Red Hammer 1994

He next recognized a marshal, the noteworthy Marshal Ivan Silayev, the old commander of the Strategic Rocket Forces, hauled out of retirement in desperation. He was the father of the former Soviets’ mobile missile force. Immaculate in a Red Army dress uniform, the old marshal appeared frail. On his heels was a tall, intense officer, standing ramrod straight, his penetrating eyes sweeping the room like an air search radar, interrogating friend or foe. His was powerfully built with a jet-black crew cut shaved close at the ears and a chiseled, swarthy face that sat on a pair of uncompromising shoulders. He momentarily locked his eyes on Thomas. Their gazes met, neither yielding. The Russian was distracted by the marshal, and broke the lock. That was Colonel General Strelkov, deputy for plans of the Strategic Rocket Forces, a fast-tracker who flew through the ranks in the early nineties. He had made general at the tender age of forty-five, incredible in the Russian military society where gray hair or a bald head was mandatory for respectability and credibility. The others in the Russian retinue were a mix of military and civilians. Thomas picked out an admiral, probably a submariner, and a thin, wisp of a man that he correctly identified as the chief interpreter. Collettor had related a worn State Department anecdote that the Russians must keep their interpreters in prison outside of required working hours, given their universally emaciated appearance and disheveled dress.

Thomas turned to Tillman. “Feed me anything you pick up.” She nodded affirmatively. “Focus on Burbulis and how he works with that general to his left,” he added, furtively fingering Strelkov. “Don’t worry about the old marshal.”

When the Russians broke ranks and headed directly toward the table, it happened. Thomas didn’t want it to happen, but it did. One seldom gets one’s way in these matters. All the mental rehearsals, the anger and frustration beaten back and tucked safely away, the cram course poured into him by the president and the State Department experts, none had prepared Thomas the moment of truth. Unbridled fury swelled from his chest and caught sideways in his throat. His sanity momentarily slipped gears, threatening to unleash the floodgates of his dark self. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, carrying pure, unfiltered hate. He had never felt like this in his life. They drew closer, these Russians who had cursed his world.

God, I can’t do this, he screamed to himself. Thomas swallowed hard, but the anger and pain wouldn’t pass. Please, Lord, help me, he begged. Tillman sensed the reaction, herself panting in shallow bursts at the building tension. She calmly put her hand on Thomas’s forearm and whispered something. He placed his fingers on the back of her hand, not turning, but nodding slightly. It hurt that she knew but helped that she understood. Thomas dug down deep, to depths he hadn’t imagined existed in his soul, searching for the strength to carry him through. “Thank you,” he said softly, his hand slipping back before the last words left his lips. The monster had been forced back into its cage for the moment.

From their stone faces cut with hate, the Russians harbored no good will either. General Vasquez was apoplectic. The Spanish foreign minister gripped his large head between his hands, ready to scream. Plans for a formal introduction were folly. No, they were potentially deadly in this volatile atmosphere. The hosts would shrink out of sight and hope for the best. Both sides glared so hostilely that the entire assemblage squirmed in their seats. The air stank like superheated steam in an old frigate’s engine room, today mixed with an aerosol mist of high-octane gasoline. One spark and the walls would blow outward in a deafening roar. It dawned on more than one sane mind in the audience that this meeting was a terrible mistake. Benton edged forward. The Russian Spetsnaz baboons guarding their leaders moved likewise.

The Russians stood awkwardly, undoubtedly expecting the Americans to rise in deference. They would be disappointed. Burbulis finally seated his contingent with a grunt. The chairs scraped and screeched across the wooden floor. A foul cloud hung over the Russian lineup. Burbulis presided over his men in the manner of a small-town judge bent on a hanging. The Spanish foreign minister started to speak but lost courage. The silence continued unabated. Thomas leaned forward toward the single chrome microphone at his place, Tillman following like the umpire over a hunkered-down catcher.