Red Hammer 1994

Jackson slid down the ladder to the lower level, followed closely by the XO. Through the hull, they heard the distinctive clang of the massive missile-tube doors slamming against their hinges and locking in place. In single file, they traversed the narrow passageways and turned the last corner to the missile control room. Brandice was arched over the console, supervising the missile techs. Behind him stood the master chief and his guards. No one said a word. Jackson and the XO assumed their stations and removed the small stainless steel keys that hung from their sweaty necks. The much-practiced procedure assumed a sudden solemnness that they all felt. In one fluid motion, they simultaneously inserted the keys into marked slots then twisted them to the right. Red panels turned to green. The missiles were ready.

Brandice held the solid black handgrip that housed the firing key. It was attached to the console by heavy, protective cable and made a metallic grating sound as he raised it in the air. Procedure called for all present to observe his right forefinger depress the red plastic trigger. He turned his eyes toward the overhead, a blank look covering his emotionally drained face. A momentary hint of supplication faded into a cold, hard stare.

“Fire,” Jackson simply said.

One by one, eight Trident missiles belched forth from Michigan. Compressed gases violently pushed them past fiberglass protective covers and thrust them through tons of resistive seawater. Enough energy remained to hurl them thirty feet above the water’s surface, where the first-stage solid rocket motors exploded in a billowing cloud of orange flame and thick gray smoke. Each missile in turn righted itself, its silicon brain instantly recognizing its surroundings. Once stable, each missile began the long journey to Russian airspace.

Jackson’s thoughts turned to his own family, and how much he loved them and then to visions of Russian citizens bustling through the crowded streets of their magnificent old-world cities. Why had this madness happened? He couldn’t answer, only carry out his orders, and pray to God his missiles weren’t targeting those ancient Russian cities.

CHAPTER 28

Thomas slumped against the corrugated trunk of a thick oak, slowly sliding off the emotional high that had peaked an hour earlier. The heightened sensual awareness brought back memories of combat over the skies of Vietnam. The intoxication of facing death and escaping had troubled him then and puzzled him now. He should be trying to catch some sleep. It was nearly four in the morning.

The night had finally cooled enough to halt the constant sweating under fatigues. In fact, he almost felt chilled sitting in the night air. Shortly after the attack, he had been hustled to a waiting helo and flown down the Shenandoah to a map grid where they had popped over the mountains and headed southeast toward Lynchburg, Virginia. After touchdown, Thomas was forced to cool his heels in the company of a handful of Harcourt’s men. He now sat on the ground with one of them, nursing an injured left arm, waiting for a rendezvous with an army unit assigned to escort him to the new president.

The camp doctor had extracted a jagged piece of shrapnel that had split open two inches of his forearm. Thomas hadn’t noticed amidst all the commotion, until the blood started dripping on the deck in steady black-red drops. The wound was beginning to throb under the tight gauze bandage. The man with him was a major, the officer in charge. He squatted on one knee, his M-4A cradled under his arm, his free hand resting on a radio, and his eyes locked on the clearing. Smeared face paint made it impossible to discern individual facial features. He looked like any other soldier, except tougher, which was expected from the men of the army’s special operations forces.

Thomas rubbed an outstretched leg, massaging a cramped thigh muscle. “What’s your name, Major? Where you from?” The Ranger didn’t move and didn’t answer for an uncomfortable period. The major finally accepted that the general wanted to talk.

“Benton, sir, from Kentucky.” The soft southern accent confirmed the reply. Thomas focused on the Ranger patch on the major’s shoulder, barely visible from two feet.

“I thought the 75th Ranger Regiment was split between Fort Benning and Fort Lewis?”

“That’s right, sir. But we rotate a company every three months to the DC area as part of FEMA’s contingency plans. Support the mobile command center. It was my turn in the barrel.”

“You the company commander?”

“Yes, sir, Echo Company, 2nd Battalion.”

“Well, Major Benton, it looks like we’re gonna be together for a while.”

Benton cocked his head slightly in Thomas’s direction. The black eyes were hard, committed. “Yes, sir. Colonel Harcourt said I’m not supposed to let you out of my sight until I personally deliver you to wherever the hell we’re going.” The major’s focus shifted back to the perimeter and duty.