Red Hammer 1994 (47 page)

“I don’t know what to say, Mr. President,” Thomas said softly, a touch of sadness in his voice.

“Stop this; you have to. Don’t force me to give the order for military action. It’s madness. You know that better than anyone.” The president’s voice trembled.

“The Russians’ demands were outrageous, impossible, and they knew it,” Thomas answered evenly. “You’d be overthrown, sir, pushed aside, if you ever agreed to such terms. It was a trap, and we were suckered.” The president ignored the rationale.

“I don’t care. You have to try again. I’ll leave it up to you. What you think is best. You know what would be acceptable. You have to succeed. You have to!” The president was almost in tears.

Anger finally broke through Thomas’s mounting frustration. “I’m not a goddamn miracle worker, Mr. President. Those bastards don’t want peace. Hargesty and McClain are most-likely right.”

The president’s reply rose in intensity equal to Thomas’s. “Why do you think I sent you? I knew this might happen. Probably nothing you could have said would have mattered. But you held your ground and acquitted yourself well. You did better than you think and better than anyone I could have sent in your place. That was only the first round.” The president paused. “We have word, back-channel, that the Russians are willing to meet again. Tonight.”

“You’re kidding?” Thomas blurted. It was a stupid thing to say. The president ignored it.

“Meet with them, General Thomas. You’re our last hope. You can’t even begin to know how fervently I pray to God each and every hour that you’ll succeed and that the country will be saved.”

Thomas slowly shook his head in surrender. “I’ll try, Mr. President. I’ll try.” He readied himself for an awkward good-bye.

“There’s something else,” the president said, his voice lower, his tone cautious like a man unsure of himself—like a messenger with bad news. Thomas smelled disaster. It came before he had adequately prepared. “Your family. They said I shouldn’t tell you, not yet anyway. I disagreed. I owe it to you, General Thomas.”

Thomas shut his eyes, as if that could block the awful news. His throat constricted, and his eyes brimmed with tears. He mentally staggered, off balance, grasping for a handhold. This was too much. What did they want from him?

“The explosions near Washington. Your wife was injured, but will recover—a couple of broken bones, cuts, and bruises.” A moment of hope shone forth, a light in the endless darkness. “But your son. He was outside without a shirt. He never had a chance with the burns. So many were burned; the hospitals and burn units were overwhelmed. I had to tell you. I’m terribly sorry.”

Thomas slumped onto the bed, a deep primordial moan emanating from his lungs. He just barely managed to grip the handset. He broke into quiet sobs, the tears streaming down his cheeks. He hurt more and deeper than he ever dreamed possible.

Benton jumped to his feet. “General Thomas?” The major stepped over and placed his hand on Thomas’s shoulder, squeezing in a gesture of reassurance. “Sir, are you all right?” He sat on the bed next to Thomas.

Thomas couldn’t answer with words. Instead he nodded weakly, righting himself and wiping the most obvious tears with his rolled-up sleeve. He sat motionless and breathed slowly, staring off into space. He picked up the handset and looked at the black object like he had never seen it before. Thomas slowly raised the device to his ear. He was beaten. He swallowed hard before speaking.

“You did the right thing, Mr. President. I’ll always be grateful that you told me.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” offered the president once more.

“I suppose,” said Thomas with a sniff, “that I had better get moving if I’m going in for another round.”

“Good-bye,” the president said.

“Good-bye, Mr. President.” Thomas set the receiver in its cradle and looked over at Benton. “My son’s dead,” he said with a look that only a fellow parent could understand. “My son, who made it known to all he wouldn’t be caught dead in the military; my son, who teased me about my obsession with duty; who always told me I could make a hell of a lot more money somewhere else—is dead. Burned to death by a goddamn nuclear bomb fired by some bastard half a world away.” Thomas felt a dull lifelessness tug at his core.

“He couldn’t have died instantly. No, he had to lie in his own puss and body fluids, to dry out, in agony. It should have been me. I’m the soldier.”

Benton couldn’t answer. Thomas shifted his gaze from Benton to his own face in the mirror across the room. He felt a sudden revulsion for his chosen career, for his whole adult life, wasted, flushed down the toilet in a single sickening moment. “Fuck it. Fuck the Russians. Fuck the whole goddamn world.”

