled up, the men storing excess weapons and then climbing in. “Which way, Captain?” asked the driver.

“Stick to the north,” Rawlings said, still breathing hard.

They motored on in silence, wondering if the men they had ambushed would be missed. Was the outpost due for a radio check? They would soon know. Covering another two or three miles, the forest parted, and they ran smack into a paved road. The instantaneous switch in their collective mood was palpable. Did they dare? They would be able to cover a hell of a lot of ground.

“Northeast,” instructed Rawlings, sounding like he knew what he was talking about. They took off with all fingering their weapons. The tension became unbearable. Rawlings felt numb, tearing down a paved Russian road, lightly armed, ready to get swallowed up by some Russian infantry company over the next rise. “God,” he prayed, “get us back in the trees.”