Red Hammer 1994

Thomas extracted himself from those exiting and stood with his hands on his hips. He ignored the glares of the others. He was used to it.

“Let’s sit on the couch,” the president said with a sweep of his arm. Thomas obliged.

The president offered a warm, pleasant expression, not a smile, but a face filled with gratitude.

“You’ve served me well these past few days. I appreciate your candor and loyalty.”

Thomas appreciated the words. He needed them. “You’re welcome, sir.”

The president pulled himself closer, his tired eyes suddenly alive. “But now, I have a critical mission for you.” The president pulled a folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket and handed it to Thomas. Thomas unfolded the message and began to scan the twenty or so lines of text.

“It’s a transmission from our ambassador in Switzerland. He received it from the Japanese Ambassador. Supposedly, it’s credible. We have no way of knowing for sure.” By then Thomas was halfway down the page, studying each line. It was an offer from the Russians for direct negotiations, at a place of the Americans’ choosing. Thomas had to force down his cynicism. So far contact with the Russians had been spotty at best and through questionable intermediaries. But this was different, more direct. It had the proper tone that piqued Thomas’s interest.

“What about the Russians’ buildup? It’s real; I’ve seen it.” Thomas said.

“I understand,” answered the president. “It’s not entirely clear who’s in charge over there. This could be some splinter group.” The president locked onto Thomas’s eyes. “But it could be legitimate. I have to take the chance.”

Thomas nodded agreement. They both understood that they were on the threshold of renewed, large-scale fighting.

“I’m asking you to go and meet the Russians in my place. My heart says it should be me, but my head realizes my duty is here.” The president leaned back. “You’ll have full authority to represent the government, and I’ll accept any terms you get. You pick your team.”

Thomas was stunned. He believed with all his heart that the president was right—the fighting had to stop. But an inexorable force was building against them, a mountain of fear and hate pushing everything out of its way. He was tired, more tired than he had ever been in his life. He felt inadequate and very, very small.

“You’re hesitating?”

“I’m a soldier, sir, not a diplomat. There’s no room for error on this. Are you sure?”

“That’s precisely why I picked you. There’s no time for analysis and rehashing proposals. No developing negotiating positions. One pass, that’s all we’ll get. The person I send has to think on his feet. I have the utmost confidence in you.”

Thomas looked at the man he had come to respect. “I’ll do my best.” He couldn’t believe what he’d just said.

“I know you will.” The president stood, signaling Thomas to do likewise. “So far, very few people know about this. I want to keep it that way for now. When you’re safely on your way, I’ll spread the word. There are leaders who would be bitterly opposed to this.”

“I understand,” replied Thomas. Within seconds, he had come up with his own short list of people who would be more than happy to put a bullet in his head to stop such negotiations. “It won’t be easy on your end either, Mr. President.”

“I’m prepared for the worst.” They would both be playing a dangerous game. The president stuck out his hand. It was steady as a rock. Thomas grabbed it firmly.

“It’s up to you and me,” the president said, “Go make peace, General Thomas, and God be with you.” When Thomas let go of the president’s hand, the air force four-star general had tears in his eyes.

CHAPTER 34

Rawlings and Gonzales squatted, carefully examining a laminated map, which detailed the surrounding territory for fifty miles square, their assigned patrol area and supposed home to a battery of Russian SS-25 mobile ICBMs. The last satellite dump hadn’t provided the slightest clue as to where the transporter/erector launchers, or TELs, might be hiding, and the day’s ineffective patrolling hadn’t gleaned much either. The high point of the patrols had been tire tracks in a patch of damp soil that resembled an SS-25 transporter’s unique tread pattern. The telltale signature had disappeared after half a mile down a side road that dead-ended at an impassable ravine. They had been warned about the Russians’ proclivity toward deception, and the ICBM troopers were the best in the business. Rawlings and his men were looking for a needle in a haystack, where the haystack would be trying its best to kill them.