Red Hammer 1994 (45 page)

Benton would stand directly behind Thomas. Paranoia came with his newfound trade. He would personally break anyone’s neck that came within reach of the general. The other Rangers covered the rest of the contingent, spread out laterally, two facing forward, two backward. They had walked through various scenarios in back at the hotel but were helpless if someone opened up with firearms. Even their Kevlar reinforced flak vests had been impounded.

Thomas shut his tired eyes and put his hands on his hips and sucked in one last, deep, lungful of the delicious tropical air. It was sweet with a flowery fragrance carried by a light breeze that danced over nearby gardenias. He grunted to break nature’s spell and moved forward, removing his cap midstride, Benton in tow. The building’s interior was freshly painted and spruced, but the efforts hadn’t concealed its apparent age or lack of regular care. The light pink stucco structure was old, and a touch of fatigued oozed from the ancient walls. It almost seemed annoyed at having its peacefulness, full of grand wedding receptions and magnificent diplomatic and charity balls, disturbed by a mob of ill-mannered soldiers in steel-toed boots. Any worthwhile furnishings had been removed, preparing for the bar fight everyone sensed. A hush fell in the main hall as he entered. There were thirty or so spectators besides the contingent of Spaniards, pushed to the sides, sporting headsets for house-provided interpretation. The meeting had initially been billed as secretive, but snowballed into a circus. The Americans were certain the motive was less than altruistic. The world rightly feared both belligerents, but much more terrifying was the notion of the two giants hatching a deal in private. No, the world community would be well represented, thank you.

Thomas’s people were in place. Rising smartly, the military members saluted as he approached. The opposite side of the long table was bare. That was fine with Thomas as he had hoped for a few moments to collect his thoughts. A sudden mental flash brought a grim reminder. In Thomas’s distant past, he had visited the Panmunjon Truce Village straddling the DMZ. A barracks-like structure, the Korea complex sat on the imaginary border in an imaginary village but with very real guards and a strict code of conduct. When packed with angry-faced soldiers from both camps, the atmosphere was explosive. He prayed today would be different.

The Spanish-provided hall was somewhat cheerier, the tone less threatening. Large French windows adorned the swirled plaster walls, a welcome cross breeze cooling the room considerably. Double sets of French doors at either end were secured for the moment. The table was rectangular but not wide enough to prevent someone from leaning forward and jabbing an opponent in the face, a possible oversight by the hosts. Spectator chairs were limited to the two ends and were occupied by a mix of faces. The world press had gotten wind of the meeting at the last minute but had been strictly forbidden.

Thomas moved laterally and, one by one, warmly shook the hands of his people, including the Rangers protecting his rear. Following protocol, Thomas then stepped to where General Vasquez stood, resplendent in dress uniform, and followed his expert lead through a short receiving line of dignitaries that had formed, unannounced, out of the spectators. The introductions were brief and strained, stiff and perfunctory. Most pondered why the Americans had sent only this obscure general. When Thomas finished the chore, they quietly melted back into the woodwork.

Word had filtered to the American camp that the Russians were furious with the makeup of the US delegation. They would be bringing twice the complement, all high-level officials, or so they said, and considered the perceived affront a public slap in the face. They accused the US leadership of lacking sincerity, of sabotaging the meeting before it even started. The Spanish had been mortified but powerless. The insistence of the American general to wear battle dress fatigues had made them squirm. Thomas was hardening to the meeting, impatient with his hosts, who were walking on eggs where the Russians were concerned, and bitter toward the Russians, who were deftly playing to the world stage. McClain’s influence was beginning to weaken his intellectual defenses. He knew only too well that CINCSTRAT was winning converts back home. A possible US attack was only days away.

It galled Thomas to no end that the Russians now insisted that the whole ghastly episode was an unfortunate accident, perpetrated by unscrupulous rulers on both sides, long since dead. But survival dictated that both he and the American government swallow their thirst for revenge, ignore the blatant lies, and instead focus on preserving what remained of their suffering homeland. The Russians were content to do likewise, now far more worried about the menacing Chinese, staging on the long, unprotected border, and furious Europeans. The final straw had been the successful US air and land raids that ate into their inventory of mobile missiles. The decision to send in the US Special Forces had proven correct, paying handsome dividends. But the investment had cost hundreds of lives and chewed up valuable units. Thomas knew that few of the aircraft returned, and well over half the men were either dead or unaccounted for. Without their full complement of reserve SS-25s and SS-24s, the Russians had little left to bargain with, but plenty to do serious damage.

