Red Hammer 1994

“You’re kidding?” Thomas blurted. It was a stupid thing to say. The president ignored it.

“Meet with them, General Thomas. You’re our last hope. You can’t even begin to know how fervently I pray to God each and every hour that you’ll succeed and that the country will be saved.”

Thomas slowly shook his head in surrender. “I’ll try, Mr. President. I’ll try.” He readied himself for an awkward good-bye.

“There’s something else,” the president said, his voice lower, his tone cautious like a man unsure of himself—like a messenger with bad news. Thomas smelled disaster. It came before he had adequately prepared. “Your family. They said I shouldn’t tell you, not yet anyway. I disagreed. I owe it to you, General Thomas.”

Thomas shut his eyes, as if that could block the awful news. His throat constricted, and his eyes brimmed with tears. He mentally staggered, off balance, grasping for a handhold. This was too much. What did they want from him?

“The explosions near Washington. Your wife was injured, but will recover—a couple of broken bones, cuts, and bruises.” A moment of hope shone forth, a light in the endless darkness. “But your son. He was outside without a shirt. He never had a chance with the burns. So many were burned; the hospitals and burn units were overwhelmed. I had to tell you. I’m terribly sorry.”

Thomas slumped onto the bed, a deep primordial moan emanating from his lungs. He just barely managed to grip the handset. He broke into quiet sobs, the tears streaming down his cheeks. He hurt more and deeper than he ever dreamed possible.

Benton jumped to his feet. “General Thomas?” The major stepped over and placed his hand on Thomas’s shoulder, squeezing in a gesture of reassurance. “Sir, are you all right?” He sat on the bed next to Thomas.

Thomas couldn’t answer with words. Instead he nodded weakly, righting himself and wiping the most obvious tears with his rolled-up sleeve. He sat motionless and breathed slowly, staring off into space. He picked up the handset and looked at the black object like he had never seen it before. Thomas slowly raised the device to his ear. He was beaten. He swallowed hard before speaking.

“You did the right thing, Mr. President. I’ll always be grateful that you told me.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” offered the president once more.

“I suppose,” said Thomas with a sniff, “that I had better get moving if I’m going in for another round.”

“Good-bye,” the president said.

“Good-bye, Mr. President.” Thomas set the receiver in its cradle and looked over at Benton. “My son’s dead,” he said with a look that only a fellow parent could understand. “My son, who made it known to all he wouldn’t be caught dead in the military; my son, who teased me about my obsession with duty; who always told me I could make a hell of a lot more money somewhere else—is dead. Burned to death by a goddamn nuclear bomb fired by some bastard half a world away.” Thomas felt a dull lifelessness tug at his core.

“He couldn’t have died instantly. No, he had to lie in his own puss and body fluids, to dry out, in agony. It should have been me. I’m the soldier.”

Benton couldn’t answer. Thomas shifted his gaze from Benton to his own face in the mirror across the room. He felt a sudden revulsion for his chosen career, for his whole adult life, wasted, flushed down the toilet in a single sickening moment. “Fuck it. Fuck the Russians. Fuck the whole goddamn world.”

“I’m sorry about your son.” Thomas looked into Benton’s eyes and saw shared pain and fear, fear for his own family somewhere in Georgia. Memories began to flood Thomas’s thoughts. Memories of his son as a mischievous youngster. As a young man who on occasion gave his dad fits. Then he had thoughts of Sally and his daughter. What of them? It was all so confusing, so hard to understand. He had to stop trying. Thomas wiped the last of the tears and massaged his face with both hands. “I need to be alone.”

Benton understood. He silently stepped to the door and left without a word. Thomas stood to full height, surveying the extent of his current, shattered world, observing the four walls that held him prisoner. He felt like a stranger, a visitor to a hostile planet. He had no one to turn to. Thomas fell to his knees and prayed with all his might. He desperately needed help.

The grounds were deserted, a probable casualty of the afternoon’s debacle. The tropical moon cast mysterious shadows over the granite steps leading up to the conference-hall entrance. A fresco of pink angels and attentive cherubs graced the well-formed arch over the threshold, beckoning the weary and sinner alike. Thomas was surely both. He glanced up at the happy heavenly tribe and then on to the stars that spread like a canopy of sparkling lights over a world he wished were his.