Red Hammer 1994

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.