Red Hammer 1994 (41 page)

The president was unfazed. His troubled thoughts were elsewhere. “I understand how you feel. But I want it clearly understood that nothing is to be done that could jeopardize our efforts at negotiations. Our forces are to be disengaged as planned and only act in self-defense. Any offensive operations must be explicitly approved by me. That includes actions against third parties.” It was a short, well-rehearsed speech that he had given repeatedly in the last two days. The tone told the story. Military commanders were dragging their feet. No one wanted to throw away hard won gains.

“Yes, sir,” Hargesty nodded. He himself had heard it on more than one occasion.

The president slid a red plastic folder marked, “Damage/Civilian Casualties Estimate,” in front of him. He opened it. His mood darkened noticeably. Military matters provided a temporary refuge, a chess game to avoid the pain and suffering beating at the door. They were all reluctant to face the terrible civilian death toll and destruction head-on.

“These are the latest casualty numbers,” the chief of staff remarked. His voice trembled. Thomas grimaced as he scanned the summary. The figures were lower than early initial estimates, but still abhorrent, and climbing daily. A number over fifteen million was shocking, unbelievable. The military dead paled in comparison. But he had yet to witness the devastation firsthand. None of them had. They circumvented the duty based on security concerns, but deep down they were terrified it would cripple their objectivity and decision making. Sooner or later, they would have to face the devil in person.

The president spoke softly to the group, in a matter-of-fact voice. “I’m told that if we don’t act decisively in the next week, these numbers could double within two months. Food shortages are epidemic, and fuel is almost nonexistent. Civil order is collapsing.”

The president looked straight at Hargesty. His face tightened. “I need all our troops for reconstruction and soon. That means a total pullback from overseas.”

Hargesty took a deep breath and tugged at the stubble on his head. He had been prepared for this. Juggling conflicting requirements from the president and the theater Commanders-in-Chiefs was proving impossible. Time and the numbers were against them.

“It’s not that easy, Mr. President. A total pullback would leave a vacuum that would lead to anarchy. Foreign governments are biding their time, waiting to see what happens to us. Skirmishes have already started on more than one border. There are old scores to settle, and most have correctly concluded that they won’t have to worry about the United States sticking its nose in their business. Then there are overseas resources. We’ve got to be able to play that game.”

The president began to doodle intently on the yellow legal pad resting before him. He drew a box and inscribed the word “survival,” then underlined it repeatedly. He seemed totally absorbed but suddenly looked up.

“The country’s recovery is paramount. Nothing else matters. Continuing to fight overseas is pointless. If the world goes to hell, so be it.”

Hargesty leaned forward to answer. He’d give it one more shot. “I have to disagree, Mr. President. Once we retreat, it will be impossible to reverse course. Forward deployment has been the cornerstone of our military strategy since World War II. We should hang on as best we can. We need the clout to secure resources. We need to rebuild coalitions.”

Hargesty’s argument was lost on the president. He continued to scribble, disinterested. “I’m well aware of that. But we have to establish economic viability at home. Otherwise we’re doomed. People are terrified. The country is at a standstill. We need to reestablish order. And the troops can do that.”

“We’ll never get economic viability without access to overseas resources,” replied Hargesty forcefully.

The president looked up sternly, cutting off the debate. “My mind’s made up. I want to see a redeployment plan. General?” the president inquired, arching his brow.

“I will ensure your orders are carried out, sir.”

The president stood, leaning on the back of his chair. His eyes were glued to a large map of the United States hanging from the far bulkhead. State boundaries were superimposed on a two-dimensional colored-relief format. “The country’s falling apart. The States are screaming, and there’s nothing I can do. Anarchy’s spreading from coast to coast. FEMA has been overwhelmed. I fear a total breakdown of authority then mass starvation and epidemics. God knows how we’re going to make it through the winter.”

The president closed his puffy eyes and slowly rubbed his brow. One of his now-frequent headaches was returning. “Have you read about Europe during the Black Death?” he addressed no one in particular. “One-third of the population of Europe perished, maybe more. Corpses were stacked like cordwood, waiting to be burned. Starving peasants ate grass, and in some cases, each other. Whole towns ceased to exist. Terror gripped their lives for years; recovery took decades.” An uncomfortable silence ensued, broken only by an occasional cough.

“We need every American soldier we can get our hands on. Governors and military commanders are grumbling. A few have openly defied orders, questioning the legitimacy of the government. That’s why we need to seize control of all surviving industrial production to ensure equitable distribution. I never dreamed I’d be an ardent supporter of martial law, but it’s the only path leading out of this wilderness.”

Finished, he gazed at his audience. His voice had a pathetic touch of sadness. “I want a plan to get those troops home, General Hargesty.”

Thomas didn’t say a word. He had been uncharacteristically quiet during the discussion. He sensed the president had something else in mind for him.

“That’s all,” the president said abruptly. They all rose in unison and formed a loose file. “General Thomas, please stay. I have a matter I’d like to discuss.”

Thomas extracted himself from those exiting and stood with his hands on his hips. He ignored the glares of the others. He was used to it.

“Let’s sit on the couch,” the president said with a sweep of his arm. Thomas obliged.

The president offered a warm, pleasant expression, not a smile, but a face filled with gratitude.

“You’ve served me well these past few days. I appreciate your candor and loyalty.”

Thomas appreciated the words. He needed them. “You’re welcome, sir.”

The president pulled himself closer, his tired eyes suddenly alive. “But now, I have a critical mission for you.” The president pulled a folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket and handed it to Thomas. Thomas unfolded the message and began to scan the twenty or so lines of text.

