Red Hammer 1994

by Ratcliffe, Robert

  “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.