Red Hammer 1994

Three more SRAMs were quickly expended, assuring a straight shot for the eastern slope of the Urals. Already they were becoming hardened to the awesome firepower personally unleashed against the Russians. Buck edged the plane starboard to avoid nuclear debris. Built-in radiation-detection devices clicked persistently as they skirted the edge of the dissipating cloud. Bomber crews feared the invisible radioactivity as much as the Russian air defenses. It could silently penetrate their bodies, destroying tissue, sapping their strength.

Breaking back to port, the Urals jutted to the sky, their stark appearance befitting the surrounding bleak terrain. Not high in elevation, they nevertheless presented an awesome spectacle.

“There,” announced Buck calmly. Ahead was the memorized landmark pointing directly to his flight path along the eastern slope. It was over seven hundred miles to the IP for their first target north of Sverdlovsk. Over an hour of pushing a broken airplane two hundred feet above treacherous mountain terrain with the Russians’ breathing down their necks. The odds against them mounted with each passing minute. Buck had to remind himself that he wasn’t alone, that he still had a crew depending on him. He had to keep them working.

“Ledermeyer?”

“Yeah, Buck.” He sounded exhausted.

“You OK?”

“Yeah.”

“Start weapon allocation. Baseline mission. Use the gravities, save the SRAMs.”

“Roger.” The reply trailed off into the reverberating cabin. Buck twisted in his seat to provide a reassuring gesture. Then he jabbed Joe’s thigh, getting his attention.

“I need to know how much fuel we’re going to have and where I can land this crate. How far can we go?”

Joe looked over, but before he could respond, a piercing alarm sprang from Jefferson’s damaged console. The still-working ESM gear had detected an unknown fire-control radar to port. Buck was trapped. Already at low altitude, his best option was to climb rapidly, leaving the protection of the ground clutter and exposing his plane to a host of air-defense radars. Instead he popped flares and inched even lower, praying the missile’s sophisticated seeker would be overwhelmed by the confusing radar pulses reflecting off the sheer cliffs and deep ravines. But the old Soviet SAM was blindly flying toward a point in space, its guidance immune to manipulation. Armed by the tremendous G-forces at launch, its 10 KT thermonuclear warhead detonated when the internal counter decremented to zero.

First came the blinding flash then the strange tingling sensation throughout their bodies. Lastly was the vicious punch of the shock wave. Five psi of overpressure hammered the plane, threatening to tear the weakened bomber apart in midair. The following dynamic winds added to the stress, bending and twisting the airframe. The bomber shuddered violently, struggling to stay whole. Buck vigorously fought the stiff controls to avoid burning into the earth. He pulled up the nose when the altimeter showed a scant fifty feet to the ground. The old, dirty bomb had been purposely detonated at altitude to expand its kill radius. Detonating at close to half a mile from their position, it deposited two-to-three-thousand-rem whole-body dose of radiation.

Buck clutched his chest, feeling like his insides were melting. Joe pitched forward, violently vomiting, writhing in his seat. He gasped and chocked, spitting up blood. Ledermeyer slumped in his seat, panting. No one could talk. No one moved.

Ionizing radiation is insidious. No two people react the same way. Four hundred and fifty rem kills half of those exposed in a few weeks; one thousand rem is certain death in a week or two. One thousand to five thousand means immediate incapacitation in varying degrees and an agonizing death in days. After the prompt effects wane, all experience a latency period, which lulls the victim into a false sense of hope shortly before the final throes of death. Massive doses of ionizing radiation disintegrate the soft tissues of the gastrointestinal tract, making recovery impossible and death inevitable.

Buck sat passively, conserving his strength. He waited for the onslaught he knew was coming, but the debilitating effects slowly subsided. Besides a lingering dizziness and a throbbing in his head, he appeared to have been spared the worst.

“Keep pushing,” he coaxed. “Don’t give up.” He gripped the stick and focused through the damaged windscreen, squinting to weave his way through the foothills.

Joe was semiconscious. Buck pulled him back from his stick, cinching his harness to support his body weight. Ledermeyer had loosened his and was leaning on his console, unable to sit upright. He took short panting breaths.

“I need you, Ledermeyer. Don’t crap out.”

Ledermeyer managed to turn his face sideways and stared at Jefferson. For a moment, he envied his dead comrade.

“I can’t move, Buck. My arms feel like lead.”

“Relax,” Buck coached. “Breathe deep. The effects will pass.”

Ledermeyer pushed himself up a few inches, groaning.