Red Hammer 1994 (44 page)

Rumor had a US arms-control contingent from Geneva on the way to lend assistance if the bartering became bogged in technical detail. They would remain in the background, locked in some second-class tourist hotel until needed. Everyone had their spin, what to discuss, how to act, including the tone of voice to convey just that special message. Thomas had silently suffered the nonsense. No one would face the hard truth that the chances of success were slim to none. No one except the president. The man had wagered the house limit on this one. His inner circle would be apoplectic if they knew the latitude Thomas had been given.

The send-off had been telling. The president’s face exhibited depths of despair that said it all. It reminded Thomas of late Civil War pictures of a war-weary Abraham Lincoln. His incredibly sad, hollow eyes and the facial lines that seemed to go on forever hinted at a tragic story that only the owner could fathom.

Thomas sat in a pale peach overstuffed chair, slumped, with his legs spread apart, in his shorts, enjoying a cold soft drink. An earlier wander by the full-length mirror had shown a lean body that had dropped over a pound a day, revealing muscles that had lain unseen from years of slothful desk duty. Intrigued, he had stepped closer. His freshly cut hair seemed suddenly to have encountered a snow flurry, the specks of white and gray having multiplied tenfold.

He couldn’t imagine a more bizarre backdrop for what were surely his final days in uniform and in the service of his country. He loved that country more than his own life. It was something he was never fully able to describe. The passion had always caught in his throat. The patriotic stirrings had always been there on national holidays or when visiting battlefields that recalled unimaginable bravery and courage. But now it became personal. His country was dying.

Why did the new president believe so deeply in him, far more than he believed in himself? Why had God chosen him for this impossible mission? What was it about him that gave hope to others in these desperate times? He had shaken his head in puzzlement, unable to answer the myriad of questions that tumbled through his brain.

On the adjacent king-sized bed lay two uniforms, air force dress blues and a set of pressed battle dress utilities. The dull black stars and flat-black JCS crest hanging from the left breast pocket were barely visible on the mottled black, brown, and two shades of green cloth. The latter suited his mood, he decided with a grim satisfaction. The dress uniform, with all its parade-ground properness, splashes of bright color, and rows of silver stars on royal blue carried too much psychic baggage and painfully reminded him of a not-so-distant past.

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 understanding 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.