Thomas took his seat and waited patiently, passing the time by conferring with Collettor and Tillman. He asked her opinion on an opening statement, drawing from her substantial experience. He would be inclined to get right to the meat. Collettor was proving to be a worthwhile asset, possessing a deep understanding of the Russian character in contrast to Thomas’s own limited exposure. Thomas felt the gray-haired acting secretary of state’s gentlemanly manner might come in handy. While they waited, the buzz filling the room rose until the Spanish foreign minister signaled for silence. There was a stirring near one set of the French doors. General Vasquez stepped smartly across the room. The Russians had arrived.

The final Russian lineup had been provided one hour before start time. Leading the pack was the new foreign minister, a brute named Gennadi Burbulis. Thomas caught a glimpse through the gaggle of officials and concurred with the intelligence report. He was an active duty Russian general from the far-east who had been ordered to change stripes for appearance’s sake. He was dumpy with almost no hair and an alcoholic’s pitted face and red-veined nose. He was the one to watch, the story went, the bulldog that went for the throat.

He next recognized a marshal, the noteworthy Marshal Ivan Silayev, the old commander of the Strategic Rocket Forces, hauled out of retirement in desperation. He was the father of the former Soviets’ mobile missile force. Immaculate in a Red Army dress uniform, the old marshal appeared frail. On his heels was a tall, intense officer, standing ramrod straight, his penetrating eyes sweeping the room like an air search radar, interrogating friend or foe. His was powerfully built with a jet-black crew cut shaved close at the ears and a chiseled, swarthy face that sat on a pair of uncompromising shoulders. He momentarily locked his eyes on Thomas. Their gazes met, neither yielding. The Russian was distracted by the marshal, and broke the lock. That was Colonel General Strelkov, deputy for plans of the Strategic Rocket Forces, a fast-tracker who flew through the ranks in the early nineties. He had made general at the tender age of forty-five, incredible in the Russian military society where gray hair or a bald head was mandatory for respectability and credibility. The others in the Russian retinue were a mix of military and civilians. Thomas picked out an admiral, probably a submariner, and a thin, wisp of a man that he correctly identified as the chief interpreter. Collettor had related a worn State Department anecdote that the Russians must keep their interpreters in prison outside of required working hours, given their universally emaciated appearance and disheveled dress.

Thomas turned to Tillman. “Feed me anything you pick up.” She nodded affirmatively. “Focus on Burbulis and how he works with that general to his left,” he added, furtively fingering Strelkov. “Don’t worry about the old marshal.”

When the Russians broke ranks and headed directly toward the table, it happened. Thomas didn’t want it to happen, but it did. One seldom gets one’s way in these matters. All the mental rehearsals, the anger and frustration beaten back and tucked safely away, the cram course poured into him by the president and the State Department experts, none had prepared Thomas the moment of truth. Unbridled fury swelled from his chest and caught sideways in his throat. His sanity momentarily slipped gears, threatening to unleash the floodgates of his dark self. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, carrying pure, unfiltered hate. He had never felt like this in his life. They drew closer, these Russians who had cursed his world.

God, I can’t do this, he screamed to himself. Thomas swallowed hard, but the anger and pain wouldn’t pass. Please, Lord, help me, he begged. Tillman sensed the reaction, herself panting in shallow bursts at the building tension. She calmly put her hand on Thomas’s forearm and whispered something. He placed his fingers on the back of her hand, not turning, but nodding slightly. It hurt that she knew but helped that she understood. Thomas dug down deep, to depths he hadn’t imagined existed in his soul, searching for the strength to carry him through. “Thank you,” he said softly, his hand slipping back before the last words left his lips. The monster had been forced back into its cage for the moment.

