Red Hammer 1994 (12 page)

“Did you get those final F-22 numbers from the air force?” grunted Alexander. His formerly white cuff was stained from repeated passes over his damp forehead.

“Right here, sir. But they still aren’t right,” Thomas answered. He had rivulets of sweat on his temples that trickled down his cheeks. “General Patrick’s adamant about leaving out the additional RDT&E funds for calculating unit flyaway cost. They want a separate line item for the RDT&E overruns. The party line is that Congress stretched out the program and cut the numbers so the air force shouldn’t take the heat for the ballooning unit costs. The secretary of the air force agrees.”

Alexander frowned. It was a full-faced frown and lately was becoming permanent. “I’ll talk to the secretary of the air force.” He threw down his pencil, letting it roll across hundreds of millions of dollars. “Let’s take a break. I can only take so much of this.” He squawked at his assistant for two cold cans of soda.

“You still planning to leave this afternoon?”

“Yes, sir. Car’s packed, and as soon as we wrap this up, I’m gone. Five days in the North Carolina Mountains.” A genuine grin was accompanied by a sparkle in his ice-blue eyes.

An aide brought the soft drinks. Alexander accepted the gift and moved to his desk where he sat on a free corner and took a long swig. “Damn, it’s hot.” He took another chug that almost drained the can. “Just you and Sally?”

“Our son’s going to meet us. He’s been working in New York this summer.”

“What year is he now?”

“A senior, and his sister will be in her last year of law school. I don’t know where the time goes. Or the money,” he said grinning. Alexander nodded knowingly.

The two enjoyed a few minutes of light chatter even after the cans had been drained and tossed in the trash. Both finally acknowledged it was time to return to the salt mine.

“Mr. Secretary, I’m sorry to disturb you,” said a voice over the intercom, “but Admiral Fitzgerald is on the phone. He says it’s very urgent.” Admiral Fitzgerald was the Chief of Naval Operations.

“Thank you,” replied Alexander. He wheeled around his desk and grabbed the receiver of his secure red phone. Thomas thought nothing of it and dove back into the figures.

“Good afternoon, Admiral.” The secretary listened intently.

“God damn, are we asleep or what?” Alexander’s face flushed. “Why did I get this from you instead of the NMCC watch officer?” A long pause and then, “I see. What’s the Chairman say? Very well. Keep me updated, Admiral.”

Alexander replaced the handset and looked at his aide. Thomas had wandered toward Alexander’s desk. The secretary looked white as a sheet. “We just picked up two Russian submarines off the Mexican coast. One’s a boomer, probably a Delta.” Alexander collapsed into his chair and crossed his arms on his chest. “What do you think?”

Thomas drew a blank and admitted so. “No idea. Are they sure?”

“Positive.” Alexander set his hand on the other red phone. “This should be interesting,” he said, lifting the receiver and triggering an automatic connection to the Situation Room in the White House.

Within the confines of the beltway, the report triggered near panic. News of the Victor had been bad enough, but now there was the Delta. The navy took the heat, berated for letting the Russian boats slip through their sophisticated antisubmarine-warfare (ASW) net undetected. Commander-in-Chief, Strategic Command lobbied for a dispersal order for his bombers and tankers—something that was unheard of these days. The intelligence community scrambled to rationalize the bizarre Russian behavior.

Shortly after noon, Alexander burst into Thomas’s wood-paneled office. Thomas was tidying up loose ends before departing for his well-earned holiday. Thomas’s head popped up from his stack of papers.

“An emergency National Security Council meeting has been called. You’re attending. Put your vacation plans on hold. Sorry. There’s a helo waiting out on the pad.”

Thomas slumped in his chair, letting out a sigh. “Yes, sir,” he replied to an empty doorway. The request struck him as odd. Aides and second-stringers normally didn’t attend full sessions of the NSC, and he had no idea why he possibly could have been invited, if that was the right word. Standing NSC members, the chosen few at the peak of the power pyramid, appointed designated representatives—assistant secretaries and lower-ranking military officers, grunts in other words—to conduct the mundane day-to-day business of the NSC. They were where the rubber met the road. But for the important matters, the heavyweights guarded the guest list. Thomas was convinced it was to avoid embarrassing themselves in front of their more knowledgeable subordinates.

Thomas dialed home before scooting out the door, and the short conversation with his mate had been as predictable as the day’s crappy weather. Sally had matter-of-factly asked him what the Russians were up to and if she should cancel their reservations. He asked her to hold off—he’d call with an update—I promise, he’d said.

The helo had only taken minutes to deposit Thomas and Alexander directly on the White House lawn. The summer heat had reached its daytime peak, the sun blazing unmercifully in a cloudless sky. They jogged past security and hustled directly to the Situation Room in the West Wing basement. Passing by the offices of the career NSC staffers, they were herded into a dark, stuffy conference room that served as the NSC’s principle battleground. The side walls were paneled with dark-stained oak, while the far wall was adorned with video monitors and communications gear partially hidden by curtains. The heavy, rectangular table was too big for the room, crowding those delegated to the periphery. The entire suite was badly in need of a facelift, belying its critical role in free-world diplomacy. Thomas took a kibitzer seat along the far wall while Alexander assumed his reserved chair. Thomas attracted more than one double take from those around the table. From the gentlemen who knew him, it was probably a “what are you doing here” challenge.

He sat motionless, bolt upright, his eyes locked in front of him. It was like he was seated at attention or poised for combat. Thomas made men like the ones gathered today nervous. Maybe it was the rows of combat decorations on his left breast that recalled heroism during an unpopular war.

The hastily called gathering would be a rump meeting. The national security advisor, Ronald Jenkins, had been detained in Europe at a meeting of the NATO planning group. The vice president was performing a political errand, dedicating a new federal building in St. Louis.

