Red Hammer 1994 (46 page)

“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 designated 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 breeze 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.

The line was silent for several seconds. The president’s voice was conciliatory, yet solemn. “I can’t fault you, General Thomas; you did all that was humanly possible. But I’m afraid I can’t take you up on your offer. You’re to finish your mission.”

Thomas sat erect, puzzled. “But, sir, it’s over. I’ve failed. There’s no chance of another meeting. The Spanish would be fools to put us in the same room again.”

The president took a deep breath that could be heard over forty-six hundred miles. “You have to try again,” he said, with special emphasis on the second word. “I won’t hear otherwise.” The words had a ring of finality.

Thomas didn’t answer, having no meaningful response handy; only a sigh seemed appropriate. He waited for the president to explain.

“I’m under tremendous pressure,” he began. “Hargesty and McClain, everyone really, is pressing me to act. The evidence is there. The Russians are staging for an attack, and just about everyone is demanding a preemptive strike. The Tridents, the bombers, everything. I’m at my wits’ end, General Thomas. I feel like I’m losing my mind. This is how the president felt at the NMCC, isn’t it? You know, don’t you?” The explanation evidenced a man on the edge.

Thomas’s head sagged into one hand; the other gripped the handset even tighter. The memories flooded back. The helplessness, the anguish, none of them would survive if history were repeated. His heart ached for the man on the other end of the line, a man he had come to respect and admire, a man the country desperately needed in one piece, functional, in command. Now this new president was threatened with the same fate as his hapless predecessor, being overwhelmed by dark forces he couldn’t comprehend, let alone control.