“I’m sorry about your son.” Thomas looked into Benton’s eyes and saw shared pain and fear, fear for his own family somewhere in Georgia. Memories began to flood Thomas’s thoughts. Memories of his son as a mischievous youngster. As a young man who on occasion gave his dad fits. Then he had thoughts of Sally and his daughter. What of them? It was all so confusing, so hard to understand. He had to stop trying. Thomas wiped the last of the tears and massaged his face with both hands. “I need to be alone.”

Benton understood. He silently stepped to the door and left without a word. Thomas stood to full height, surveying the extent of his current, shattered world, observing the four walls that held him prisoner. He felt like a stranger, a visitor to a hostile planet. He had no one to turn to. Thomas fell to his knees and prayed with all his might. He desperately needed help.

The grounds were deserted, a probable casualty of the afternoon’s debacle. The tropical moon cast mysterious shadows over the granite steps leading up to the conference-hall entrance. A fresco of pink angels and attentive cherubs graced the well-formed arch over the threshold, beckoning the weary and sinner alike. Thomas was surely both. He glanced up at the happy heavenly tribe and then on to the stars that spread like a canopy of sparkling lights over a world he wished were his.

Few Spaniards, or others for that matter, remained within the compound’s walls. For the hosts, only General Vasquez and a lower-level foreign ministry official dared show their faces, along with dozen of guards. Officially, Spain had washed their hands of the matter, and the UN and European observers had politely declined the rematch. The majority had already filed lengthy postmortems with dire predictions of renewed nuclear exchanges within forty-eight hours. Panic spread through the capitols of the world. Governments prayed for peace but expected the worst.

The early evening had brought little relief from the stifling daytime heat that universally plagued the tropics. The seasonal westerly breeze had vanished, the humidity hanging heavy; the thick sweetness suspended in the air was now an enemy. Such evenings shorten tempers and promote mischief. Thomas sensed an eerie and troublesome foreboding. His troops sensed it too.

The heavy crystal chandeliers were woefully inadequate, only a dull, yellow light emanated from candle-shaped bulbs. Every footstep echoed down the hall.

Thomas took stock of his band; they were holding well. He proceeded unflinching, correct and erect, every inch the officer. He suddenly realized his hip didn’t hurt—the humid tropical climate having worked wonders.

The Russians were already in place, half their afternoon numbers. The Americans took the same seats, not speaking nor paying heed to the dwindled Russian delegation. Thomas said a few words left and right then turned and placed both forearms on the table, interlacing his fingers and forming an arrow pointing directly at his opponent. The microphones were gone, unnecessary where one could hear a pin drop. The Americans had left their high-tech gear at home. Brinkman waited in the foyer with his satellite equipment.

The meeting would be informal and most-likely short. Thomas had his instructions. He studied the faces poised before him, their weary and bloodshot eyes tracking his. It was an odd feeling, much different from the anger that overwhelmed him in the afternoon. The still night seemed to have sucked the aggressiveness out of them all. Thomas felt a numbing resignation to the whole affair.

Gone were the Russian interpreter and the other foreign ministry bureaucrats. Seated opposite Thomas was the old marshal, Silayev, while Burbulis, looking exhausted, was to the right, not quite so imperious. The climate seemed to be taking a heavy toll on the obese Russian. The fire was gone from his gray eyes, now lifeless and dull; his cheeks sagged under mussed hair. Perspiration collected on his wrinkled forehead and dripped to the table. Strelkov was to the left, angry and defiant still, smarting from his personal humiliation. His dark eyes and swarthy complexion basked in the waxen light, happily at home where the shadows ruled. He was that kind of man. The veins and muscles in his neck bulged in anticipation.

Silayev looked strangely out of place. One would have thought he had been transported in time as his uniform and physical appearance remained unchanged from the afternoon session. His remaining white hair was neatly combed, his chalky face dry and unemotional. But his deep blue eyes flashed intelligence and a sound wisdom, even for an enemy. Thomas had missed it in the first confrontation. He had ignored the president’s instructions to his own detriment. He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

The two ranks sat quietly for the longest time, neither side anxious to start. Maybe due to the fear of failure, the somber mood sobered the room. Or, just maybe, they were all exhausted.

