Red Hammer 1994

Aetmatov stepped through the metal hatchway to the crew’s quarters, ducking instinctively from numerous runins with the sharp steel rim inches from his head. Two sagging bunks occupied one corner while a small electric burner sat on a nearby counter. The cheap hot plate provided only occasional snacks—hot meals were delivered via a messenger thrice daily. Aetmatov turned on the electricity and set a small pot containing tea atop the coils. He sat down at the small metal table and picked up an old copy of Russian Military News, leafing through the worn pages, but his mind was elsewhere.

Unknown to his cellmate, Aetmatov had received a specially coded message ordering a heightened alert status two hours earlier. This unusual event had followed four weeks of frequent, unscheduled drills. The entire chain of command was extremely edgy.

The spitting of boiling tea splattering on the burner broke his train of thought. He retrieved the brew and poured it into a stained mug. Resting, he slipped back into the destructive thought pattern churning inside his skull. What would he do if the real message came through? The message to launch? If it did, he was sure it would be because Mother Russia was under a crippling nuclear attack. The Americans might publicly dismiss talk about a surprise nuclear attack as fantasy, but the Russians were far more practical. The distinct possibility of a nuclear ambush loomed over all their military planning. It was ingrained in their mind-set, nurtured by the treachery of past enemies who had talked peace while planning war. No nation in modern history had suffered more at the hands of ruthless invaders. Mobile ICBMs, the Moscow ABM system, the extensive underground command and control bunker network, and costly civil defense initiatives were all designed and implemented at huge expense to ensure that the Russian people would prevail in any nuclear exchange with the Americans. That was in the 70s and 80s, but then, what had really changed? Their history forced them to contemplate the unthinkable. Yes, he would do his duty. Aetmatov was sure of that.

On the outskirts of Moscow, an innocuous-looking freight train rested on a spur next to a dilapidated warehouse. Located one hundred meters from the main station, only a flimsy chain-link fence prevented access. Two ordinary-looking guards paraded in front of a small gate, casually swapping stories. The hidden train’s unusual configuration escaped notice by all but the professionally trained eye—two powerful locomotives attached to only four worn freight cars. Three heavy umbilical cables exited the last car, looking like black spaghetti on the ground, and were routed into a dimly lit warehouse. The muffled hum of a diesel generator flowed from the building and drifted across the rail yard, carried by the light summer breeze that rustled the leaves in the surrounding forest.

At two minutes after eleven at night, a convoy swept around the corner, led by a two-and-a-half-ton military truck carrying crack Interior Ministry troops in full battle gear. They hastily dismounted and surrounded the fenced compound, weapons at the ready, eyes scanning the tree line. A minute later, through the late-night mist came a lone black limousine bearing the flag of the president of the Russian Republic. It sped through the gate and pulled up next to the train. A senior officer emerged from the shadows and snapped to attention.

First out was the director of the SVR, dressed in a full-length coat. He was followed by Marshal Ryzhkov, commander in chief of the Strategic Rocket Forces. The marshal was in full dress uniform, his rows of medals reflecting the faint moonlight upward to his tight, angular face. After an inordinate amount of time, Nikolai Laptev emerged from the car, aided by an army colonel. He stood for a long moment, taking in the sights, raising his head slightly, and sniffing the pleasant summer air. The trio had been rushed from city’s heart via the secret high-speed underground rail line that ran from the Kremlin to all four quadrants of the compass. It had deposited a handful of key government officials at numerous hardened command bunkers, which populated the line, but had saved this select group of Defense Council members for the final destination. The limo had transported the group the last few miles.