Red Hammer 1994

by Ratcliffe, Robert

  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.

  “These steps would be followed by a general ceasefire, under the auspices of the United Nations, with observers permitted at all key command posts and weapons depots in both countries. The president wishes to stress his willingness to take the first step.” Thomas forged ahead, despite the reaction of the people opposite, who appeared as if they had just been offered poison.

  “All US strategic bombers and tactical aircraft in Europe and Asia will begin a pullback to the continental United States. This would be followed by—”

  “Nonsense,” blasted Burbulis so loudly the walls shook. “Cosmetics. I will tell you what you will do.” The room gasped at the breach of etiquette—the Americans had the floor. The obese ex-general had to refresh his memory as to the party line. He crouched low and whispered with Strelkov. The intense colonel general of the Strategic Rocket Forces spun a furious torrent of words into Burbulis’s waiting ear, tapping the table strenuously in accompaniment. Thomas let him play his game.

  The old man nodded and shook his sagging jowls in defiance, like a lion after the kill. “First,” he said, jabbing a sausage-like finger in Thomas’s face, “you will fly all your bombers to Latin America, where they will be turned over to the host countries for internment, until after a permanent peace treaty. We shall do the same, to African airports. The arrangements have already been made.”

  Thomas blanched. The Russians didn’t have enough bombers left to mention, while the United States still retained fifty or sixty operational B-1Bs, B-2s, and old cruise-missile carrying B-52s.

  “Next,” Burbulis said with a flair and a thump on the felt-covered hardwood table, “all your Trident submarines, along with our Delta and Typhoon ballistic-missile submarines, will report to desig
nated European ports, to be put under United Nations guard before they are summarily scrapped. Only skeleton crews will be allowed to remain. Attack submarines are excluded.” Burbulis swung to the audience, who beamed in anticipation with a renewed sense of hope. “We consider this a worthy sacrifice to peace, to part with these seaborne weapons of mass destruction, a gift to future generations, if you will.” He nodded his massive head, very pleased with himself. The room overflowed with gasps of wonderment and spontaneous excitement; a torrent of whispers resonated to a crescendo that threatened to blow out the windows. The Spanish repeatedly called for silence. “Once these actions have been taken, peace will fall into our laps. It is quite easy, you see.”

  Hopkins punched numbers into his workstation in an avalanche of keystrokes. The initial results trickling down the screen were sickly and catastrophic. His stricken face must have mirrored the panic sweeping his STRATCOM bosses back home. Burbulis had conveniently omitted ICBMs, where the Russians still had the edge, and verification was all but impossible. Thomas’s mind went blank. In all the detailed preparations, they had never considered a move such as this. The Russian missile boats had been slaughtered wholesale and sent to watery graves in the Pacific and Atlantic. They might have one or two left. The Russians were pushing unilateral disarmament at the Americans’ expense, and the rest of the world, especially the Europeans, would give a standing ovation. Nothing would please them more than for America to rid herself of the Tridents.

  Burbulis delightedly watched Thomas squirm; a sinister smile curled the corners of his thick-lipped mouth. “These are the only terms acceptable to the Russian government. We shall see if this American president truly wants peace.” Burbulis broke into a grin that sent shivers down Thomas’s spine. Every second he hesitated worked against him. He pressed forward.

  “The Foreign Minister has conveniently omitted ICBMs from his offer. Perhaps he wishes to rethink the proposal.”

  “They are destroyed,” Burbulis countered. “They are not a factor. Your Special Forces were very clever and very effective, I must admit.” The Russian chess master was using the Americans’ own success against them. It was mate in two moves.

  “Our satellites show otherwise,” Thomas shot back. “Hundreds of mobile ICBMs remain in your inventory. In fact, you were in violation of the START Treaty levels by as many as three hundred missiles.”

  Burbulis dismissed the charge with a wave of his liver-spotted hand. “Speculation,” he demurred. “You Americans see mobile missiles under every tree and rock. We have a standing offer for observers. If they dare brave the fallout from your indiscriminate attacks against our country.” Burbulis looked to the old marshal, who sat pensively. “Perhaps you have real proof?” Then to Strelkov. “But then, maybe not,” he said with a huff.

  Thomas’s clear blue eyes were on fire. His throat ached from holding back the tide of epithets. His fury was beyond containment. “Your terms are on the surface most appealing, Foreign Minister,” he said with a snort, “but I’m afraid a short history lesson is in order. Your country precipitated this war with a brutal-and-savage surprise attack,” he said, his face seething with anger. “The United States rightly defended itself. Your plan failed miserably but not until after the deaths of millions of our citizens, but now we have the advantage. Your so-called terms are nothing more than a ploy to gain through deceit what you failed through treachery.”

  The bulky Burbulis pushed himself from his seat with his massive arms and arched forward across the table, toppling his microphone and nearly knocking his interpreter to the floor. He raised his trembling fist and sent it crashing to the wood with a thud. “I will not be lectured by you. Why are you so reluctant to part with your precious Tridents?” Burbulis hunched forward like a linebacker ready to charge. “Perhaps it is because you wish to annihilate the Russian people, to further your monstrous attacks. We attacked only military targets, while your bombers and missiles struck the very heart of our country, including our beloved Moscow. You are the butchers; the world will know.” Tillman was now performing double duty, her Russian counterpart incapable of coping with the stress and invective. She didn’t mince words; Thomas needed to know.

