Red Hammer 1994

Harcourt knelt beside one of the corpses, poking at the body’s blood-soaked uniform. He rolled him on his back and began to unbutton his shirt. “See here, wrong color T-shirt. Pretty good imitation though. They’ve even got the right weapons, everything. The bastard’s English was damned good. It’s tough as hell to shoot someone wearing the same uniform. Makes you question for just a moment. That’s all they need.”

Thomas could barely believe what he saw. “Spetsnaz?” he asked incredulously. He struggled to kneel down next to the dead soldier. The Russian was young and strong, with a blond crew cut and deep blue eyes that stared at the ceiling.

“That’s right, sir. Twenty or so. They had us pegged. Even knew which trailers were which. Took ’em a while to figure out the tents. I figured we wouldn’t have to worry about them for a least a day or two.”

Thomas stared at the Russian’s cold face. He had found his target.

“Where did they come from; how many?” Thomas asked.

“Hard to tell.”

Thomas remembered a secret report that mentioned an unbelievable number of two to three thousand in such a scenario. He had thought it nonsense.

“We’re probably targeted,” Thomas muttered to himself.

“What was that, sir?”

“They know our position. We could be hit by an ICBM warhead in thirty minutes.”

“I don’t think so, sir. These guys aren’t fools. They would have reconned the area, designated the target, stood off. These guys wanted a positive kill. They knew their target. Thank God the speaker hasn’t arrived yet. But we aren’t taking chances. You’re getting out of here, sir.”

“What about the speaker?” Thomas suddenly remembered.

“Detoured. Same place we’re gonna fly you in a few minutes.”

Thomas noticed soldiers removing Alexander’s limp body from the human wreckage. He shuffled over as they placed him in an olive-green body bag. The secretary had absorbed a burst of machine-gun fire in the chest. Thomas knelt awkwardly on both knees and gently touched Alexander’s already cold forehead. The senseless killing had suddenly become very personal.

Harcourt’s firm hand touched his shoulder. “We’ve got to get you out of here, General Thomas. A helo’s leaving in five minutes.”

CHAPTER 26

“Nothing yet? Are you sure?” Buck’s sharp tone betrayed mounting impatience. He and his men rushed headlong toward the Russian mainland blind and deaf. In the backseat, Jefferson shook his head in disbelief as he tweaked his little black knobs for the umpteenth time. His lungs pulled hard on the oxygen hose attached to his mask, not able to suck in enough of the metallic-tasting air. Sweat dribbled down his cheeks under his glazed helmet shield.

“Man, I’ve checked the equipment over and over. I can’t figure this out. Where the hell are those guys?”

The heavy-laden B-1B bomber rocketed two hundred feet over the choppy waves of the Kara Sea, buffeted by winds that rose in intensity. Buckets of salt spray collected on the plane’s underbelly, occasionally curling over the wing’s leading edge, tossing off frothy foam. Buck had correctly skirted the northeastern edge of Novaya Zemlya, a large, mountainous, dagger-shaped island, and now stood on the Russians’ doorstep. Two hundred miles farther south lay the small, round island of Ostrov Belyy, gateway to the treacherous Obskaya Guba. And yet still no Mainstays to greet them. Something was terribly wrong.

The tension in the cockpit was unbearable, gnawing at the crew’s last reservoirs of strength. Hour after long hour had passed with no contact from either STRATCOM or their unseen enemy. Their nerves were frayed from exhaustion; their bodies were weak from dehydration. The air-conditioned cockpit did little to remove the body heat generated under flight suits, heavy gloves, boots and helmets. But they were driven on by the knowledge that Russian nuclear bombs had devastated their home. Buck begged for that first illusive contact with the Mainstays.

The Russian defenders should have jetted far north, until their elliptical radar patterns had broached the irregular island chain strung across eighty degrees north latitude. Instead, their plane’s sensitive ESM gear drew a blank. Buck’s mind played with the possibilities.