Already seated were Secretary of State Jonathon Genser and Director of Central Intelligence Harold Wilks. Genser, an old Washington hand that had faithfully served both parties, was an odd mix of left and right. Properly connected and possessing heavy political clout, he bounced around the ideological spectrum, much to everyone’s frustration. Thomas swore the man threw darts each morning to formulate the policy for the day. But the crafty, old statesman knew Congress like the back of his hand. His chief vice, according to the conservative set, was a slavish adherence to endless negotiations as the ultimate answer to any crises. He viewed the Pentagon with absolute suspicion. Thomas noticed that today the man appeared preoccupied. Genser patted the liver spots on his balding forehead with a monogrammed handkerchief, deep in thought. His gray suit was wrinkled by the weather, and the proper secretary had even loosened his tie.

Wilks, a CIA careerist, had struggled up through the ranks against the tide. He thought little of both the Pentagon and State Department, but occasionally sided with the latter if it served his personal agenda. His claim to fame had been an uncanny prescience in forecasting the swift transformation of the Soviet/Russian political map years before. He had batted almost a thousand in placing the right faces in the right boxes long before others could navigate the shifting landscape. Rumor credited him with carefully nurtured top-level contacts within the Russian power structure. Thomas thought it far less glamorous. He was convinced that the Russians had deliberately leaked information to head off panic in the West. And Wilks had served their purpose wonderfully. Unfortunately, his sources had dried up.

Always dressed to a tee, he recalled another age. Maybe it was the distinct European flavor to his manners and speech that he purposely fostered. Even in today’s blistering heat, he was freshly pressed in a beautifully tailored Italian suit, complemented by a subtle silk tie that blended superbly with his pale blue shirt. His silver hair and neatly trimmed pencil-thin mustache completed the picture. He fastidiously maintained his weight, kept a country club tan, and was rumored to have had an eye job to remove unsightly bags. He would have been perfectly cast for the OSS under “Wild Bill” Donovon in the war-torn forties, or for Hollywood, for that matter. Director Wilks was a piece of work.

Tardy, but expected, was the blunt, hardworking Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, a favorite of Thomas’s, even when they were on different sides of an issue. The old soldier would bluster and fume, but he always listened and never took offense. The chairman, a Midwestern country boy, had heroically shouldered the unenviable burden of shrinking the US military during tough times. The highly decorated four-star army general had managed to assuage the services and still present his president with an effective fighting force—no mean feat. Big and burly, he looked like a grizzled construction worker rather than the president’s number-one military man. He kept trim by lifting weights and running down the popular bike path skirting the Potomac three days a week, rain or shine.

The others around the table were a mixed bag of NSC staffers. They would listen attentively but keep their mouths shut. The rules were clearly understood. Thomas mused over the agenda. No one had enough time to adequately prepare. Intelligence was sorely lacking. That guaranteed the debate would be a free-for-all. The crux was what were the Russians up to? He doubted anyone knew the answer to that. They waited for the commander in chief.

CHAPTER 11

The president of the United States walked into the room, accompanied by his chief of staff. He resembled most business or government leaders his age. Medium height, not grossly overweight but with a slight paunch over the belt, thinning hair combed straight back, which retrained only a trace of its former color; the man easily looked his sixty-two years. His pale blue eyes lacked the luster that had beamed forth on nomination day at his party’s convention.

Well into his first term, he struggled with the Herculean task of national leadership. The president had come from the Senate, but was quickly introduced to the cold, hard realities of limited presidential power. The job was a cruel magnifying glass that accentuated and distorted every flaw and less-than-perfect decision to grand scale, providing a lightning rod for the all-too-common folks in DC that made a living tearing good people down. Nurtured in economics, he excelled in the Byzantine world of fiscal and domestic policy and had made real progress in cracking the fiscal nut that had dogged his predecessors. When it came to foreign policy and military strategy, he was a dilettante and knew it. He typically deferred to his cabinet for the weightier decisions, always seeking consensus. Thomas admired him for his candor and sincerity. Overall, he was a kind and decent man in way over his head.

All rose in unison and stood motionless until the president was seated. His face was drawn this afternoon and covered with perspiration. He made private conversation with his chief of staff before addressing the group. Thomas thought the president looked terrible. “Please take your seats,” the chief executive said softly.

The president adjusted his tortoiseshell frames and put on a serious face. “I’m sure you all are as concerned as I am about this submarine business. I don’t know what’s gotten into the Russians lately. My last letter to the Russian president has sat unanswered. We seem to have reached an impasse.” He placed particular emphasis on the last words by removing his glasses in a dramatic sweep and scanning the table.

The president returned the glasses to his nose and continued. “I’ve talked to Ron about an hour ago. He’ll query the NATO defense ministers after their meeting. Maybe they know something. Anyway, let’s begin with an intelligence assessment from Director Wilks.”

Wilks smiled graciously. The director had an irritating habit of indirectness. He played true to form by posing a question for his opener. “What do the Russians hope to gain by deploying a Delta submarine so close to our shores?”

“Is this the same Delta supposedly sitting on the bottom of the ocean off the Kuriles?” interrupted Alexander dryly. He wasn’t predisposed to games this hot afternoon. Wilks took it in stride. His plastic smile didn’t crack.

“I suppose one could make that determination,” the director sniffed, “but we have solid evidence that a submarine was lost off the Kuriles; and we now have actual physical evi-dence to back our claim.”

“Maybe so,” remarked Alexander. “But I’ll bet analysis will show the wreck was some surplus boat, purposely sunk. If the Kurile sinking was a hoax, it could have serious implications. Our good friend Nikolai may be putting us to the test.”