Red Hammer 1994

Few Spaniards, or others for that matter, remained within the compound’s walls. For the hosts, only General Vasquez and a lower-level foreign ministry official dared show their faces, along with dozen of guards. Officially, Spain had washed their hands of the matter, and the UN and European observers had politely declined the rematch. The majority had already filed lengthy postmortems with dire predictions of renewed nuclear exchanges within forty-eight hours. Panic spread through the capitols of the world. Governments prayed for peace but expected the worst.

The early evening had brought little relief from the stifling daytime heat that universally plagued the tropics. The seasonal westerly breeze had vanished, the humidity hanging heavy; the thick sweetness suspended in the air was now an enemy. Such evenings shorten tempers and promote mischief. Thomas sensed an eerie and troublesome foreboding. His troops sensed it too.

The heavy crystal chandeliers were woefully inadequate, only a dull, yellow light emanated from candle-shaped bulbs. Every footstep echoed down the hall.

Thomas took stock of his band; they were holding well. He proceeded unflinching, correct and erect, every inch the officer. He suddenly realized his hip didn’t hurt—the humid tropical climate having worked wonders.

The Russians were already in place, half their afternoon numbers. The Americans took the same seats, not speaking nor paying heed to the dwindled Russian delegation. Thomas said a few words left and right then turned and placed both forearms on the table, interlacing his fingers and forming an arrow pointing directly at his opponent. The microphones were gone, unnecessary where one could hear a pin drop. The Americans had left their high-tech gear at home. Brinkman waited in the foyer with his satellite equipment.

The meeting would be informal and most-likely short. Thomas had his instructions. He studied the faces poised before him, their weary and bloodshot eyes tracking his. It was an odd feeling, much different from the anger that overwhelmed him in the afternoon. The still night seemed to have sucked the aggressiveness out of them all. Thomas felt a numbing resignation to the whole affair.

Gone were the Russian interpreter and the other foreign ministry bureaucrats. Seated opposite Thomas was the old marshal, Silayev, while Burbulis, looking exhausted, was to the right, not quite so imperious. The climate seemed to be taking a heavy toll on the obese Russian. The fire was gone from his gray eyes, now lifeless and dull; his cheeks sagged under mussed hair. Perspiration collected on his wrinkled forehead and dripped to the table. Strelkov was to the left, angry and defiant still, smarting from his personal humiliation. His dark eyes and swarthy complexion basked in the waxen light, happily at home where the shadows ruled. He was that kind of man. The veins and muscles in his neck bulged in anticipation.

Silayev looked strangely out of place. One would have thought he had been transported in time as his uniform and physical appearance remained unchanged from the afternoon session. His remaining white hair was neatly combed, his chalky face dry and unemotional. But his deep blue eyes flashed intelligence and a sound wisdom, even for an enemy. Thomas had missed it in the first confrontation. He had ignored the president’s instructions to his own detriment. He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

The two ranks sat quietly for the longest time, neither side anxious to start. Maybe due to the fear of failure, the somber mood sobered the room. Or, just maybe, they were all exhausted.

The old marshal spoke to Tillman, his voice surprisingly strong and steady.

“He says that I should interpret for both parties,” Tillman said with a touch of surprise. Thomas nodded approval.

Silayev calmly removed a silver cigarette case from his tunic and cleverly popped it open with one hand. He removed a lone smoke then glanced up and shoved the case across the table at Thomas as casually as if the two were sharing a drink at a local neighborhood bar. His experienced eyes captured Thomas’s intense gaze, a shoulder shrug from the marshal passed for an offer.

“Tell the marshal no thank you,” he said to Tillman. Silayev was unfazed by the rejection. He lit his cigarette, his thoughts elsewhere, obviously delighting in the first drag of the thick smoke. His exhaled smoke mixed with the curling trail from the cigarette’s tip, spiraling toward the ceiling. One of the chandeliers was flickering off in a corner. Diffracted light from the handful of outside floods filtered through open windows. The inside temperature was several degrees warmer than outdoors.

“It seems we are at an impasse,” Silayev said matter-of-factly, sounding disappointed. “Perhaps the general has some thoughts? I’m afraid our position still stands, and given the gravity of events, is quite reasonable and moral. Many others agree.”