Red Hammer 1994

They crested a gently sloping hill, and there it was. “Lordy,” said Pickford, the first to see. Three-quarters of a mile below them, spread out in a meadow, were half-a-dozen huge camouflaged nets, small white lights outlining the shapes of TELs and trucks beneath. It was a sloppy job of concealment. Rawlings was winded by the discovery. Even without a moon, he could clearly count the vehicles. It was a full SS-25 battery—three TELs and support vehicles, including infantry BMPs. The racket rising from the meadow was a godsend. The clanging of heavy machinery echoed in accompaniment.

“Damn,” Rawlings said to himself, “there must be two hundred Russians down there.” The odds were overwhelming. The FAV driver had moved to the side of the road, parked behind a massive tree, and secured the engine. Rawlings bet the Russians had just set up camp. That meant there was a good chance security positions hadn’t been set. They could capitalize on the commotion if they moved fast.

Pickford couldn’t stop staring at the incredible sight. “My God.” He turned to Rawlings. “What now, Captain?”

“First thing is to get a satellite message off. We’ve got to get the target coordinates back to STRATCOM.” His communications man obliged, expertly fingering the coded keys. Rawlings signaled, and they huddled close. More than anything, he wanted to keep it simple—and get his men out alive.

“OK,” he whispered, “We’re gonna move in for sniper shots. There’s too many for a direct assault, and we’d need to get in close with the AT-4s to get a clean shot.” No one gave him an argument. “One round into the propellant will blow those babies sky high.” Everyone nodded in agreement.

“Sergeant Pickford,” Rawlings said in a tone that meant a shitty assignment was coming, “we need to find their picket line.”

Pickford swallowed hard. He knew it had to be him. He was the best stalker in the company. “Yes, sir,” he said as he moved off.

“Watch out for booby traps,” Rawlings added.

“No shit,” Pickford muttered under his breath, vanishing into the trees and brush.

The two staff sergeants moved to the FAV and quickly unloaded the sniper weapons. First was the formidable .50 caliber. Set on a tripod because of its bulk, it could reach out accurately to a couple thousand yards on a good day. They would leave it behind for this action. It was too much weight. The bolt-action 7.62mm Remington, a militarized hunting rifle firing match ammo, carried easily to eight hundred yards with a steady hand. Some experts could extend that to over a thousand. With a starlight scope, the netting, and the trees, less than six hundred would be the goal for a high-probability hit tonight. If they did it right, they could be hauling ass before the Russians knew what hit them.

Pickford returned in twenty minutes. He had spotted a Russian outpost six to seven hundred yards from the main camp. A newly dug machine-gun emplacement was flanked by hastily strung strings of antipersonnel mines, and sentries were posted every forty or fifty yards. He thought he saw a SA-7 missile team to the rear but wasn’t sure, and luckily, he hadn’t spotted any dogs. He hated messing with dogs.

“How about sensors?” Rawlings asked. Tiny acoustic or IR detection devices could be spread out randomly on the most logical approaches and tip the Russians off.

“No way to tell,” Pickford said.

“I didn’t detect any radar,” Rawlings offered. He had used the equivalent of a police radar detector to scan for low-power, antipersonnel radar. Nothing had showed. The place looked clean.

They sat in a tight circle behind the FAV, eyes glued on Rawlings. He drew his plan in the dirt, the penlight cupped in his blackened hand. “Snipers set up here and here,” he said, highlighting two locations outside the security perimeter. It would push the shots to maximum effective range, but they had no choice.

“If nothing blows after a couple rounds, you’re probably shooting at a dummy. Switch to another target. Fall back after thirty seconds to here,” he said, jabbing the ground. “Sergeant Pickford and I will split the difference between your positions and cover your retreat. We’ll meet back here and get out as fast as we can. Remember, our job is to get a quick, clean kill and get away.”

Rawlings pulled himself up on his knees. “Any questions?” Nothing. He pulled back his sleeve to read the luminescent dial of his watch. “Open fire at 2250. That should give you plenty of time to get in place.” The men got up and moved off, sniper weapons slung over their shoulders, M-4As across their chests. What a group, Rawlings thought. Not a hint of hesitation.

“Let’s get in position,” he said to Pickford. They both carried their carbines and hefted an AT-4 for cover fire.