Red Hammer 1994 (48 page)

“I think we’re all tired of the theatrics, the posturing, and the charges and countercharges,” Thomas offered without apology. “You’re absolutely correct, Marshal Silayev, it boils down to trust, and that is sorely lacking, perhaps irretrievably.” His voice had a sarcastic cast that incensed all but Silayev. The marshal feigned indignation, watching carefully, observing each facial muscle movement, every blink of an eye. The tension level escalated amid the silence.

Before Thomas could continue, Brinkman came crashing into the main hall, out of breath, his pudgy face as white as a sheet. He aimed for Thomas and thrust a printout in front of the general.

“Sir,” he stammered, “from the command center.” Brinkman bent over, hands on knees, unable to catch his breath. The others looked on in astonishment.

Thomas swiftly read the three simple lines of text, his blood pressure ratcheting up a notch with each hard carriage return. “Forces placed at DEFCON TWO—attack imminent. Satellite coverage indicates Russian mobile ICBMs commencing launch preparations. US forces readied for EAM receipt. President wants recommendation ASAP. Hargesty.”

Thomas did his best to hide the news, but failed, his face losing color, his jaw tightening in distress, not determination. The Russians sat passive, pensive, yet somehow knowing. Thomas suppressed the urge to curse and scream and hurl himself at the wall of SOBs opposite him. Instead he turned inward; the moment of truth had arrived. The solution lay within. Did he have the strength, the courage?

Thomas passed the message to Collettor who gasped, all but paralyzed. He lowered his head within his folded arms. The Russians keyed in on this much more dramatic response.

Thomas took in the scene deliberately, scanning left to right, drinking in the moment. He would remember this simple room the rest of his life, this misplaced, out-of-date reminder of another, much more refined age. He recalled the president’s plea—you must succeed at all costs. Thomas stood abruptly, his ice-blue eyes ablaze, his fists resting knuckles down on the table in confidence. The collective teams jerked in startled unison.

Strelkov jumped to his feet, cursing. Burbulis failed at the same maneuver, instead acquiescing to an upright position that required the assistance of a Spetsnaz trooper. Guards of three nationalities positioned. Thomas’s eyes locked on the marshal, seemingly to grab him by the collar and raise him from his chair in one swift motion. Silayev sensed the rock-hard resolve. It left him flustered. Two Americans reached to haul Thomas back. He politely shoved them away.

“Trust,” Thomas announced. “There’s no other way.” His words filled the room but left the impression they were meant for others.

Silayev displayed confusion for the first time. It was Strelkov who once again answered.

“What are you talking about? Some sort of cowboy showdown? You have been watching too many of your movies, my friend.”

Thomas stared the colonel general of the Strategic Rocket Forces into the ground. Strelkov took a step back.

“I’m going to go with you.”

“What sort of trick is this?” Strelkov shot back. “We are not fools.” He whispered a warning to Silayev.

By now everyone was standing. Colonel Hopkins became unnerved. “You can’t be serious, General; I won’t allow you. They’ll pump you full of drugs and drain your brain. The president would never allow this. You know too much.”

Collettor jumped in. “He’s right, General, you have no authority to do such a thing.”

Thomas turned and looked at the two, annoyed, but forgiving. “The president gave me full authority over this mission,” he said. “I answer to no one.”

Hopkins turned to Benton. “I’m ordering you to stop him, Major.” The Russians were still confused, the Americans only slightly less. Benton didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward and looked Thomas in the eye.

“General Thomas, I’ll go with you.” Thomas placed his hand on Benton’s shoulder.

“No, Major, this is my hand to play.”

“This is madness,” shouted Collettor. “The president will be horrified.”

“You’re a traitor to your country,” barked Hopkins. Thomas turned on the colonel in a fury. He stood face-to-face, almost striking him, but instead brought his finger to within an inch of Hopkins’s nose. “Shut your damn mouth. And stay out of my way.” The colonel backed off. “I was just—”

“Shut up!” thundered Thomas.

The room was dead silent. “Want an interpreter, General?” Sarah Tillman offered with determination. “I might come in handy.” Thomas thought hard.

“I can’t ask that of you.”

“You don’t have to ask, sir; it would be my privilege.”

When Thomas turned the Russians were in a huddle. They’d glance his way and then bury their heads once again. After a few minutes of awkwardness, the Russians broke.

“Do you expect someone, something in return?” Silayev asked.

“No,” Thomas answered. The Russians were incredulous.

Thomas pulled his cap from the table and moved through the Americans. They shook hands in turn. At the end of the receiving line, Benton stood proudly.

“Major Benton,” Thomas said, holding his hand outstretched, “I want you to find my wife and daughter, tell them both I love them. And report personally to the president. Tell him I did my best, and that my prayers are with him.”

The hardened Ranger snapped to attention and crisply saluted. “Yes, sir.”

Thomas returned the tribute. “It’s been an honor, Major. I mean that.” Thomas wheeled in place and marched round the table. He didn’t hesitate as he stepped across the imaginary line into the enemy’s camp. He anticipated the ritual as he stopped, ramrod straight, arms raised, ready for the frisk. The Spetsnaz troopers converged and obliged, thoroughly, yet respectfully. With one at each elbow, Thomas stepped to Silayev and once again captured the old marshal with his eyes.

“Shall we go?”

Silayev showed no emotion, only grudging respect. Even the sullen Strelkov stood his distance.

“Yes, we will go.” He then turned to Strelkov. “Contact Moscow immediately. Tell them what has happened.”

Thomas took a last look at the Americans across the table. “Strange,” he thought, “how different the room looked from this side of the table.” The American air force general, emissary of the president, and vice chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, walked off, surrounded by the enemy. There was no turning back.

Thomas exited immersed in a sea of Russians. Stepping into the milky moonlight, Thomas stopped, his escorts bracing to shove onward, but told to hold by someone’s silent command. Thomas raised his head to the heavens and admired the multitude of stars, brighter than before, blazing against the inky blackness, magnificent and awe inspiring in their stark mystery that never lost its freshness. The nocturnal breeze had resumed from the west with a refreshing coolness. He smelled the flowers again, their fragrance carried aloft, pungent and spicy, and for a moment, he thought he heard approving words from the president whispered in his ear.

“Your imagination,” he mused. He grunted softly, a small dose of reality breaking the magic spell. For the first time in a week, Bob Thomas felt at peace.