Red Hammer 1994 (28 page)

Buck didn’t answer. His thoughts had quickly turned back to the mission. Every time he did, his breathing accelerated. Take it easy, he warned himself.

The clear evening sky began to give way to thickening clouds that encircled them like wisps of angel’s hair. Nothing too threatening, thought Buck. Momentarily satisfied, he settled back and mentally created a map of central Russia. Slowly the key features sprang into sharp focus. He and his crew would drop down to two hundred feet as soon as they left the polar icepack, or sooner if they detected faint emissions from the Mainstay. The benefit of sensitive electronic support measures, or ESM gear, was that you could detect an adversary at over one and one half times the distance that he could get you. That’s when the chess game started. Do you avoid detection at all costs? Or do you tease the Mainstay then slightly alter course and hopefully slip by misdirected interceptors. The Russian pilots would get one pass before having to break off and hunt for other prey. No one knew the best strategy, especially when placed in the van. Buck didn’t relish being the lead plane through the gauntlet looming only hours ahead.

After skimming four hundred miles over the Kara Sea, they would traverse the Obskaya Guba, an appendix-shaped, seawater gulf protruding deep into the Motherland. Buck would stick close to the shoreline, praying the distinctive contrast between land and water would play havoc with the Russians’ search-and-look-down/shoot-down radars. Making landfall, he would most likely veer sharply to starboard, making a sprint for the Urals, attempting to seek shelter by hugging the protective eastern slope. The next seven hundred miles would severely tax his skills as a pilot. Switching off the terrain-following guidance system to protect against autonomous jammers sprinkled throughout the mountains, he would manually wind in and out of deep canyons and narrow valleys, skimming the earth as low as one hundred feet. He had flown the perilous route so many times in the simulators, it was burned into his brain. The 3-D display at the training center was breathtaking in its clarity; the multiple shades of brown and gray were brought to life by dual light sources reflecting off the irregular granite surfaces. By the end of the hour, he was drenched in sweat. At first he had always bounced off a canyon wall within the first few minutes, but through patience and hours of practice, he had managed to score well enough to be certified for this class-one mission, the most difficult rating in STRATCOM. If for some reason he bought it, Joe was ordered to break off and hit secondary targets along a less-demanding path. The less experienced copilot wouldn’t stand a chance at the primary route.

Danger would most likely visit when Buck had to break out of hiding and line up on his first target, a large thermal power plant near Sverdlovsk. He knew the Russians were well versed in American bomber tactics—they wouldn’t be easily fooled. Then the other target locations rolled across his mind—Chelyabinsk, Magnitogorsk, Kazan, Kuybyshev, and finally Volgograd. Fifteen power plants, a handful of refineries, and key oil and gas pipelines, his lone plane would cut a vicious swath of destruction that would paralyze Russian economic activity for decades.

If his mission was accomplished, Buck would guide his bomber further south, dashing for the Turkish border, and a prearranged, secret rendezvous with an American support team. Buck gritted his teeth and swore that he would come home with an empty plane or die trying.

CHAPTER 25

The promised two to three hours had turned into nearly four. It was after midnight when Alexander and crew reboarded their helo and headed down the Shenandoah Valley. The valley was black, except for an occasional light powered by a portable generator. Power was gone as far as the eye could see.

The GMCC has been staged out of Harrisonburg, north of town, in an industrial building. The multiservice peacetime garrison had been augmented by military forces from around greater the DC area and Maryland and Virginia suburbs. That included duty personnel from the NSA at Fort Meade and the CIA at Langley. The DIA has provided analysts and linguists. It was an impressive cast.

The mobilization plan was sound for a deliberate dispersal, but not for this chaos. The troops and techs pulled together heroically to get underway, driving to the primary location and beginning the setup. It was like watching a circus troupe go through the motions—fast and efficient.

After the trip down the Shenandoah, the helo banked right and followed US 33 toward the West Virginia line. Well before the next mountain range, they dropped from the sky near what looked like a small town. When the wheels touched, it was a repeat of the previous landing. Unload, march single file, meet security, get oriented. They were better at it this time.