“It’s a transmission from our ambassador in Switzerland. He received it from the Japanese Ambassador. Supposedly, it’s credible. We have no way of knowing for sure.” By then Thomas was halfway down the page, studying each line. It was an offer from the Russians for direct negotiations, at a place of the Americans’ choosing. Thomas had to force down his cynicism. So far contact with the Russians had been spotty at best and through questionable intermediaries. But this was different, more direct. It had the proper tone that piqued Thomas’s interest.

“What about the Russians’ buildup? It’s real; I’ve seen it.” Thomas said.

“I understand,” answered the president. “It’s not entirely clear who’s in charge over there. This could be some splinter group.” The president locked onto Thomas’s eyes. “But it could be legitimate. I have to take the chance.”

Thomas nodded agreement. They both understood that they were on the threshold of renewed, large-scale fighting.

“I’m asking you to go and meet the Russians in my place. My heart says it should be me, but my head realizes my duty is here.” The president leaned back. “You’ll have full authority to represent the government, and I’ll accept any terms you get. You pick your team.”

Thomas was stunned. He believed with all his heart that the president was right—the fighting had to stop. But an inexorable force was building against them, a mountain of fear and hate pushing everything out of its way. He was tired, more tired than he had ever been in his life. He felt inadequate and very, very small.

“You’re hesitating?”

“I’m a soldier, sir, not a diplomat. There’s no room for error on this. Are you sure?”

“That’s precisely why I picked you. There’s no time for analysis and rehashing proposals. No developing negotiating positions. One pass, that’s all we’ll get. The person I send has to think on his feet. I have the utmost confidence in you.”

Thomas looked at the man he had come to respect. “I’ll do my best.” He couldn’t believe what he’d just said.

“I know you will.” The president stood, signaling Thomas to do likewise. “So far, very few people know about this. I want to keep it that way for now. When you’re safely on your way, I’ll spread the word. There are leaders who would be bitterly opposed to this.”

“I understand,” replied Thomas. Within seconds, he had come up with his own short list of people who would be more than happy to put a bullet in his head to stop such negotiations. “It won’t be easy on your end either, Mr. President.”

“I’m prepared for the worst.” They would both be playing a dangerous game. The president stuck out his hand. It was steady as a rock. Thomas grabbed it firmly.

“It’s up to you and me,” the president said, “Go make peace, General Thomas, and God be with you.” When Thomas let go of the president’s hand, the air force four-star general had tears in his eyes.

CHAPTER 34

Rawlings and Gonzales squatted, carefully examining a laminated map, which detailed the surrounding territory for fifty miles square, their assigned patrol area and supposed home to a battery of Russian SS-25 mobile ICBMs. The last satellite dump hadn’t provided the slightest clue as to where the transporter/erector launchers, or TELs, might be hiding, and the day’s ineffective patrolling hadn’t gleaned much either. The high point of the patrols had been tire tracks in a patch of damp soil that resembled an SS-25 transporter’s unique tread pattern. The telltale signature had disappeared after half a mile down a side road that dead-ended at an impassable ravine. They had been warned about the Russians’ proclivity toward deception, and the ICBM troopers were the best in the business. Rawlings and his men were looking for a needle in a haystack, where the haystack would be trying its best to kill them.

The tall stand of trees surrounding the Green Berets’ clandestine base camp blocked the direct sunlight, scattering constantly varying shadows about but trapping the day’s heat. Rawlings wiped his dirty and sweaty brow with the back of his hand and replaced his floppy camouflaged bush hat. Black-and-green grease paint still covered his freckled face, the pattern now broken by cuts and scratches sustained when crashing through the thick underbrush in the right-hand seat of the FAV. They were all tired, nerves frayed. Rawlings secretly hoped for contact with the Russians. Anything to break the tension. The Special Forces captain stood and stretched while Gonzales stayed put, still studying the grease-pencil-marked map.

“I don’t know. Maybe we should try more to the north. It looks open,” Rawlings said. The overwhelming stillness floating through the air made him feel like he was in a cathedral. The unnatural quiet wore on them.

Gonzales frowned. “Maybe, but that terrain twenty miles out will play hell with trying to get the jump on the Ruskies.” Rawlings had given up on stealth or tactical surprise. Time was running out. And, for some crazy reason, he just wanted to get it over with. He wanted to search and clear their assigned map grid and then head west and try to make it to the Baltics. He grimaced. Hundreds of miles, much over flat, open steppes. It was a joke. But what the hell.

“This crap around here is too thick. We can’t make decent time or cover any ground. It is great for an ambush—theirs.”

Gonzales rolled his parched tongue around his lips and furrowed his brow. “You might be right. They’d expect our flyers to concentrate on the thicker forests. Maybe we should move the camp?”

“We’ll stay put, and see how it goes tonight.”

“Sounds good, Captain,” Gonzales said with a touch of indifference. He rose and moved off to check on the Team. He too had drawn a blank on creative thinking.

Rawlings walked over to his men sprawled out next to one of the FAVs. “Sergeant Pickford,” he said in a hushed voice, “we’ll move out at 1900 hours.”

Pickford glanced up, and then the lean, black sergeant nodded slowly and turned to the others. “OK, fellows, let’s draw straws and see who stays.” The twelve men in an A-Team come in twos. There are two officers, medics, comms, ops/intel, heavy weapons, and light weapons. Four would stay with the gear and one of the FAVs, the backup. Everyone begged to go, figuring that the stragglers would be dead meat once the shooting started.

Rawlings broke open a box of MREs and rummaged to find something suitable. He headed to the nearest fallen tree for a backrest. Not really hungry, he sliced open the heavy olive-green pouch with his knife and began to pick at the food. He sighed and looked off into the distance. The day had been unproductive. Rawlings knew he was being cautious. The others sensed it but didn’t complain or second guess. He wanted to get oriented, get his feet on the ground. Tonight would be their first real test.