  Thomas felt himself being inexorably sucked into a black hole. “We have not attacked your cities; you know that’s a goddamn lie.”

  “You Americans are no better than the Nazis. Your extermination campaigns in Vietnam are proof. And you will have the same fate as Hitler and his SS cronies. We will fight you to the bitter end. The Russian people will never surrender.” His voice rose to a shrill cry. “The world knows who the aggressors are. It is the Americans who refuse to embrace peace. You wish to terrify and bully the entire world with your nuclear weapons!”

  A chord snapped in Thomas’s brain. He thrust himself forward into the Russian’s flushed face. The muscles in his arms flexed and bulged with rage, his hands balled into fists. “Hundreds of years and two revolutions in the last eighty have not changed the Russian character. Your capacity for lies is unparalleled.”

  Strelkov shot upward and joined the foreign minister on his feet. “You would do well to hold your tongue. You Americans are far from virgins when it comes to the truth. Everyone knows your country has wished for just this war for decades, a chance for complete dominance over the planet.”

  “That’s crap,” barked Thomas. He shot a finger toward the younger general’s chin. “The lies won’t work. For years the Strategic Rocket Forces have been nothing but lackeys, groveling at Moscow’s feet, nursing your wounded pride.”

  Strelkov’s face turned purple. He swung an awkward roundhouse punch that Thomas easily batted away. Thomas shoved his open palm into the colonel general’s face and flung him backward over his chair. Strelkov landed in a heap with his feet pointed toward the ceiling. Burbulis beat a hasty retreat before he suffered a similar fate. The Spetsnaz troopers slipped forward, edging closer to the Americans. Benton grabbed Thomas and yanked him to safety before the largest of them could get his hands on him. Half the spectators bolted for the exit while the others cowered on the deck. Spanish Marines rushed in and brought their weapons to bear, panicked and confused.

  “Criminals!” Burbulis shouted, himself restrained by his people. Strelkov had been helped to his feet, tugging at his tunic. The Spetsnaz commandos began to move again.

  “Time to get you out of here, General Thomas,” Benton ordered his superior. Thomas strained at the major’s grip but followed his lead. He felt a sudden flush of embarrassment and humiliation, fed by the realization that he had failed miserably. He couldn’t control his temper, despite the stakes. You stupid bastard, he scolded himself. The president of the United States entrusts you with the prestige of his office, and you waste it like a spoiled child. Negotiations that had been expected to last days had just collapsed in less than fifteen minutes, and the Russians had emerged the apparent victors.

  CHAPTER 37

  The president’s fallen champion sat on the edge of his hotel bed, his sweat-stained face buried in his hands, his jumbled thoughts suspended in time. Thomas was waiting for the secure voice connection to the president. Major Brinkman hunched over, working the linkup to the satellite transceiver, performing the final test and checkout before synching the signal with the eastern United States. Thomas was not relishing the conversation. He rubbed hard against the black-and-gray stubble that had grown since the day before, distracted by bitter memories, past and present.

  Thomas was disgusted, mortified at his contemptible performance. He had faltered when he should have been strong, collapsed in the face of adversity. The president had commissioned him alone, on the most critical of missions, risking his own prestige and credibility. The mess he created was likely irretrievable.

  Benton opened a set of French doors that introduced a large enclosed balcony featuring glass-topped tables and bamboo chairs. Various potted plants and purple-and-red bougainvillea draping the plaster walls provided color. The pleasant late-afternoon ocean br
eeze wafted into the second-story suite, billowing the cotton drapes like a nomad’s tent. The only sound was the soft hum of communications equipment ready for service. Benton stood with his arms folded in the doorway, staring out toward the far-off ocean. His men were in the hall and on the main floor, in constant contact by radios stuck to their ears.

  “Ready, General Thomas,” Brinkman reported. “The president’s command center is on-line.”

  Thomas wearily raised his head in response. “Thank you, that will be all for now.” Brinkman grabbed his cover and headed for the door. Benton started to follow but was halted midstride. “I want you to stay, Major Benton.”

  Thomas reached and picked up the handset, resting it on his thigh, his palm covering the mouthpiece. “Go ahead and close the doors.” Benton complied and drew the drapes then took a seat in a cushioned chair opposite the bed. His face was nonjudgmental; his manner was relaxed. He and the general had come a long way in a short time.

  Thomas raised the handset into position. “General Thomas.” His tongue felt like a dry log in his mouth.

  “This is the president, General Thomas.” The habitual satellite two-second retransmission lag was always irritating, but especially so now given the nature of the exchange.

  Thomas didn’t hold back. “Mr. President, I acted like a fool. I disgraced myself and humiliated my country. I betrayed your trust. I apologize. I’m offering my resignation effective immediately.” He felt the world lift off his shoulders with the confession. They had expected far too much from him. Benton frowned at Thomas, his head dropping in disappointment.