Red Hammer 1994

McClain’s simple quarters, a ten-by-twenty-foot air-conditioned tent, was part of the extensive STRATCOM mobile-headquarters complex that stretched intermittently over ten miles, hidden in the Ozarks in Southern Missouri. He and his assembled battle staff had been evacuated from STRATCOM headquarters at Offut AFB minutes before the antiquated underground command center was pulverized by the direct impact of a six-hundred-kiloton Russian nuclear bomb delivered by an ancient SS-19. His team was just now getting organized. CINCSTRAT’s mobile command center was identical in appearance to the NCAs, but had twice the communications gear and enough computing power to run any of the national weapons labs. A spiderweb of fiber-optic cables wound through the forest, creating an entity whose sole purpose was planning the destruction of the neo-Soviet empire.

“Colonel, when does General Thomas arrive?” McClain asked the man framed in his tent entrance. He wasn’t pleased one bit at having to receive the emissary of the new president. Bob Thomas was a good man, but McClain feared he was about to be reined in by the bureaucrats. One day into the war, it had been McClain’s show, and his handpicked STRATCOM team was performing heroically. He wasn’t about to let them down.

“The general will be here any moment, sir. We’ve got comms with his helo.”

“Very well.” McClain eased his large frame up and grabbed his cap. “I’ll be in the operations tent.”

The Army Special Forces Blackhawk helicopter set down on a chalk-marked field two hundred yards from the nearly invisible complex. Thomas waited until his five-man guard detachment, lead by Benton, deplaned before he unbuckled his harness and eased himself to the ground. The reddened late-summer sun was beginning to dip beneath the tree line, and a welcomed cool breeze took the edge off the evening heat. Thomas stretched to work out the soreness from the long helo flight, scanning the horizon to get his bearings. His body still ached, and his arm hurt like hell. Painkillers helped, but he had to keep the dose down.

He was flanked by his guards; Benton was at his side. Thomas had requested the major be permanently assigned to his person. Benton had reluctantly agreed, much preferring to be thrown into battle with his comrades.

Thomas had spent the late-morning hours at the president’s side, absorbing the man’s character and concerns to guide him on his mission. The president’s steadfastness in the face of continued Russian attacks, his refusal to be goaded into overreaction, and his tireless attention to every detail revealed a rock-solid leader. Hargesty’s evaluation had been right on the money.

The president had methodically picked Thomas’s brain. He had sat passively at the table, resting his chin on his interlaced hands as Thomas told the whole story, every detail. Had the new president seen his own future? Would he have done anything different?

Late in the afternoon, hopes had soared. A back-channel communique hinting at the possibility of an immediate and unconditional truce had landed on their doorstep. Unfortunately, it had proved to be apocryphal. The postmortem catalogued it as a crude attempt to gauge the resolve of the American leadership. The Russians’ current leadership remained a total mystery. Thomas had huddled privately with the president shortly before the helo lifted off, soaking up final instructions. He clearly understood his marching orders. The power to remove McClain from his post on the spot fell squarely on Thomas’s shoulders. It was a dirty job he hoped to avoid, one that could have serious and unpredictable repercussions.

“Welcome, Bob,” McClain said sarcastically. Thomas’s four silver stars on each side of his woodland-cammie shirt collar matched McClain’s own, but CINCSTRAT didn’t consider him an equal. He towered over the younger general by four inches, and his thick silver hair and sharply chiseled features enhanced his presence. McClain was not known for his modesty, but then again, he personally commanded enough nuclear firepower to destroy half the planet.

“General McClain,” Thomas nodded. He looked sharp in freshly pressed fatigues and spit-shined boots. He wore a pistol on his hip with extra ammo clips. McClain scowled at Benton, resenting Thomas’s personal guard dog.

On signal, the respective security escorts backed away. CINCSTRAT eyed his adversary suspiciously.

“I assume you want a complete rundown,” said McClain preemptively. The thought turned Thomas’s stomach. He was sick of constantly rehashing the battle.

Thomas’s face eased. “No, just a talk in private.” He wouldn’t confront the general near his staff, not in such an emotionally charged atmosphere. McClain grunted halfheartedly. He was spoiling for a fight.