Red Hammer 1994

All the attention puzzled Thomas. He wondered what waited for him down the road later in the morning. “Show me the way,” he said to the brigadier. As they walked, Thomas reflected how when he was at the NMCC, he hadn’t expected to see another sunrise. Maybe this would be his last.

A violent but short-lived, early morning thundershower left the summer air thick with moisture, while the brilliant sun pumped the oppressive heat toward a forecasted ninety-five degrees. Thomas squinted into the blinding sunlight pouring through the windshield. They had left at 0645 and now sped along frontage roads. In the distance, he could see a major highway, he didn’t know which one. He hadn’t spent much time in this part of Virginia. So far they hadn’t seen a soul. Thomas bet most people outside of a city were hunkered down in their homes waiting to be told what to do. Leaving in your car was a good way to get killed.

The caravan reached an expansive office park set back among pine trees. The location provided decent security. The battalion of infantry shadowing the new president was dug in and ready. They weren’t going to lose another leader.

Thomas sat in the backseat next to Benton. His mind slipped back in time. Only twenty-four hours earlier, he had been at home, shaving, dressing, and getting ready for the commute to the Pentagon. It seemed an eternity.

After pulling through a checkpoint, the Humvee came to a stop at an eighties-looking three-story building. Thomas couldn’t recall the company logo over the double doors. Waiting was a grim-faced army major.

“General Hargesty’s waiting inside, sir,” he said peering through the window. Thomas looked over at Benton with a raised brow.

“Here goes,” he silently said. He had grown to like the quiet major. Thomas was halfway out when Benton spoke.

“Good luck, General Thomas.”

He turned and gave a short, small smile. “Thanks,” he answered.

Thomas followed the guide as best he could, the effects of too much sitting clearly visible. He wished he could take something for the pain in his arm. He did note with curiosity the occasional shattered window and the bullet holes in the walls. Inside the building’s airy atrium, a short, stocky figure was centered in the far doorway, hands on his hips, a scowl on his round, ruddy face. He gave an irritating hurry-up wave as Thomas walked in.

“Follow me, Bob,” he grunted, turning and pointing straight ahead with his hand. “Hurry.”

General Percival Hargesty was the commandant of the marine corps, with a face like a bulldog and a personality to match. Of medium height, but powerfully built, he was the quintessential marine. His hair was cropped so short it was difficult to tell how much he had, or, if he did, what color. An explosive temper kept adversaries off balance and had made him the terror of the JCS’s infamous Tank. A few select friends called him Pinky, a reference to his sanguine complexion, but most casual acquaintances didn’t dare risk the consequences. His testimony on the hill bordered on the theatrical, but had preserved the marine corps’ force structure during the budget massacre of the early nineties.

Inside someone’s private office, Hargesty plopped heavily on the edge of a large gun-metal gray desk. Thomas collapsed in an adjacent overstuffed chair. Hargesty eyed him suspiciously, like a doctor sizing up the physical and mental condition of his patient. After an aide shut the door, he jumped to his feet and paced the room. He stopped in his tracks and faced Thomas. His tough face was serious, yet surprisingly relaxed.

“What a fucking mess,” he said, shaking his head. “I was in my backyard barbecuing steaks when this goddamn army helo lands on the parade ground at the barracks. Some asshole tells me to get on board. He was ranting like a crazy man.”

The head marine eased back down onto the edge of the desk and almost cracked a smile. “I’m the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs now, can you believe that? By the way, Bob, you look like shit.”

Thomas locked onto Hargesty’s beady brown eyes. A swell of rage rose in his breast. Certainly his blood-stained, rumpled fatigues and unshaven face weren’t the picture of health, but Hargesty’s cavalier attitude struck Thomas as not only inappropriate but borderline sick.

“I beg your pardon, General?” Hargesty sensed he had stepped over the line.

“Relax, Bob, no harm meant.” Thomas’s continued glare signaled he hadn’t taken the last comment to heart.

Hargesty launched into a grueling interrogation, demanding details about everything that had happened, sucking out every last bit of information. He shotgunned questions and prodded and poked until Thomas again lost his temper.

“What the hell do you want, General? What’s the point?”

Hargesty feigned hurt, conceding that he had probably pressed too hard, but definitely was not willing to apologize.