Red Hammer 1994

The bulky Burbulis pushed himself from his seat with his massive arms and arched forward across the table, toppling his microphone and nearly knocking his interpreter to the floor. He raised his trembling fist and sent it crashing to the wood with a thud. “I will not be lectured by you. Why are you so reluctant to part with your precious Tridents?” Burbulis hunched forward like a linebacker ready to charge. “Perhaps it is because you wish to annihilate the Russian people, to further your monstrous attacks. We attacked only military targets, while your bombers and missiles struck the very heart of our country, including our beloved Moscow. You are the butchers; the world will know.” Tillman was now performing double duty, her Russian counterpart incapable of coping with the stress and invective. She didn’t mince words; Thomas needed to know.

Thomas felt himself being inexorably sucked into a black hole. “We have not attacked your cities; you know that’s a goddamn lie.”

“You Americans are no better than the Nazis. Your extermination campaigns in Vietnam are proof. And you will have the same fate as Hitler and his SS cronies. We will fight you to the bitter end. The Russian people will never surrender.” His voice rose to a shrill cry. “The world knows who the aggressors are. It is the Americans who refuse to embrace peace. You wish to terrify and bully the entire world with your nuclear weapons!”

A chord snapped in Thomas’s brain. He thrust himself forward into the Russian’s flushed face. The muscles in his arms flexed and bulged with rage, his hands balled into fists. “Hundreds of years and two revolutions in the last eighty have not changed the Russian character. Your capacity for lies is unparalleled.”

Strelkov shot upward and joined the foreign minister on his feet. “You would do well to hold your tongue. You Americans are far from virgins when it comes to the truth. Everyone knows your country has wished for just this war for decades, a chance for complete dominance over the planet.”

“That’s crap,” barked Thomas. He shot a finger toward the younger general’s chin. “The lies won’t work. For years the Strategic Rocket Forces have been nothing but lackeys, groveling at Moscow’s feet, nursing your wounded pride.”

Strelkov’s face turned purple. He swung an awkward roundhouse punch that Thomas easily batted away. Thomas shoved his open palm into the colonel general’s face and flung him backward over his chair. Strelkov landed in a heap with his feet pointed toward the ceiling. Burbulis beat a hasty retreat before he suffered a similar fate. The Spetsnaz troopers slipped forward, edging closer to the Americans. Benton grabbed Thomas and yanked him to safety before the largest of them could get his hands on him. Half the spectators bolted for the exit while the others cowered on the deck. Spanish Marines rushed in and brought their weapons to bear, panicked and confused.

“Criminals!” Burbulis shouted, himself restrained by his people. Strelkov had been helped to his feet, tugging at his tunic. The Spetsnaz commandos began to move again.

“Time to get you out of here, General Thomas,” Benton ordered his superior. Thomas strained at the major’s grip but followed his lead. He felt a sudden flush of embarrassment and humiliation, fed by the realization that he had failed miserably. He couldn’t control his temper, despite the stakes. You stupid bastard, he scolded himself. The president of the United States entrusts you with the prestige of his office, and you waste it like a spoiled child. Negotiations that had been expected to last days had just collapsed in less than fifteen minutes, and the Russians had emerged the apparent victors.

CHAPTER 37

The president’s fallen champion sat on the edge of his hotel bed, his sweat-stained face buried in his hands, his jumbled thoughts suspended in time. Thomas was waiting for the secure voice connection to the president. Major Brinkman hunched over, working the linkup to the satellite transceiver, performing the final test and checkout before synching the signal with the eastern United States. Thomas was not relishing the conversation. He rubbed hard against the black-and-gray stubble that had grown since the day before, distracted by bitter memories, past and present.

Thomas was disgusted, mortified at his contemptible performance. He had faltered when he should have been strong, collapsed in the face of adversity. The president had commissioned him alone, on the most critical of missions, risking his own prestige and credibility. The mess he created was likely irretrievable.