Thomas noticed nothing until he could make out an irregularly shaped mound looming in front of the far tree line. It wasn’t until they were twenty yards away that he saw a canopy of interwoven camouflage netting supported by a forest of ten-foot fiberglass poles. Expertly concealed was a stable of military trucks and commercial tractor trailers that comprised the NCA’s Ground Mobile Command Center, an invention of the late 1980s to counter Russian ICBM accuracy and still kept on alert. The emergency compound was difficult to identify from the ground and most likely impossible to spot from the air. A near acre of the multicolored netting absorbed probing radar energy and suppressed the infrared signature of the diesel generators chugging in the night. Upon closer inspection, the plastic canopy bristled with antennas protruding from communications vans tucked below. Posted around the perimeter were pockets of Harcourt’s Rangers, equipped with night-vision goggles that made them look like aliens. Dug deeply into the ground were army troops, with a full complement of crew-served weapons. The Army Rangers and supporting soldiers were prepared for the worst.

Alexander’s entourage was greeted by an army brigadier with a rifle slung over his shoulder.

“General Ogden, Mr. Secretary,” he shouted over the loud chugging of a nearby electrical generator. “STRATCOM liaison. First order of business is a quick change. Please follow me, sir.”

Alexander nodded, vaguely familiar with the drill. A select few administration officials had been thoroughly briefed on the center’s capabilities, but it had been a long time ago. Regularly scheduled crisis-management drills had avoided even a hint of the traveling command post, instead assigning congressman and senior officials to either Mount Weather or Fort Ritchie for their mandatory training.

The others followed Alexander to a nearby commercial tractor trailer in the guise of an eastern seaboard shipping company. The pinstriped silver and blue van was serviced by a broad ramp leading to a door within a door in the rear. Thomas trudged up the steep metal plank in the number-two position and ducked through the shipboard-like hatch. The dull metal interior was bathed in the soft glow of red fluorescents; a low electrical hum was the only noise detectable. A group of nervous soldiers stood by piles of clothing and gear.

“Please listen up, gentlemen,” instructed Ogden, business-like in a flak vest and helmet. His M-16 had been handed off to an aide. “Remove all your clothing, and put on fatigues. We don’t want anyone standing out. One of the soldiers will help you in getting the right sizes.”

Thomas had found the slat bench next to Alexander, first pulling off his shoes and socks then moving on to shirt and pants, peeling off the sweat-soaked clothing. Alexander’s head was down, avoiding eye contact with his bench mate. The rush of cool air on Thomas’s skin felt magnificent. He silently begged to sit for just a moment, a respite from reality. The civilians hesitated, awkward at disrobing in the truck. They seemed to be waiting for guidance.

“Looks like a large for you, sir,” said a corporal. Thomas nodded in the affirmative. “Eleven-and-a-half boot,” he added. He pulled on the trousers, then the socks. The corporal came back with the boots and a properly starched cap. The rest went on quickly, a brown T-shirt, a belt with brass buckle, and a loose-fitting top. When Thomas stood to his full height, he felt the tug of the freshly pressed cammies. Gone was the uniform of a desk-bound officer. It all felt proper. The corporal walked over with an olive-drab webbed belt and a holstered Beretta. Somehow he knew Thomas wanted a weapon.

Thomas cinched the belt against his flat stomach. He sensed his role. The last few years had unwittingly prepared him for this trial, the constant bombardment of strategic issues, arm wrestling the power players. He had to focus on the task at hand, guiding Alexander as best he could. His family? His heart had broken hours ago. His personal concerns had to be put on hold till another day.

The group sat quietly, hunched over, their forearms on their thighs, collectively distraught and emotionally drained. When the last had finished dressing, Ogden addressed Alexander, his hands folded in his lap. Like the other civilians, Alexander felt awkward in the military garb, tugging at the seams, moving in jerky motions and resisting the stiff fabric. They had irretrievably entered the fighting man’s world.