From their stone faces cut with hate, the Russians harbored no good will either. General Vasquez was apoplectic. The Spanish foreign minister gripped his large head between his hands, ready to scream. Plans for a formal introduction were folly. No, they were potentially deadly in this volatile atmosphere. The hosts would shrink out of sight and hope for the best. Both sides glared so hostilely that the entire assemblage squirmed in their seats. The air stank like superheated steam in an old frigate’s engine room, today mixed with an aerosol mist of high-octane gasoline. One spark and the walls would blow outward in a deafening roar. It dawned on more than one sane mind in the audience that this meeting was a terrible mistake. Benton edged forward. The Russian Spetsnaz baboons guarding their leaders moved likewise.

The Russians stood awkwardly, undoubtedly expecting the Americans to rise in deference. They would be disappointed. Burbulis finally seated his contingent with a grunt. The chairs scraped and screeched across the wooden floor. A foul cloud hung over the Russian lineup. Burbulis presided over his men in the manner of a small-town judge bent on a hanging. The Spanish foreign minister started to speak but lost courage. The silence continued unabated. Thomas leaned forward toward the single chrome microphone at his place, Tillman following like the umpire over a hunkered-down catcher.

Thomas would break the ice. He took a quick survey of his team and began. His voice was steady and rock solid. “My name is General Robert Thomas, military assistant to the president of the United States, and vice chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.” He paused to read the words’ effect on the hedgerow of stubborn faces that bore the stamp of a congenital bunker mentality. Only Strelkov seemed attentive. For the rest, it was like talking to a brick wall. Thomas continued slowly, gauging his cadence to synch with Tillman’s necessarily delayed translation.

“The president desires an immediate end to hostilities and is willing to go the extra mile for peace. Too many have died; it is time to stop the fighting.” Thomas straightened, never taking his eyes off Burbulis. The old man fought to escape the stranglehold but couldn’t. His only defense was to lash out at this upstart who had the nerve to occupy the same room.

“Who are you?” he blurted out arrogantly. “Why does this president of yours send some nonperson to do his dirty work? What authority do you have?” The scarecrow next to Burbulis struggled to keep up. His nasally voice blurted out the translation in spurts, lending an accusing tone, like that of a well-oiled prosecutor. Finished for the moment, Burbulis rolled his bloodshot eyes to his comrades, and a smug look crept across his ample face.

Responding to the lead, the Russians stared at the general seated across the table. Contempt dripped from their lips. They noticed the tag on his fatigues that said US Air Force. A creature of STRATCOM, they concluded with a nod. Just like that beast, McClain, who was most certainly running the show. So, the American government had been captured by the old Strategic Air Command coterie? This new president was powerless, a puppet.

Thomas ignored the sweat beading on his brow and leaned forward once more. He squeezed his interlaced fingers resting on the table to relieve the tension. “I have complete authority, granted by the president, to negotiate in his name. You have should have no concerns, Mr. Foreign Minister.” He gestured to Major Brinkman. “I am in direct contact with the president as we speak.”

Burbulis chopped the air. The Americans and their technology! It made his sick! “No concerns, you say? This from the treacherous Americans who propelled the world down this path? The scheming Americans who had disarmed Russia through lies and deceit? The Americans, who when we defended ourselves, escalated the conflict to the cities and factories of Russia? No concerns you say? Hah!”

Burbulis’s hands trembled with rage. Thomas was watching a master in action. The anger reigniting within him threatened to explode like a smoldering volcano. Deep breaths bought only partial relief. He started to respond to the foul-breathed Russian’s accusations, to throw the lies back in his fat face, but pulled back, remembering the president’s counsel—“you’re my only hope.” Brinkman tapped Thomas on the arm, a message had come through. He leaned slowly to his left and read the backlit-twisted LCD screen. It was a personal from the president—“get past Burbulis,” it said. “He’s the bully to draw you out. The old Marshal Silayev holds the keys.” It also said something about secret communications.

Thomas boiled but realized the Russians were waiting. “The president is prepared,” Thomas began, all ears in the room hanging on each word, “to make certain unilateral confidence-building measures to show good will. This would hopefully be followed by similar moves by you.” The stone faces were unimpressed. Thomas swallowed hard and pressed on.