Red Metal Read online

  TITLES BY MARK GREANEY

  THE GRAY MAN

  ON TARGET

  BALLISTIC

  DEAD EYE

  BACK BLAST

  GUNMETAL GRAY

  AGENT IN PLACE

  MISSION CRITICAL

  BERKLEY

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  1745 Broadway, New York, NY 10019

  Copyright © 2019 by Mark Strode Greaney; Lt. Col. Hunter Ripley Rawlings

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  BERKLEY and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Greaney, Mark, author. | Rawlings, Hunter Ripley, 1971– author.

  Title: Red metal / Mark Greaney and Lieutenant Colonel Hunter Ripley Rawlings IV, USMC.

  Description: First edition. | New York, NY : Berkley, 2019.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019007191| ISBN 9780451490414 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780451490438 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Imaginary wars and battles.

  Classification: LCC PS3607.R4285 R43 2019 | DDC 813/.6--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019007191

  First Edition: July 2019

  Jacket art: photo of battle tank by Don Farrall/Getty Images; photo of Red Square: Kremlin Wall, Spasskaya (Savior) Tower, and Saint Basil’s Cathedral by Max Ryazanov/Getty Images

  Jacket design by Steve Meditz

  Map illustrations by Daniel Lagin

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  To Erin for all her wonderful love and support as we take this next big step together (and for patching up me, and many other men, downrange)

  —RIP

  To all NATO forces past, present, and (let’s hope) forever

  —MARK

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The authors gratefully acknowledge the hours of research, thought, and support from the valuable community of professionals and friends who helped make this book as accurate as possible. Any inaccuracies inevitably are the authors’ and not owing to those thanked here, as we use ample creative license throughout.

  AIR FORCE

  The whole team of the 66th training squadron at the United States Air Force Weapons School, Nellis AFB, for their support and help, specifically including: Maj. Edward “Nooner” Brady (A-10 instructor); Lt. Col. David “Chunx” Chadsey (Sqn. Comdr.); Lt. Col. Brian “Shfing” Erickson; Maj. Scott “Furball” Redmon—we will not forget our time at the Hog Trough . . . hangovers included; Maj. Travis “Fog” Ryan (USAF bombers expert and all-around GTG guy).

  ARMY & MARINE CORPS

  Lt. Gen. Lawrence Nicholson—for just being the best damn leader the Corps has seen in a long while, and Rip’s commander in Fallujah; Brigadegeneral Klaus Feldmann (General der Panzertruppen der Bundeswehr)—Vielen Dank, Sir, für die Erklärung des modernen Panzerkriegs; Col. Rick Angeli; Maj. Robert “Donnie” Barbaree (USMC Air & Ground advisor); Lt. Col. Owen “Nuts” Nucci (USMC aviation); Lt. Col. Ben Pappas (USMC); Captain Anonymous (USA, Apache pilot, who wishes to maintain her anonymity but gave us the goods to create Glitter).

  NAVY

  CDR Scott Boros (USN and all things Navy that fly); LCDR Luke Olinger (USN Silent Service and all things nuke propulsion and weapons); CDR Lee Ensley (USN, Ret.).

  OTHERS

  The men and women of Conference Group-3, Marine Corps University, Command and Staff College, for putting up with an old, broken infantryman; Dr. Doug Streusand, Rip’s partner in crime and a damn fine professor; the Rawlings and Felger families for their strength, love, and devotion; Capt. Josh Smith (USMC, Ret.); Lt. Col. Laurent Bonsept, French Special Forces; the Tellaria, Friedman, Hoang, Cerritelli, Dashtur/Haksar, and Westbrook families—loyal readers and friends; Joshua Hood; Scott Swanson; Mike Cowan; Taylor Gilliland; Brandy Brown; Igor Veksler; and Boniface Njoroge.

  CONTENTS

  Titles by Mark Greaney

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Epigraphs

  Characters

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 8
2

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Epilogue

  About the Authors

  Raids are operations to temporarily seize an area, usually through forcible entry, in order to secure information, confuse an enemy, capture personnel or equipment, or destroy an objective or capability.

  —JOINT PUBLICATION 3-0; U.S. DOCTRINE FOR JOINT OPERATIONS, 27 JANUARY 2017, UPDATED 22 OCTOBER 2018

  In the absence of orders, go find something and kill it.

