Red Hammer 1994

The lone Kremlin guard, stone-faced and immaculate in his heavy gray overcoat and polished black leather boots, gave the old doctor a cursory glance then waved him through like a cop directing routine traffic. Antonovich’s destination was the presidium, one hundred meters down the worn cobblestone way on the right. He pressed forward gripping the package even tighter. His heart raced. He was deeply troubled by his most recent findings, those too new to receive wide dissemination. Both the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service (SVR) and the military intelligence (GRU) had been criminally remiss in not forecasting this incredible leap in American technology. Those clever Americans were wizards, thought the doctor, shaking his head admiringly. Blame would fall on someone; he was certain of that. Why couldn’t Colonel Kulencho have accompanied him? It was his responsibility to deal with the politics of the intelligence community. The doctor groaned in protest.

Antonovich paused before the impressive presidium entrance, taking a last deep, purging breath. A rush of blood surged to his head, clearing his rambling thoughts. The doctor struggled up the steep granite steps and past the twin guards bracketing the entrance. He cautiously stepped inside, stopping and fishing for his identification card lost in his coat pocket. How he hated the insolent guards at Russian government buildings. Some things never changed.

Locating the worn card amidst numerous notes and wadded receipts, Antonovich flashed it at the sour-looking young man stationed just inside the door. The soldier, no more than a teenager in a freshly pressed uniform, motioned for him to step closer, reaching out and flicking his gloved fingers in the doctor’s face. He rudely snatched the card and held it high in the air, then finally motioned toward the security desk. He had the look of a man about to kick a disobedient dog for messing on the floor.

A few meters away, lurking in the shadows, a contingent of fellow Kremlin guards congregated near an ornate wooden counter, talking quietly and eyeballing the visibly distressed old man. The contingent leader, a young-looking Interior Ministry officer stepped up. He was handsome, immaculate, and arrogant.

“What is the nature of your business?” he demanded, scanning the doctor suspiciously.

“I’m Dr. Antonovich,” he stammered. “I have an appointment with General Surikov.”

“Identification please?” The young officer cautiously reexamined the doctor’s ID. He studied it closely, as if his man had most certainly overlooked something critical. He took his time and smiled at his men. They chuckled in reply.

Antonovich fumed.

“What’s in the package? Open it,” he demanded accusingly.

Antonovich squirmed. “That’s impossible—General Surikov’s orders,” he gasped.

Antonovich was stunned when the impertinent bastard actually hesitated. “Take a seat,” he finally ordered after much thought, waving toward a nearby wooden bench.

The Interior Ministry officer picked up the receiver of a rotary-dial phone. Within seconds, his smug expression turned ashen. His head bobbed repeatedly, and a series of groveling “yes, sirs”, spewed from his lips.

“I will bring him up immediately.” The general had answered the phone, leaving the major mortified. His circled friends refrained from any outward show of pleasure.

He recovered gracefully, the mark of a true bureaucrat. “Come with me, Doctor; General Surikov will see you now.” Antonovich fell in behind the major, following closely through the dimly lit, narrow halls, glancing from side to side. Every time he passed an officer or civilian, Antonovich was greeted with a cold, hard stare that reminded him of so many robots on parade.

They found the general’s office. The major knocked and entered after receiving a grunt from behind the door. The general was a big man, powerfully built, and heavy around the middle. His freshly pressed dress uniform was complemented with rows of brightly colored ribbons, most earned as a much younger officer in the wilds of Afghanistan, capturing freedom fighters and administrating special interrogations. His ruddy complexion and square jaw elicited images of the airborne troops, not the intelligence community.

General Surikov was head of the GRU, the military’s intelligence arm, rising to the top position after his predecessor had been sacked in the recent reorganization, which had swept through the military power structure like a scythe. Antonovich had never met him before but had heard stories—especially about his violent temper.

“That will be all, Major,” Surikov said curtly. Surikov rose with an unexpected grace and extended his large, rough-hewn hand.

“Good morning, Dr. Antonovich, a pleasure to meet you. We must hurry. Unfortunately, I have not had time to thoroughly review your most recent findings. A pointing-and-tracking experiment, correct?”

He said it all so fast that Antonovich didn’t know where to begin and started to panic. “Yes, sir, but there is more. The…”