Red Hammer 1994

Dampness had crept into the meadow, glistening drops of moisture clinging to needles and leaves, illuminated by the faint light radiating from the camp. They stepped deliberately, searching for booby traps or sensors, traveling a few yards, then crouching and scanning the tree line. Rawlings and Pickford settled into a depression that overlooked both the road and the camp. They would be no more than two hundred yards from each sniper. It was 2248 by his watch. Rawlings flicked off the safety of his M-4A and waited, staring intently at the shadowy figures under the nets. For a moment, he felt good.

Rawlings instinctively flinched as a Russian voice boomed in the distance. Before the unintelligible words disappeared into the night, a BMP mounted heavy machine gun lit off, the rapid retort shattering the calm, tracers spraying the location where the left-hand sniper was positioned. A flare popped overhead, and Rawlings could see Russian infantrymen surging forward in a wave. There were so many of them! Panic welled up in his chest.

The right-hand sniper opened up, the sharp crack signaled a well-aimed shot, but no detonation. Shit? wondered Rawlings. Did they put bulletproof panels over the missiles? They should’ve used the 50 caliber, he scolded himself.

“We got to move, Captain,” said Pickford, “or we’re goners.” The heavy gun ceased, only to be replaced by AK-47 fire and grenade explosions, the Russians overrunning the position on the left. He felt sick to his stomach. Another crack to his right brought an incredible brilliant flash that lit the night, followed by a deafening roar that rocked the entire meadow. The copper jacketed 7.62mm slug had pierced the rocket-motor casing and ignited the solid propellant, shattering the TEL into a thousand pieces. An incredible orange fireball roiled the camp, the heat palpable even where they crouched. The Russians nearby had been incinerated.

The Russians turned their attention to the Special Forces sniper on the right, unleashing a blistering volley that swept his position like a firestorm. “Captain,” Pickford insisted, grabbing his arm. “We got to go. Nothing we can do here.”

Rawlings followed Pickford, moving low back toward the FAV. So far the Russian troopers hadn’t spotted them. When they reached the hidden vehicle, Rawlings collapsed on the frame, panting. He turned and faced Pickford. The experienced sergeant had an expression that brought no solace to Rawlings. You know what you’ve got to do, it said. This was not the plan.

Rawlings struggled to catch his breath. The clatter of small arms continued in the background, the missile camp in chaos, a conflagration fueled by dry timber raging, consuming everything in its path.

“If we’re gonna hit them, it better be now,” Pickford said evenly.

“OK,” Rawlings replied. He said it without thinking what it meant.

“You drive, I’ll man the fifty.”

Rawlings crawled into the left seat and fired up the engine. Pickford climbed into the gunner’s seat and chambered a round in the .50 caliber. Rawlings shifted into first gear and eased onto the road. He was headed smack into the middle of a hundred angry Russians.

Hitting asphalt, Rawlings gunned the engine, lifting the front wheels on the ground. The FAV’s engine spun to maximum RPM, the exhaust echoing ominously down the road.

“There,” shouted Pickford excitedly. The surviving TELs had pulled away from the spreading fire, seeking safety. They were dead ahead, bare-assed in the open, along with BMPs and mobile antiaircraft batteries. Pickford began to pour continuous fire into the lead TEL, the tracers arching into the lumbering transporter. Rawlings roared down the road. The Russians were stunned by the volume of fire, but recovered quickly. The 25mm chain guns from the BMPs ripped the road with withering fire, the explosive shells blasting chunks of concrete skyward, but labored to find the range. Rawlings zigzagged with AK-47 slugs pinged off the frame. He felt one crease his right leg. He gritted his teeth and drove on.

The lead TEL suddenly disappeared in a gut-wrenching concussion that looked like a mini A-bomb detonating in their faces, consuming nearby support troops in an incredible yellowish-orange fireball. The second TEL in the train careened of the road into some trees. The surviving Russians fired even more intensely. One of the BMPs finally got calibrated. Rounds walked up the road and into the FAV, spinning it off the road where it tumbled end over end, coming to rest as a pile of useless junk.