  —FIELD MARSHAL ERWIN ROMMEL

  CHARACTERS

  THE AMERICANS

  COLONEL KEN CASTER (USMC)—Commander, Regimental Combat Team 5

  LIEUTENANT DARNELL CHANDLER (U.S. ARMY)—Assistant maintenance officer, 37th Armored Regiment

  LIEUTENANT COLONEL DAN CONNOLLY (USMC)—Infantry officer, assigned to the Pentagon; former commander of 3rd Battalion, 2nd Marines; former platoon commander with 3/5

  COMMANDER DIANA DELVECCHIO (U.S. NAVY)—Captain, USS John Warner (SSN-785)

  LIEUTENANT SANDRA “GLITTER” GLISSON (U.S. ARMY)—Apache pilot

  LIEUTENANT COLONEL TOM GRANT (U.S. ARMY)—Tank logistics and maintenance officer, 37th Armored Regiment, deployed to Grafenwöhr, Germany

  MAJOR BOB GRIGGS (U.S. ARMY)—Infantry and Ranger officer; Army infantryman, Ranger tab; on assignment to the Joint Staff Office for Strategy, Plans & Policy (J5)

  LIEUTENANT COLONEL ERIC MCHALE (USMC)—Operations officer, RCT-5

  CAPTAIN BRAD SPILLANE (U.S. ARMY)—Interim operations officer, 37th Armored Regiment

  CAPTAIN RAYMOND “SHANK” VANCE (USAF)—A-10 pilot

  THE RUSSIANS

  COLONEL YURI VLADIMIROVICH BORBIKOV—Russian Federation special forces commander

  COLONEL DANILO DRYAGIN—Russian Federation infantry commander

  CAPTAIN GEORG ETUSH—Submarine commander, Kazan (K-561)

  COLONEL DMITRY KIR—Chief of staff and de facto chief of operations for Colonel General Boris Lazar

  BORIS LAZAR—Russian Federation colonel general

  ANATOLY RIVKIN—President of the Russian Federation

  EDUARD SABANEYEV—Russian Federation colonel general

  COLONEL FELIKS SMIRNOV—Deputy commanding officer to Colonel General Sabaneyev

  COLONEL IVAN ZOLOTOV—Russian Air Force Su-57 pilot, Red Talon Squadron

  OTHER CHARACTERS

  CAPTAIN APOLLO ARC-BLANCHETTE—French special forces officer, 13th Parachute Dragoon Regiment

  PASCAL ARC-BLANCHETTE—Officer in Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure (DGSE), the French foreign intelligence agency; Captain Apollo Arc-Blanchette’s father

  CAPTAIN CHEN MIN JUN—Chinese special forces officer

  DR. NIK MELANOPOLIS—Analyst, National Security Agency

  MAJOR BLAZ OTT—German Bundeswehr armor maintenance officer

  PAULINA TOBIASZ—Polish civilian militia member

  PROLOGUE

  AFGHANISTAN

  THREE YEARS AGO

  The radio crackled to life and Marine Lieutenant Colonel Dan Connolly snatched up the handset mounted on the dash of his Humvee. He wiped a heavy crust of southern Afghanistan dust off his mouth for the fifth time this morning, using a corner of his desert camouflage neck scarf, and he licked his dry lips.

  A swirl of dust spun around the vehicle, seeping in through the top gunner’s hatch and between the nooks and crannies in the seams of the doorframes, which sagged because of the heavy appliqué blast armor. The vehicle’s position, at the center of a convoy of Humvees, ensured it was constantly engulfed in a nearly impenetrable cloud of sand and dirt.

  Connolly pulled his canteen off his web belt, took a sip of warm water. Into the mic he said, “This is Betio Six. Send your traffic.”

  A rushed and eager voice said, “Betio Six, this is Betio Main. Sir, flash, flash, flash! Report from the Deuce follows.”

  It was barely ten o’clock in the morning and already the temps were in the nineties. Connolly wiped sweat from his eyes with one hand as he reached over and turned up the radio. The Deuce was the call sign of the battalion’s intelligence officer, and a flash report from him told the lieutenant colonel that this already sweltering Afghanistan morning was probably about to heat up even more.

  Without pausing for acknowledgment, the radio operator in the battalion’s operation center said, “Someone in your vicinity has eyes on you. Deuce says attack on your convoy imminent.”

  “Betio Main, Betio Six, acknowledged.”

  Shit.

  Connolly was commander of 3rd Battalion, 2nd Marine Regiment, and he didn’t have to be here right now. There was no operational reason for someone of his rank to go out on this mission to a neighboring town to speak with the mayor. Any of his company commanders, all captains, could have handled this themselves, but Connolly had wanted to see this town for himself because the reports he’d been getting were that the locals had begun working closely with the Taliban.

