Red Hammer 1994

Thomas’s people were in place. Rising smartly, the military members saluted as he approached. The opposite side of the long table was bare. That was fine with Thomas as he had hoped for a few moments to collect his thoughts. A sudden mental flash brought a grim reminder. In Thomas’s distant past, he had visited the Panmunjon Truce Village straddling the DMZ. A barracks-like structure, the Korea complex sat on the imaginary border in an imaginary village but with very real guards and a strict code of conduct. When packed with angry-faced soldiers from both camps, the atmosphere was explosive. He prayed today would be different.

The Spanish-provided hall was somewhat cheerier, the tone less threatening. Large French windows adorned the swirled plaster walls, a welcome cross breeze cooling the room considerably. Double sets of French doors at either end were secured for the moment. The table was rectangular but not wide enough to prevent someone from leaning forward and jabbing an opponent in the face, a possible oversight by the hosts. Spectator chairs were limited to the two ends and were occupied by a mix of faces. The world press had gotten wind of the meeting at the last minute but had been strictly forbidden.

Thomas moved laterally and, one by one, warmly shook the hands of his people, including the Rangers protecting his rear. Following protocol, Thomas then stepped to where General Vasquez stood, resplendent in dress uniform, and followed his expert lead through a short receiving line of dignitaries that had formed, unannounced, out of the spectators. The introductions were brief and strained, stiff and perfunctory. Most pondered why the Americans had sent only this obscure general. When Thomas finished the chore, they quietly melted back into the woodwork.

Word had filtered to the American camp that the Russians were furious with the makeup of the US delegation. They would be bringing twice the complement, all high-level officials, or so they said, and considered the perceived affront a public slap in the face. They accused the US leadership of lacking sincerity, of sabotaging the meeting before it even started. The Spanish had been mortified but powerless. The insistence of the American general to wear battle dress fatigues had made them squirm. Thomas was hardening to the meeting, impatient with his hosts, who were walking on eggs where the Russians were concerned, and bitter toward the Russians, who were deftly playing to the world stage. McClain’s influence was beginning to weaken his intellectual defenses. He knew only too well that CINCSTRAT was winning converts back home. A possible US attack was only days away.

It galled Thomas to no end that the Russians now insisted that the whole ghastly episode was an unfortunate accident, perpetrated by unscrupulous rulers on both sides, long since dead. But survival dictated that both he and the American government swallow their thirst for revenge, ignore the blatant lies, and instead focus on preserving what remained of their suffering homeland. The Russians were content to do likewise, now far more worried about the menacing Chinese, staging on the long, unprotected border, and furious Europeans. The final straw had been the successful US air and land raids that ate into their inventory of mobile missiles. The decision to send in the US Special Forces had proven correct, paying handsome dividends. But the investment had cost hundreds of lives and chewed up valuable units. Thomas knew that few of the aircraft returned, and well over half the men were either dead or unaccounted for. Without their full complement of reserve SS-25s and SS-24s, the Russians had little left to bargain with, but plenty to do serious damage.

Thomas took his seat and waited patiently, passing the time by conferring with Collettor and Tillman. He asked her opinion on an opening statement, drawing from her substantial experience. He would be inclined to get right to the meat. Collettor was proving to be a worthwhile asset, possessing a deep understanding of the Russian character in contrast to Thomas’s own limited exposure. Thomas felt the gray-haired acting secretary of state’s gentlemanly manner might come in handy. While they waited, the buzz filling the room rose until the Spanish foreign minister signaled for silence. There was a stirring near one set of the French doors. General Vasquez stepped smartly across the room. The Russians had arrived.

The final Russian lineup had been provided one hour before start time. Leading the pack was the new foreign minister, a brute named Gennadi Burbulis. Thomas caught a glimpse through the gaggle of officials and concurred with the intelligence report. He was an active duty Russian general from the far-east who had been ordered to change stripes for appearance’s sake. He was dumpy with almost no hair and an alcoholic’s pitted face and red-veined nose. He was the one to watch, the story went, the bulldog that went for the throat.