Red Hammer 1994

Rawlings unbuckled himself and crawled out from under the wreck. He gagged and vomited as he turned to see Pickford literally ripped to shreds by the chain gun’s 25mm rounds. He could barely right himself against the twisted frame. His right leg was shattered, pain shot throughout his body. His head was ringing. He struggled to focus. He was alone and nearly in tears. The smoke stung his eyes; the noise assaulted his ears, shattering his sensibilities. He sat dazed. Nearby was an AT-4. He managed to grab it and crawl a few yards from the FAV.

An RPG round swished through the trees and clipped a nearby fir, detonating in a roar, hot metal fragments tearing unmercifully at the branches. The remaining SS-25 TEL gunned its engine desperately trying to escape. Small-arms fire continued to strafe Rawlings’s position. He managed to get himself upright behind a log. He was only eighty yards from the last TEL.

Shouting came from his right. They had him. A searchlight swept his position, a heavy machine gun kicked in, splintering the nearby trees. Rawlings steadied the missile tube on his shoulder, the helpless TEL filling the sight. Tears filled his eyes as he pulled the plastic trigger. The rush of the small rocket brushed his cheek, the stabilizing fins deploying, the solid propellant accelerating the deadly antiarmor warhead. As the missile flew true to the target, the Russians raked his position with fire, flinging him backward. Captain Jim Rawlings died without seeing the thunderous explosion that ignited the surrounding forest like matchsticks and consumed everything in its path.

CHAPTER 35

Thomas sat in the private quarters on board Air Force One. The newest model of the presidential plane made the one retired in the early nineties look like a flying Greyhound bus. He had protested the arrangements, but the president had issued a direct order. He lacked the attendant staff that normally accompanied the president. The huge plane held only eleven passengers besides the normal four-man air-force crew and two attendants.

Besides Thomas, Benton, and four other Rangers were the acting secretary of state, an interpreter, a doctor, and two military officers—one army for communications and one air-force computer expert for proposal analysis. The latter was most likely a McClain plant. The lieutenant colonel had come direct from CINCSRAT’s staff in the field, and most certainly had his orders—warn the general if Thomas was giving away the farm. The ranking civilian in the crowd, an ex-senator and now acting secretary of state, had been told to keep his mouth shut. Thomas would be running the negotiations. It was quite a cast, but Thomas only truly trusted Benton. The tough Ranger had become much more than a mere bodyguard; he was a confidant and friend. Benton possessed a simple Southern charm and educated dry wit that put the chaos and pain into perspective. Easily passed off as a dull country boy, the physically hard major possessed an unshakable faith that uplifted Thomas. He didn’t want to face the Russians without Benton watching his back.

Rumor had a US arms-control contingent from Geneva on the way to lend assistance if the bartering became bogged in technical detail. They would remain in the background, locked in some second-class tourist hotel until needed. Everyone had their spin, what to discuss, how to act, including the tone of voice to convey just that special message. Thomas had silently suffered the nonsense. No one would face the hard truth that the chances of success were slim to none. No one except the president. The man had wagered the house limit on this one. His inner circle would be apoplectic if they knew the latitude Thomas had been given.

The send-off had been telling. The president’s face exhibited depths of despair that said it all. It reminded Thomas of late Civil War pictures of a war-weary Abraham Lincoln. His incredibly sad, hollow eyes and the facial lines that seemed to go on forever hinted at a tragic story that only the owner could fathom.

Thomas sat in a pale peach overstuffed chair, slumped, with his legs spread apart, in his shorts, enjoying a cold soft drink. An earlier wander by the full-length mirror had shown a lean body that had dropped over a pound a day, revealing muscles that had lain unseen from years of slothful desk duty. Intrigued, he had stepped closer. His freshly cut hair seemed suddenly to have encountered a snow flurry, the specks of white and gray having multiplied tenfold.

He couldn’t imagine a more bizarre backdrop for what were surely his final days in uniform and in the service of his country. He loved that country more than his own life. It was something he was never fully able to describe. The passion had always caught in his throat. The patriotic stirrings had always been there on national holidays or when visiting battlefields that recalled unimaginable bravery and courage. But now it became personal. His country was dying.