Red Hammer 1994 (23 page)

The assemblage was herded to a small telecommunications center around the bend. The large number of bodies crammed into the tiny space made the heat oppressive and the air stifling.

Four computer terminals were manned by military personnel specially trained in crisis procedures. They dutifully inputted text as spoken and transmitted the formatted message via radio frequency links to the Kremlin. Both outgoing and incoming messages were displayed on a LCD screen above the terminals, obviating the need to crowd the soldiers. Crushed against the wall, Thomas held his breath as the first words from the president of the Russian Republic cascaded down the backlit screen.

Nothing had prepared them for the rubbish. The chairman swore. Alexander’s head hung in frustration. Genser and the president withheld judgment, hanging onto every word, looking for hidden meaning. Laptev got right to the point.

“This tragedy has been caused by unprovoked American acts, which forced the Russian government to protect our homeland. We had monitored the dispersal of your bombers. We acted in self-defense. And now you have escalated the crisis by launching your entire land-based missile force in an attempt to gain the military advantage. You will not succeed. You may be assured of that. Despite this wanton act, we are willing to consider an immediate cease-fire. All Russian forces will stand down, and US forces must do likewise. The Russian government desires to end this madness before it leads to the total destruction of the planet. The fate of mankind is in your hands.”

“We should accept Laptev’s offer immediately,” said Genser excitedly, even before the others had finished digesting the words. “This is our last chance, our only hope.”

“They attacked us,” protested the chairman vehemently, “I see no reason to believe their lies now.”

The president squinted and rocked forward, hoping he had read the words incorrectly. The man was searching for that one carefully chosen word or tightly constructed phrase that would permit the slightest opening to a meaningful dialogue. Even in his debilitated state all he saw was a stone wall. The negotiator in him, although requiring a dusting off, rejected Genser’s plea out of hand. The attack was intentional, he reluctantly concluded.

“We should state that our response was limited,” offered Alexander. “We need to ignore the rhetoric and focus on developing a dialogue. This isn’t the time for posturing.” Alexander blushed. He was acting out a canned role, the faithful advisor, the wise counselor. In his heart, he knew it would most likely fail.

“I agree,” answered the president. “I pray I can convince President Laptev. Are you certain their initial attack was as widespread as reported?”

“Yes, Mr. President,” said Alexander. “That assessment is correct.”

The president leaned over the army-enlisted operator, placing his hands on the young man’s shoulders. The words came slowly as he tried to frame a measured response that was conciliatory but not weak. He mustered all his remaining strength and began.

“This is the president of the United States. Although I strongly disagree with your description of our actions, I am encouraged by your willingness to discuss a cease-fire. I want to emphasize the limited nature of our response. We have launched only those weapons which were threatened with destruction. The majority of our forces have not been committed. Our bombers have been instructed to hold over Canada, and—”. The door burst open. The watch commander was sputtering. Additional Soviet ICBMs and SLBMs had risen from Russian forests and the ocean’s depths, four or five hundred weapons.

The president hung his head in disbelief, tears welling in his swollen eyes. He gasped, succumbing to overwhelming despair. Beaten would be a charitable description of his condition. He was helped from the cramped room by his chief of staff. The chairman, vindicated, cursed at the Russians for their renewed treachery. The secretary of state bowed his head and futilely fought back tears. Alexander appeared outwardly calm yet pallid. An empty look was painted across his face.

“It’s over,” said the president, his frail voice cracking, “I’ve failed.”

“There’s still time!” said Genser passionately. “We can accept the Russian cease-fire. We’ve got to break the cycle of strike and counterstrike.” The president looked at his trusted advisor like a priest holding confession. His eyes were compassionate and forgiving; the tears were still wet on his cheeks. The startled Genser took a step back.

“I understand now,” said the president calmly. “The Russians had this all planned out. I can’t imagine anyone that callous. It is nothing more than calculated butchery.” His voice had taken on a different tone, soft and reflective. He exuded an inner peace. Thomas was convinced the man had snapped. A glance at Alexander seconded his diagnosis.

“It wouldn’t make a difference,” he continued, sounding fatherly, looking at Genser. “The Russians would make exorbitant demands. Am I to surrender simply because they struck first? I can’t do that, no matter how badly I want to stop this.”

“I’m not talking surrender, Mr. President,” begged Genser, angered that his words were taken out context. “We’ve both lost; can’t you see?”

“I never thought,” remarked the president, almost to himself, “that the concept of a winner and loser would have any meaning in a nuclear war, but I find myself thinking in those terms. I’m killing millions of human beings thousands of miles away to keep the United States from losing this war. In that process, I’m condemning millions of Americans to a horrible death. I need help, and there doesn’t seem to be any place to turn.” He turned to the military men.

“Would you say,” said the president, for the first time addressing the chairman individually, “that if we accept the Russian proposal, we’ll have essentially surrendered?”

“I’m afraid I would, Mr. President.” The chairman took little solace in the president’s words. “We’ll have been hit with nearly fifteen hundred warheads—substantially more than the number we hit them with. We have limited forces in reserve, while they have two hundred ICBMs in those damn forests, plus any submarines they have left. In my estimation, they will clearly be in a superior position.”

“Does anyone disagree?” asked the president.

There was a painful pause.

“Mr. President,” prompted Alexander, “the bombers are burning up fuel.”

“I’m afraid I can’t deal with this anymore,” the president answered with a wave of his hand. “We’re involved in total war. The military should make the decisions. I will approve your orders. All I ask is that we minimize casualties. I don’t want Russian cities targeted. I insist.”

