Red Hammer 1994 (30 page)

He brought the meeting to order with a throat clearing. “When the new president arrives—”

Suddenly shots cracked in the distance. At first single pops and sporadic bursts then the sustained staccato of heavy machine-gun fire interspersed with sharp, piercing explosions. Closer and closer the sounds of battle came, constricting the camp like a tightening noose. Outside, shouting and cursing evidenced the confusion and panic spreading like a wildfire throughout the compound. Ogden leapt to his feet and pulled his pistol from his holster. The handful of Rangers present unslung their weapons and quickly took defensive positions near the front and rear entrances.

“Everyone stay put,” was the order. Someone was trying to douse the lights.

Thomas dropped with the others, hugging the plywood floor. The flimsy tent material wouldn’t even slow a bullet, let alone protect against fragmentation grenades. Thomas rolled on his side and pulled his pistol from the holster, chambering a round. Sliding away from the table, he maneuvered behind a large shipping container providing an unobstructed view of the entrance. He crouched on one knee, arms outstretched, finger on the trigger.

Bursts of automatic-weapons fire ripped through the tent. The Rangers gripped their weapons, fingering the triggers nervously, eyes straining in the now dim light. Without warning, a stream of soldiers crashed through the front entrance, weapons at the ready. Thomas’s jaw dropped in astonishment. All were clad in what looked like US issue cammies, with grease paint smeared across their faces, identical to the men around them. The slight hesitation by the Rangers bought the intruders just enough time. They opened up on full automatic, spraying the interior with blistering fire, one man high then the next man low, methodically moving the length of the tent, shredding every object in sight. The roar was deafening, the short-range slaughter unbelievable. The handful of brave Rangers heroically held their ground, kneeling and blazing away toe-to-toe with the attackers. Smashed bodies sprawled backward, blasted and torn by bursts of bullets that sliced uniforms and sprayed deep-red blood everywhere. Sustained rifle fire at point-blank range offered little chance for human survival. The conflagration was over in seconds, measured in time by a single spent magazine per man.

The racket ended as suddenly as it had started, leaving only wispy white smoke mixed with the acrid smell of spent gunpowder, and the groans and moans of a few gravely wounded men. Remote, sporadic gun play still punctuated the night air. Thomas had managed to squeeze off only two rounds before a collapsing enemy soldier had knocked him flat. He pushed the body aside, the man’s blood flowing freely and smearing over his uniform. Struggling to his feet, Thomas’s mind was transfixed by the incredible carnage strewn across the floor. Crimson pools formed near the corpses; while a single light flickered eerily, creating strange shadows, which danced across the tattered canvas, spent shell casings, and heaps of bodies. At first glance, no one appeared to have survived the onslaught unscathed except him. Thomas instinctively surveyed himself for personal damage, but the only candidate was the intense ringing in his ears.

Thomas stepped over several bodies, searching for Alexander. Where he had been earlier was identified solely by a pair of protruding boots under two intertwined dead soldiers. Looking up, he was caught off guard by a lone soldier poking his head through the tent flap, then stepping through, weapon cradled under his arm. His movement gave the distinct impression he knew what he wanted. Thomas stepped forward, raising his pistol and pointing it directly at the man’s face. His arm shook slightly, giving the gentleman at the business end of the Beretta a false sense of confidence.

“Who are you?” Thomas said slowly, the resonance in his head making the words sound flat.

The soldier appeared unusually calm. He had ice-cold eyes that darted around the carnage in the tent, taking calculated measure.

“Sergeant Jimenez, 75th Rangers, sir.” He smiled a shallow, false grin. There was no fear in the man’s eyes, only the steady gaze of a well-trained killer. Thomas’s eyes locked on the man’s torso. Ranger? I don’t see a patch, he said to himself. The stranger’s eyes narrowed. He sensed Thomas’s discovery and grabbed for a grenade fixed to his webbed belt. Thomas fired rapidly, squeezing off each well-aimed shot. The first slug caught the upper reaches of the soldier’s body armor, jerking him backward from the impact but inflicting no wound. The following bullets walked north, catching the soldier square in the neck and face but not until he had pulled the pin. The loose grenade bounced on the deck the same time the man’s lifeless body collapsed to the floor.