“Mr. Secretary, we have tents for you and Secretary Genser. The others will have to make do. Both the conference van and the command-and-control van are fully operational.”

Alexander stood wearily. He was in charge. The usual sharpness to his words was gone.

“General Bartholomew, I want a status of comms with NEACP and Looking Glass, and anyone else important. General Thomas, I want you and General Ogden to remain. We’ll convene in the conference van in thirty minutes. Get something to eat.”

The players quietly filed out the door, ducking and disappearing into the night. Alexander addressed Thomas personally for the first time since they left the Pentagon. His sad brown eyes told the story. The usual spark and quick intelligence were gone, replaced by an extreme weariness.

“Bob, I want an accurate estimate of damage. Get me the status of our surviving forces, same for the Russians. Get the best picture you can.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Secretary.”

Alexander gently touched Thomas’s arm before he could leave. “Bob, I’m counting on you.” Thomas stopped dead in his tracks and sighed. His eyes met Alexander’s. “You don’t have to worry, Mr. Secretary.” He turned and left.

Alexander refreshed himself with a deliberate, deep breath. “Any plans for relocation, General Ogden?”

“We’ll remain here for the time being, sir, then evaluate the situation in the morning. This is one of five surveyed sites within eighty miles, so we have options. Fallout is a factor. With the silo fields hit, we’ve got up to thirty hours, maybe more, depending on the winds. If we’re lucky, the majority of the fallout will go due east, missing Virginia. The winds could shift, though. If it’s bad, we’ll have to helo you out. Maybe get you airborne.”

Alexander listened intently.

“No aircraft,” he said. “The Russians will be throwing everything they have at the airborne command posts once they land to refuel and re-crew. They’ll have agents covering every field in the country and an ICBM RV on top in forty minutes. That’s if they don’t shoot them down first.” The life expectancy of NEACP and the other key aircraft was thought to be twenty-four to forty-eight hours at best. If they got the SIOP off, they had done their job.

His energy fading, Alexander sat down heavily. “How secure are these sites?”

“Elements of the Rangers and the 82nd Airborne are scouting the area, looking for agents and any saboteurs. But there’s no guarantee, sir; that’s why we’ll keep on the move.”

“The bunkers?” prompted Alexander.

“If they’re not hit over the next two days, they’re probably OK. We believe the Russians don’t know about either site, North Carolina or Georgia. If forced to, we’ll get you out of ICBM and bomber range for the long haul.”

Alexander looked puzzled. “You mean out of CONUS?”

“If need be, sir. The sites will be ready.” There were things even the secretary of defense didn’t know. Alexander let out a long sigh and slapped his hands on his thighs. “Very well, show me to my tent.”

Thomas stood at the entrance to the command-and-control trailer. Troopers checked his identification. The trailer was marked with the logo of a grocery chain, and except for the recessed topside compartments housing small EHF satellite dishes, even a trained observer would have difficulty distinguishing it from any other eighteen-wheeler cruising the nation’s highways. The inconspicuous entrance was through a small hatch behind the tractor’s sleeper cab. Thomas hoisted himself to the tractor then gripped the handrail and swung his body through the hatch.

His eyes adjusted slowly to the soft white glow. The hum of cooling fans and air-conditioning blowers greeted him. An officer stepped over and reported with a salute. Thomas followed through a cramped passageway between floor-to-ceiling racks of communications equipment, computer CPUs, and multiterabyte disk drives. At the trailer’s rear was a horseshoe-shaped cluster of powerful engineering workstations networked to a database server. Three operators glanced up then went back about their business.

“You can sit there, General.” The army captain pointed toward a vacant seat. His guide knelt unobtrusively, working the mouse with his free hand. He brought up a detailed globe, which hung effortlessly in computer-generated black space. A click of the mouse energized ring after ring of brightly colored satellite tracks circling the globe; the platforms themselves appeared as detailed icons in the same color scheme. The mini-satellites inched along the orbital tracks while the earth rotated imperceptibly beneath. A second click activated day/night shading.