The old marshal spoke to Tillman, his voice surprisingly strong and steady.

“He says that I should interpret for both parties,” Tillman said with a touch of surprise. Thomas nodded approval.

Silayev calmly removed a silver cigarette case from his tunic and cleverly popped it open with one hand. He removed a lone smoke then glanced up and shoved the case across the table at Thomas as casually as if the two were sharing a drink at a local neighborhood bar. His experienced eyes captured Thomas’s intense gaze, a shoulder shrug from the marshal passed for an offer.

“Tell the marshal no thank you,” he said to Tillman. Silayev was unfazed by the rejection. He lit his cigarette, his thoughts elsewhere, obviously delighting in the first drag of the thick smoke. His exhaled smoke mixed with the curling trail from the cigarette’s tip, spiraling toward the ceiling. One of the chandeliers was flickering off in a corner. Diffracted light from the handful of outside floods filtered through open windows. The inside temperature was several degrees warmer than outdoors.

“It seems we are at an impasse,” Silayev said matter-of-factly, sounding disappointed. “Perhaps the general has some thoughts? I’m afraid our position still stands, and given the gravity of events, is quite reasonable and moral. Many others agree.”

Thomas gave Silayev a noncommittal grunt. Collettor cleared his throat and looked down. The other Americans sensed a building storm. The Rangers, who had been at parade rest to the rear, stiffened.

“Unfortunately, your offer is unacceptable,” Thomas announced clearly, all through Tillman. The Russian faces tightened. “However, there may be a middle ground.”

Burbulis poised to jump in, but Silayev cut him off with a chop of his hand. Burbulis fumed, but obediently remained silent. Silayev was definitely calling the shots. He prompted Thomas to continue with a professorial nod of his white head.

“We can’t be expected to turn our ballistic-missile submarines and bombers over to some third party to be impounded and destroyed. The issue, rightly or wrongly, is sovereignty, and that we, the United States of America, will determine what happens to our nuclear weapons.” Thomas calmly poured himself a half glass of ice water. It tasted wonderful as it slid down his dry throat. His hand was steady as a rock; his mind was surprisingly clear. The Russians were becoming impatient. Thomas drained the last of the water and continued.

“We could place our submarines and bombers under observation, out of operational range, but under our control. Likewise for yours. We would even provide the overhead imagery to the UN or whomever to monitor our systems.”

Strelkov dismissed the idea with a huff. Preposterous, he seemed to be saying. Silayev permitted his mate’s body language to stand as the official group response.

“Tokenism,” Strelkov said with a wave of his strong hand, “a sham. They could be brought to bear in hours. What proof do we have that they wouldn’t?” His black eyes bored in on Thomas.

Silayev nodded. “That is the question, isn’t it? Trust?”

The old marshal pulled himself upright in his chair, smoothing out the wrinkles in his Red Army tunic. He conducted inventory and dusted a fleck of lint off his sleeve.

“We must change our thinking,” he said without preaching. “The past is immaterial, irrelevant. I’ve seen much in my day, the most horrible judgmental errors and fools acting as if they could actually control human events to their liking. But the last week has shown how wrong we have all been.”

Thomas’s ears perked to the barest hint of an apology. The marshal continued in his pleasant, but cutting tone.

“I see the difficulty of our proposal, but what would you have us do? Your submarines hold us hostage, threatening to turn already considerable destruction into annihilation. They have to go. We have little left, but we will not be hesitant to use it,” he said, his voice rising at the conclusion. So much for an apology, thought Thomas as the words crashed on the table. The effect was not lost on the Americans.

Thomas had played the unfolding script an hour earlier while washing up, his version having strayed from this ever so slightly. The Russians were as predictable as their pathetic annual grain harvest. But to be brutally honest, Thomas couldn’t fault their argument or their hesitancy to sign up to an American promise of fidelity based on blind faith. No, the old Soviets would require an air-tight contract, the facts and figures scratched in indelible ink, duly notarized and blessed from above. Nothing changes, Thomas mused. The world marches to its own drummer, with an inertia that man can only dream of impacting.