The president stood, wiping his face up and down with his hands cupped together. By now he was drenched and shivered from the blast of cold air from the ventilation ducts. “I’ve completely failed,” he said sadly, shaking his head. “I’m going to be alone for a moment.”

“Mr. President,” said Alexander, “there is nothing you could’ve done to prevent this.”

The president didn’t look back.

“Mr. President,” he called again. “You have to leave for NEACP.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” replied the president, stopping. “There may be something I can do here. You’ll leave, though.”

“But Mr. President,” protested Alexander.

“I’m still the commander in chief. I’m ordering you to go. I won’t hear any more about it.” He turned and shuffled off toward an unoccupied corner.

“You’d better get moving,” said the chairman to Alexander. “I’ll stay with the president. The vice chairman and the CINC’s will be notified.”

At the main entrance, a small cluster of military officers and civilians began to muster. Thomas called to Alexander, putting the last of a stack of documents in a canvas bag.

“Mr. Secretary, the helicopter is here.” Alexander acknowledged him.

The president walked over. He extended his hand. “God bless you and give you the strength to carry out your duties.” By now tears flowed freely down his cheeks; he made no attempt to check his feelings.

“God’s speed,” said the chairman, firmly grasping Alexander’s hand in a two-handed shake. He did the same to Thomas. “Bob,” he said, not letting go for the longest time, “The secretary needs your support more than ever.” Thomas sadly thanked the general. In his mind, he imagined that his personal journey of suffering was just beginning. In a flash of self-pity, he envied the men and women who stayed behind. The party turned and departed.

The displays in the distance now showed an eerie pattern of colored lines and symbols denoting weapon trajectories, targets destroyed, and forces surviving. Somewhere among the mass of data one could predict the outcome. It had been sixty-five minutes since the first Russian missiles had been detected by DSP. The watch commander approached the chairman.

“Sir,” he whispered, “we have confirmed that warheads are targeted at Washington. Time to impact, twenty-two minutes.”

“I understand,” answered the chairman softly, “notify NEACP and the others that we’ll be transferring command authority in fifteen minutes.”

“Yes, sir,” said the officer, moving away quickly.

CHAPTER 20

Thomas led the procession through the dank cinder-block corridor, forcing the pace. His sturdy frame bowed under the weight of the canvas bag slung over his shoulder. It was stuffed with top-secret war plans that even as they evacuated the NMCC were being executed by the theater CINCs.

Thomas pulled one hand free and glanced at his Seiko; it was 7:33 p.m., over an hour since all hell had broken loose. The other evacuees trailed in his footsteps, twelve men in all, bunched together. Thomas’ sky-blue shirt was soaked with perspiration, his tie and uniform blouse discarded earlier along with his cover—excess baggage at this point. Uniforms would be waiting.

The Federal Emergency Management Agency or FEMA planners, those men and women who contemplated global nuclear war, worried about such things. Underground food stores, secret fuel-storage sites, emergency communications of every variety, prerecorded videos for every disaster imaginable, were all developed and put on the shelf. Those dedicated souls chased every arcane disaster scenario to all logical and even illogical conclusions. It was their sole purpose in life.

Thomas’s face had worsened. Flushed, the cobweb of age lines were accentuated by the harsh, artificial light. The enormity of the last hour had sunk home. Thomas was inundated by a tidal wave of hopelessness. But he pushed on. They all pushed on, the strong and the weak alike.

Thirty yards down the corridor, a squad of Pentagon guards waited. Thomas was struck by the image of the young marines in their crisp khaki and blue semi-dress uniforms, weighted down with camouflage flack vests, web belts, helmets, and tightly gripped M-16s at port arms. Tension was etched on their adolescent fa-ces. “Follow me,” shouted a stern-looking marine major, his hand squeezing his Beretta 9MM pistol. The official party picked up the pace to a clumsy jog. The marines fell in on the flanks, eyes riveted on their major.

The assemblage crowded into a large freight elevator that would whisk them up to the underground parking garage. The door slid shut with a thud. Government civilians and military officers exchanged awkward glances, shuffling to maintain their balance in the crush of people, equipment, and baggage. The elevator accelerated rapidly, sinking stomachs, and stopped just as quickly. The door jerked open, revealing an astonishing picture in the garage.

In the dim light, groups of Pentagon officials congregated, while nearby soldiers held their hands high and shouted, marshaling orders to the stream of men and women who poured into the garage from the offices above. Many had been forced to stay late, despite the long weekend, when the dispersal had been ordered. Groups engaged in animated exchanges. A handful in shock wandered aimlessly. The clamor was deafening. Surrounding them all were heavily armed marines and army troops who stood in clusters, awaiting instructions. They had been dragged out of nearby barracks on zero notice.

The secretary’s VIP troupe was shepherded directly toward the steep ramp leading to the narrow street on the northeast side of the Pentagon. The tumultuous racket stopped as people recognized who had exited the elevator. A brigadier general shouted, “Attenhut!” Nearby military snapped to attention. Alexander graciously acknowledged the show of respect. Thomas experienced a flush of shame that comes with preferential treatment in time of crisis. It was no secret what would most likely happen to these brave men and women.

Trudging up the ramp, the warm garage transitioned to oppressive heat. The hot, humid summer air hung heavily near the entrance, which was bathed in a soft, early evening pastel glow. In the distance, they could hear the reverberation of helicopter blades beating the air. Reaching the crest, the lead marines hunched down, scanning the perimeter, weapons ready. The major signaled a halt then moved forward and disappeared out of sight. The group instinctively squatted on the angled concrete. Seconds later, the major reappeared. He came directly over to Alexander.

“The helo’s ready, sir, but there’s only room for six more. The JCS people are already on board.” Pained looks spread through the group.