Red Hammer 1994

The rest of the Russians’ current leadership was shrouded in a fog. Only time would tell if the new ruler had the authority to commit the Russians to anything. That was the Americans’ greatest fear—a fragmented Russian leadership spinning out of control.

Thomas knew the mirror image impacted the Russians equally. Did the new American president control anything besides a ragtag party of Washington’s erstwhile elite? Confidence building was the watchword for both sides. Enemies would struggle to resurrect the trust that had been slowly fabricated, layer by delicate layer over the years, and which had evaporated in seconds less than one week prior.

The big plane touched down in black puffs of burnt rubber and screeching brakes. It taxied to a designated holding pen on the tarmac and was quickly surrounded by heavily armed Spanish troops. Light-armored vehicles sat off to the side. A contingent of officials was moving forward even before the big engines began to coast down. Steps on wheels rolled from a nearby hanger. The greeting was done with military precision.

Air Force One’s forward cabin door swung open. Benton was the first one through, fitted out in full battle dress, sweeping his head from left to right, giving his personal seal of approval before any of the others would be permitted through the portal. At the bottom of the steps, he was unceremoniously relieved of his M-4A and pistol and patted down. A thorough check with metal detectors would come later and at more than one location. The Spanish hadn’t ruled out the possibility of cached or air-dropped weapons and less-than-honest intent. The Americans and Russians wouldn’t be allowed to pass gas without the hosts knowing it firsthand.

Thomas followed the other Rangers, who fanned out in a semicircle, weaponless, determined to protect their leader with bare hands, if necessary. He squinted in the bright tropical sun, having shunned sunglasses that made him look like a third-world dictator. His hip had settled into a dull ache that he all but ignored. His wounded arm was healing nicely. At the bottom of the portable steps, a Spanish general officer stepped up and snapped a proper salute.

“General Antonio Vasquez. A pleasure to meet you, General Thomas.” He wasn’t smiling. “My men will help you with your baggage and equipment. Once off the plane, you will not be allowed to return until your departure.” His English was excellent and his manners impeccable. His aide stood open handed. Thomas unholstered his pistol and presented it with a slap to the palm.

“I will be your host during your stay,” the general continued. “If you please, we must leave. The Russians will be landing momentarily, and they insist that the American delegation be off the premises before they commit to a final approach.”

Thomas grunted in the affirmative. The bastards were already pissing him off before he had even seen their faces. The Spanish soldiers had the Americans’ equipment off the plane and headed for waiting vans. The retinue fell in behind Thomas. The Spanish general herded Thomas to the lead sedan, kindly offering the backseat. The American ambassador had begged to be present but had been rebuffed—wrong party. Some things never change, thought Thomas.

Thomas’s chauffeur wasted no time. He gunned the engine and headed for the airport’s sprawling main gate. Spanish soldiers crawled over the entire complex, blocking intersections and searching everyone in sight. Thomas’s Spanish host refrained from chitchat, which suited him just fine. He stared blankly at the passing palms, the tropical shrubbery that exploded in color, and the typically worn and architecturally varied structures that lined the highway, all of which gave these island paradises their special flavor. Probably a great vacation spot, he mused. But not for him.

CHAPTER 36

Thomas paused at the threshold of the ornate wooden doorway, bracketed by twin potted palms and spit-shined Spanish Marines. He felt a gut-churning anticipation like a Roman gladiator of the first century. Twenty paces down the polished wooden floor lay his personal arena. The American team had preceded him to the appointed meeting place by half an hour to handle the logistics. At the negotiating table, the acting secretary of state, William Collettor, would be on his immediate right, while Major Brinkman, the army communications man would be to his left. Collettor had been selected by the president for his scholarly expertise on the Russians, including a crude understanding of the language. In a pinch, he could perform double duty as an interpreter. He was an elderly gentleman of medium build with gray hair, who hadn’t weathered the week well. Thomas had questioned his suitability, but felt he couldn’t hurt.