Red Hammer 1994

The B-1B eased forward, lining up on the runway centerline. Grant had the variable geometry wings completely unswept to compensate for the full weapon load and the extremely hot day. He throttled the engines to maximum thrust, hurtling the sleek bomber down the runway. Its dull, charcoal paint scheme loomed ominously against the brilliant blue summer sky. Within seconds, they ate up over eight thousand feet of runway, the painted numbers and markers on the concrete a yellow blur. With Buck pulling back on the stick, the aircraft rotated gracefully, the landing gear gently lifting off the deck. Accelerating hard, Buck placed the bomber in a steep climb, slamming the crew back into their seats. It was a wonderful, an intoxicating high, their G-suits forcing blood away from their extremities to their trunk.

Grabowski had already programmed the autopilot and was verifying the inputs, punching the small buttons while the plane jerked upward.

“Still looks like 1555 for an ETA, Buck. If we get any headwinds it might slip ten or fifteen minutes. But the reports say the weather’s clear.”

The bomber nosed over and settled out at twenty-six thousand feet, heading on a north-westerly course toward McChord AFB near Tacoma, Washington. Grant switched to the autopilot and settled back, releasing the stick. He retrieved the vile of pills in his pocket and struggled with the plastic top.

“Feeling better?” asked Grabowski.

“Some. These pills really do work. You won’t mind if I start throwing up all over you?”

“Keep it on your own side,” Joe grinned. It was a nervous grin, not like him.

Buck, the perceptive crew commander, sensed his man’s uneasiness. He placed a hand on Grabowski’s knee. “This is going to be a piece of cake. We’ll be home in less than a week, throwing down a few beers at Benny’s.”

Grabowski grinned wider and nodded in the affirmative.

The heavily laden bomber cruised effortlessly at altitude, steadily closing in on McChord. Dark black-gray summer storm clouds loomed ominously on the horizon, signaling turbulence ahead. Grant instinctively switched to the secure voice circuit to request permission to climb to a more comfortable altitude. A quick positive reply caused him to gently pull back on the stick, and the bomber slipped to thirty-three thousand feet.

CHAPTER 14

Captain Demetri Aetmatov sat glumly in his stiffed-backed aluminum chair in the master launch control center at the sprawling Kartaly missile base. The aging purple Naugahyde covering this monstrosity had badly cracked and split, rescued by a patchwork of silver duct tape. Two hundred feet overhead, the midday temperature had reached a balmy eighty degrees while Aetmatov froze in the clammy, damp concrete tomb, shivering under a knit wool sweater and fur-lined parka. The decrepit LCC electronics hidden in the adjoining cement chamber required an ambient temperature comparable to a meat locker. He furiously rubbed his aching hands but still couldn’t stimulate enough feeling to work the small, intricate electrical switches during the interlock-mechanism maintenance procedure. His compatriot, a young lieutenant fresh from the academy, grinned like the fool he was, oblivious to the numbing cold. Aetmatov felt uneasy with this newcomer. His longtime partner, a seasoned warrant officer from Riga, had been replaced for no apparent reason only three weeks earlier. This new imbecile was making his already-difficult life even more miserable. Aetmatov smelled a rat.

The Kartaly base perimeter encircled the six expansive octagon-shaped missile complexes that housed many of the last-surviving SS-18 ICBMs. At one time there had been 308 of the monsters, but now the number had been cut to less than 150. Each grid measured over three miles across; protective spacing ensured defense against a US attack. No American warhead would be allowed to take out more than one SS-18. Bedded down in super-hardened silos, each cluster of nine missiles carried ninety super-accurate 600-kiloton reentry vehicles, accompanied by a collection of decoys and chaff to foil American sensors and ABM defenses. Despite the remarkable technology encased within the aluminum missile skins, the launch crews labored in deplorable conditions. They were condemned to endless days buried deep beneath the earth within six-foot-thick steel-reinforced walls that dripped with condensation and nurtured a variety of colorful molds. The master LCC, which linked all three wings in a redundant web of landline communications, was somewhat larger, but the extra space was reserved for rack upon rack of lead-acid batteries, which provided critical emergency power.

“The interlocks check out perfectly, Captain.”

Aetmatov’s only reply was a glare.

“Shall we move to the next procedure?” the young man grinned.

Aetmatov stood and arched his back. “Let’s take a break. We have all night to complete the maintenance. I need some hot tea.” What he really needed was a few shots of vodka.