  And now someone was watching his movements. He assumed the Deuce had decoded a radio intercept of insurgent chatter.

  He clicked over the dial on the AN/PRC-119 radio and rekeyed the handset. “Lima Six, this is Betio Actual. Be advised: Stay tight and sharp. Betio Main just reported we’ve got someone with eyes on us, time now. Let’s do a security halt and see if we can get inside their loop.” This was Marine jargon, meaning Connolly hoped to do something the enemy wouldn’t expect to make them trip a potential ambush early.

  Lima Six acknowledged the order, and the convoy began slowing to a halt.

  An earsplitting boom rocked the road at the front of the convoy. Connolly was shaken in his seat, and even before he could look through the dust out the front windshield, he heard the sounds of multiple RPG rockets detonating and bursts of incoming machine-gun fire.

  Connolly saw huge chunks of road flying through the air ahead of him, followed by a plume of flame and smoke. The debris came raining back down amid the small-arms fire, pounding his vehicle and adding to the soundtrack of the chaos.

  The twelve vehicles immediately performed a “herringbone,” a well-practiced battle maneuver in which each vehicle pulled either left or right in alternating fashion. The turret gunners on each Humvee began firing their .50-cal machine guns in their sectors, churning the surrounding hills with heavy rounds.

  “That sure as shit didn’t take long!” yelled Connolly’s driver over the heavy thump of the M2 Browning machine gun and the steady ringing of bullet brass and metal links dropping through the vehicle’s hatch above them.

  Connolly turned to the radioman in the back. “Sergeant Bosse, grab your rifle and get out, my side! Let’s go!”

  The radio operator didn’t need to be told twice. Sitting in a Humvee during a firefight was a sure way to get killed. The version the Marines rolled in today was heavily armored, but a well-placed RPG could destroy the vehicle and everyone in it—and, with the firepower pouring out of the turrets, each Humvee would be an RPG magnet.

  Before he could bail, Connolly heard another transmission on the radio affixed to the dash. “Six, this is Echo Six Papa.” It was Lima Company’s First Sergeant Perez, one of the battalion’s most competent enlisted leaders, sounding as calm and confident as ever. “Lima Six’s vic is down,” he said. “They gotta be shaken, but I see his gunner returning fire, so I think they’re good to go. He’s on the platoon radio tactical net right now giving orders to attack.”

  The improvised explosive device was usually fabricated from several hundred pounds of iron or steel scrap, surrounding dried ammonium nitrate mixed with fuel oil. The Taliban buried these devices in the middle of the road, often using battery acid to melt pavement, then planting the weapon and covering it with dirt. The Taliban fighters liked to initiate their IEDs, launch a few rocket-p
ropelled grenades, hammer the area with machine guns, and then leave in the confusion.

  Connolly knelt outside his vehicle, his rifle at his shoulder held with one hand while he clutched the radio handset with his other. “Copy, Echo Six Papa. I’m coming to your position. Let Lima Six know he’s got this fight.” He tossed the handset back in the Humvee and put both hands on his rifle.

  Sergeant Bosse’s heavy body armor slowed down his escape, as he had to cross over from his side of the vehicle and between the machine gunner’s feet, but he tumbled out of the Humvee seconds later.

  “Bosse, get the damn radio!” Connolly shouted, pointing back into the vehicle at the PRC-119. The young Marine had grabbed his carbine but forgotten his primary weapon, the battalion commander’s portable radio.

  The radioman clambered back inside as incoming AK fire raked the armor on the opposite side of the Humvee. As he stumbled back out, radio in hand, he and his lieutenant colonel were joined by the sergeant major, and the three Marines set off down the length of the convoy at a crouched run while 7.62mm rounds whizzed overhead.

  All the Humvees’ turrets had pivoted their M2 .50-cal machine guns to the left side toward the attack, and they crackled off a near-constant volley of fire. As Connolly ran along, he saw the air officer firing his M4 over the hood of one of the vehicles. Connolly grabbed him by his load-bearing vest and pulled him along, knowing he might well need him.

  M2 tracers pounded the hillside to the north of the column. Some of it was aimed fire, blasted at points where the gunners saw enemy positions, but other shooters were simply hosing the hills, because they were, after all, Marine Corps machine gunners, and even if they couldn’t see their targets, they loved an opportunity to fire their weapons in anger.

  And so far it was paying off. The Marines’ heavy barrage of outgoing lead established immediate fire dominance and forced the enemy to take cover behind rocky outcroppings. Connolly knew that if he could just press this attack, he could get the Taliban retreating, caught out in the open on the far side of the hills.