Red Hammer 1994

by Ratcliffe, Robert

  Thomas’s mind drifted down another channel. He recalled a dry textbook he read over fifteen years ago, which clinically described the aftermath of a limited nuclear exchange between the United States and the former Soviet Union involving economic targets. Only three hundred to five hundred large weapons were needed to destroy a vast majority of the heavy industrial base in each country. What he had found incredible were the detailed graphs developed from sophisticated computer models showing recovery as a function of time. In some scenarios, only five years were required for total recovery—a span he found patently fraudulent. He wondered if deep in some underground bunker the computer analysts and their models were grinding away, predicting how soon the nation would return to an acceptable level of economic production, one that could sustain the surviving population. If he failed, their FORTRAN models would be nothing more than harsh reminders of a failed age.

  A rap on the cabin door roused Thomas from his pointless reflections. “Enter.” It was Benton. The normally reticent major almost cracked a smile at catching Thomas in his underwear.

  “Fifteen minutes to touchdown, General Thomas. The men are ready.” Benton pulled back through the aluminum door. After the ground rules had been communicated—no weapons allowed by the opposing parties once off the planes—Benton had handpicked his most capable hand-to-hand fighters. He wasn’t taking any chances in some crowded conference room if a free-for-all erupted.

  The jumbo jet banked starboard for the final run to Tenerife, capital of the Canary Islands situated off the west coast of Africa. The Canary group consisted of five main islands and smaller odds and ends sprinkled about. Owned and administered by Spain, they provided neutral territory where the belligerents could meet. Despite Spain’s persistent flirtation with NATO, the Russians acquiesced, considering the alternatives unacceptable. Symbolically, Tenerife was nearly equidistant from the Russian and American capitals.

  The Spanish government had arranged comfortable quarters in town and a meeting hall well away from the crowds. They had also established strict rules of conduct. The United Nations had hoped to be cohosts but was in chaos, acting more like terrified patrons fleeing a theater fire than a world body concerned with the fate of the earth. The nation states most concerned were the Europeans. Closest to the conflagration by treaty and geography, they felt the heat and had the most to lose if negotiations collapsed. The next round of strikes, if it came to that, would most certainly be violent and widespread. Facing annihilation, the Americans and the Russians wouldn’t care if innocent bystanders got caught in the crossfire. The Spanish had permitted their European neighbors observer status for the talks, but they were strictly forbidden to communicate with either party. The warning was unnecessary. America’s allies were avoiding her like the plague.

  It had been lonely over the Atlantic. All commercial air traffic had scattered to the four corners of the globe the day fighting broke out. Thomas and his group had the skies to themselves. The Russians would be the only other plane in the air that morning, coming from the northeast.

  The Russian delegation was a mystery. Each side was groping in the dark. Some pundits said the new Russian president was a second-tier party boss from Saint Petersburg. But all agreed the Russian military held the real power. Was it any different in the United States? Thomas thought. The civilians wouldn’t admit it, but they silently lived that reality daily. A united US military leadership could pull the plug on any government. The odds were slim; however, as the distasteful prospect of ruling a crippled nation of over two-hundred-million hungry, terrified people was anathema to the generals and admirals. It wasn’t in their blood. The civilians correctly sensed that reluctance, both sides acknowledging boundaries, sensitive to time-honored customs and traditions.

  The rest of the Russians’ current leadership was shrouded in a fog. Only time would tell if the new ruler had the authority to commit the Russians to anything. That was the Americans’ greatest fear—a fragmented Russian leadership spinning out of control.

  Thomas knew the mirror image impacted the Russians equally. Did the new American president control anything besides a ragtag party of Washington’s erstwhile elite? Confidence building was the watchword for both sides. Enemies would struggle to resurrect the trust that had been slowly fabricated, layer by delicate layer over the years, and which had evaporated in seconds less than one week prior.

  The big plane touched down in black puffs of burnt rubber and screeching brakes. It taxied to a designated holding pen on the tarmac and was quickly surrounded by heavily armed Spanish troops. Light-armored vehicles sat off to the side. A contingent of officials was moving forward even before the big engines began to coast down. Steps on wheels rolled from a nearby hanger. The greeting was done with military precision.

  Air Force One’s forward cabin door swung open. Benton was the first one through, fitted out in full battle dress, sweeping his head from left to right, giving his personal seal of approval before any of the others would be permitted through the portal. At the bottom of the steps, he was unceremoniously relieved of his M-4A and pistol and patted down. A thorough check with metal detectors would come later and at more than one location. The Spanish hadn’t ruled out the possibility of cached or air-dropped weapons and less-than-honest intent. The Americans and Russians wouldn’t be allowed to pass gas without the hosts knowing it firsthand.