Thomas dove left just as the fragmentation grenade detonated in a blinding flash, shredding the tent sides and splintering furniture. In midair at detonation, Thomas was bowled over, thrown hard on the ground. Only a mangled pelican case had stood between him and death. As he struggled to his feet, blood streamed from his ears and nose, and a sharp pain jabbed his arm. The ringing in his ears was replaced by a dull nothingness. He collapsed back to earth and lay perfectly still in the protective blackness, gasping and choking in the billowing smoke. Several minutes passed before faint voices captured his ears. Slowly the ability to detect sound returned. A bright flashlight flickered across the far canvas, coming to rest squarely above his face. Thomas froze. They were back for another go, the mop-up crew. He groped for his weapon—it was nowhere to be found. The only recourse left was to attempt to slide under the shredded canvas and into the night. That effort failed miserably.

“Something’s moving there, sir.”

Colonel Harcourt’s sweaty, dirt-streaked face peered at Thomas from behind a camping lantern.

“General Thomas?”

Thomas weakly responded, raising one arm. Two Rangers grabbed him under the armpits, dragging him roughly to his feet.

“Can you stand, sir?”

“I think so.” He wobbled in place, his bad hip jabbing with pain. The Rangers guided him to a crate and gently lowered Thomas to his rear. An army medic approached and gave him the once-over. One of his shoulders felt like it had been slammed by a buffalo. Blood dripped from an arm.

Others in the rescue party rigged temporary lighting, bathing the interior in brilliant, white light. While Thomas watched from his seat, Harcourt moved among the bodies, mentally noting the identity of each. He seemed unaffected by the devastation, a veteran of far worse spectacles.

“Over here,” he shouted, “Secretary Genser’s still alive.”

Genser’s shattered body clung to life despite multiple bullet wounds from the assault. A stretcher team carefully lifted his body to the taut canvas, securing the webbed straps.

“Get him to the hospital tent.”

Harcourt continued to move among the dead. “That’s it,” he observed matter-of-factly. “General Thomas, can you make it over here?” The two Rangers had to help him.

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.

My god, he thought, they’ve developed passive IR tracking. They’ve got us nailed, and we don’t even know it. Or maybe it was the super-secret ultra-wide-bandwidth radar. He had read the Foreign Technology Division reports on how it could weed an incredibly weak radar signature from the typical background clutter. That technology was claimed to be the future nemesis of the stealthy B-2, whose BB-sized radar return clearly outdid the bird-sized B-1B. The experts discounted it to a man. But maybe the Russians had once again fooled the clever analysts. He cursed the wing’s smug intelligence officers who laughed off futuristic sounding threats, citing technological hurdles insurmountable by the moribund Russian R&D community. The entire intelligence apparatus had completely flip-flopped from the dark days of the early eighties when the Soviets were supermen, capable of wizardry beyond comprehension. Now the former Soviets were technological invalids, incapable of turning out even the simplest consumer goods, let alone advanced military hardware.

His mental turmoil triggered another concern—targets of opportunity. “Ledermeyer, anything from Lacrosse?”

Lacrosse was the code word for the top-secret synthetic aperture radars that cruised hundreds of miles over hostile territory, penetrating clouds and darkness, plucking minute mobile targets from difficult geographic backgrounds. The newest birds had a real-time data link that dumped high-priority targets directly to the bombers in flight. It was the only hope for tracking down the dreaded SS-25 and SS-24 mobile ICBMs featured in the Russians’ arsenal.

The Russians obviously knew about Lacrosse. Their bag of tricks contained counters and decoys, anything to trip up a bomber crew. For the Russians, fake launcher trains and dummy mobile missile launchers, inflatable SAM sites, and armored vehicles were standard fare. Not to mention the thousands of surreptitious transponders and signal generators bombarding the airwaves with a symphony of bogus electronic emissions designed to overload US ESM gear. But today those airwaves were silent.