Red Hammer 1994

Brinkman was a bookish-looking man with a bald head and a very un-army body, who specialized in satellite communications and was a whiz with the latest communications technology. The major would have a portable satellite transceiver complete with CRT, keyboard, and crypto at his disposal. A coax cable ran through an open window to a small dish antenna on a tripod pointed at the nearest DSCS satellite. He would sit like an attentive court recorder, capturing the dialogue on the fly, sending words in chunks directly to the president and his team. Back at the hotel, a secure voice link had been established for more lengthy consultations, a post-game wrap-up. The military used the term “hot wash-up” for such conversations. The president had insisted that communications be kept to the bare minimum in order to not signal confusion or weakness. Thomas felt secure that he wouldn’t be micromanaged, at least initially.

Lieutenant Colonel Hopkins, a trim, midforties McClain staffer with thinning brown hair and wire-rim aviator-style glasses, would sit next on the left. His weapon was a powerful pizza-box-sized engineering workstation. His machine contained three million lines of C program code developed and optimized to analyze different negotiating positions in near real time. It was a direct descendent of the software programs written for STRATCOM ad-hoc targeting, but much tighter and cleaner. Classified top secret, there had been reluctance to expose the sensitive algorithms to compromise. Thomas had balked at bringing STRATCOM’s wunderkind, regardless of security concerns. Thomas knew for a fact Hopkins had spent considerable private time with Hargesty and McClain reviewing potential strategic options. He couldn’t hold that against the reserved colonel, who calmly read a novel on the flight over. In the current electrically charged atmosphere, people tended to gravitate to known masters, and Thomas certainly wasn’t that.

The Russian language interpreter, a slender young woman in her early thirties, had come from the NSC staff where she had been a rising star. Her name was Sarah Tillman. She was of medium stature with short-cropped chestnut-brown hair that flowed around an attractive Mediterranean face. Tillman would sit directly behind Thomas, whispering, translating verbatim the torrent of Russian expected to be thrown his way. His words would be translated by his opposing number’s aide, with an alert Tillman hopefully keeping the intended meaning pure. It would be a thankless task, but Thomas had been assured that the woman was the best in the business. Thomas talked to her briefly on board Air Force One, and she seemed bright, dedicated, and to have no delusions about the upcoming battle. She would be center stage and could scuttle the entire process with one honest slip.

Benton would stand directly behind Thomas. Paranoia came with his newfound trade. He would personally break anyone’s neck that came within reach of the general. The other Rangers covered the rest of the contingent, spread out laterally, two facing forward, two backward. They had walked through various scenarios in back at the hotel but were helpless if someone opened up with firearms. Even their Kevlar reinforced flak vests had been impounded.

Thomas shut his tired eyes and put his hands on his hips and sucked in one last, deep, lungful of the delicious tropical air. It was sweet with a flowery fragrance carried by a light breeze that danced over nearby gardenias. He grunted to break nature’s spell and moved forward, removing his cap midstride, Benton in tow. The building’s interior was freshly painted and spruced, but the efforts hadn’t concealed its apparent age or lack of regular care. The light pink stucco structure was old, and a touch of fatigued oozed from the ancient walls. It almost seemed annoyed at having its peacefulness, full of grand wedding receptions and magnificent diplomatic and charity balls, disturbed by a mob of ill-mannered soldiers in steel-toed boots. Any worthwhile furnishings had been removed, preparing for the bar fight everyone sensed. A hush fell in the main hall as he entered. There were thirty or so spectators besides the contingent of Spaniards, pushed to the sides, sporting headsets for house-provided interpretation. The meeting had initially been billed as secretive, but snowballed into a circus. The Americans were certain the motive was less than altruistic. The world rightly feared both belligerents, but much more terrifying was the notion of the two giants hatching a deal in private. No, the world community would be well represented, thank you.