  Thomas followed the other Rangers, who fanned out in a semicircle, weaponless, determined to protect their leader with bare hands, if necessary. He squinted in the bright tropical sun, having shunned sunglasses that made him look like a third-world dictator. His hip had settled into a dull ache that he all but ignored. His wounded arm was healing nicely. At the bottom of the portable steps, a Spanish general officer stepped up and snapped a proper salute.

  “General Antonio Vasquez. A pleasure to meet you, General Thomas.” He wasn’t smiling. “My men will help you with your baggage and equipment. Once off the plane, you will not be allowed to return until your departure.” His English was excellent and his manners impeccable. His aide stood open handed. Thomas unholstered his pistol and presented it with a slap to the palm.

  “I will be your host during your stay,” the general continued. “If you please, we must leave. The Russians will be landing momentarily, and they insist that the American delegation be off the premises before they commit to a final approach.”

  Thomas grunted in the affirmative. The bastards were already pissing him off before he had even seen their faces. The Spanish soldiers had the Americans’ equipment off the plane and headed for waiting vans. The retinue fell in behind Thomas. The Spanish general herded Thomas to the lead sedan, kindly offering the backseat. The American ambassador had begged to be present but had been rebuffed—wrong party. Some things never change, thought Thomas.

  Thomas’s chauffeur wasted no time. He gunned the engine and headed for the airport’s sprawling main gate. Spanish soldiers crawled over the entire complex, blocking intersections and searching everyone in sight. Thomas’s Spanish host refrained from chitchat, which suited him just fine. He stared blankly at the passing palms, the tropical shrubbery that exploded in color, and the typically worn and architecturally varied structures that lined the highway, all of which gave these island paradises their special flavor. Probably a great vacation spot, he mused. But not for him.

  CHAPTER 36

  Thomas paused at the threshold of the ornate wooden doorway, bracketed by twin potted palms and spit-shined Spanish Marines. He felt a gut-churning anticipation like a Roman gladiator of the first century. Twenty paces down the polished wooden floor lay his personal arena. The American team had preceded him to the appointed meeting place by half an hour to handle the logistics. At the negotiating table, the acting secretary of state, William Collettor, would be on his immediate right, while Major Brinkman, the army communications man would be to his left. Collettor had been selected by the president for his scholarly expertise on the Russians, including a crude underst
anding of the language. In a pinch, he could perform double duty as an interpreter. He was an elderly gentleman of medium build with gray hair, who hadn’t weathered the week well. Thomas had questioned his suitability, but felt he couldn’t hurt.

  Brinkman was a bookish-looking man with a bald head and a very un-army body, who specialized in satellite communications and was a whiz with the latest communications technology. The major would have a portable satellite transceiver complete with CRT, keyboard, and crypto at his disposal. A coax cable ran through an open window to a small dish antenna on a tripod pointed at the nearest DSCS satellite. He would sit like an attentive court recorder, capturing the dialogue on the fly, sending words in chunks directly to the president and his team. Back at the hotel, a secure voice link had been established for more lengthy consultations, a post-game wrap-up. The military used the term “hot wash-up” for such conversations. The president had insisted that communications be kept to the bare minimum in order to not signal confusion or weakness. Thomas felt secure that he wouldn’t be micromanaged, at least initially.

  Lieutenant Colonel Hopkins, a trim, midforties McClain staffer with thinning brown hair and wire-rim aviator-style glasses, would sit next on the left. His weapon was a powerful pizza-box-sized engineering workstation. His machine contained three million lines of C program code developed and optimized to analyze different negotiating positions in near real time. It was a direct descendent of the software programs written for STRATCOM ad-hoc targeting, but much tighter and cleaner. Classified top secret, there had been reluctance to expose the sensitive algorithms to compromise. Thomas had balked at bringing STRATCOM’s wunderkind, regardless of security concerns. Thomas knew for a fact Hopkins had spent considerable private time with Hargesty and McClain reviewing potential strategic options. He couldn’t hold that against the reserved colonel, who calmly read a novel on the flight over. In the current electrically charged atmosphere, people tended to gravitate to known masters, and Thomas certainly wasn’t that.

  The Russian language interpreter, a slender young woman in her early thirties, had come from the NSC staff where she had been a rising star. Her name was Sarah Tillman. She was of medium stature with short-cropped chestnut-brown hair that flowed around an attractive Mediterranean face. Tillman would sit directly behind Thomas, whispering, translating verbatim the torrent of Russian expected to be thrown his way. His words would be translated by his opposing number’s aide, with an alert Tillman hopefully keeping the intended meaning pure. It would be a thankless task, but Thomas had been assured that the woman was the best in the business. Thomas talked to her briefly on board Air Force One, and she seemed bright, dedicated, and to have no delusions about the upcoming battle. She would be center stage and could scuttle the entire process with one honest slip.

  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 sta
tement, 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.