Red Hammer 1994

“I see,” the general replied, cutting the doctor off in mid-sentence. He was already heading out the door, signaling the stammering doctor to follow.

Antonovich shadowed Surikov to an elevator a few meters from his office. The two entered, the doctor after the general. Surikov inserted a blunt key into one of three locks, forcing the elevator to sink at a rapid rate. When the door abruptly opened, they were faced by four security guards in crisp uniforms, all heavily armed. The doctor’s eyes widened.

“Take the doctor to the briefing center, and tell Colonel Menshikov that I will inform the Defense Council he has arrived,” Surikov ordered.

The armed escort saluted then hurried Antonovich into a large, ornate conference room down the hall. The richly paneled walls were complemented by a vaulted stucco ceiling adorned with crystal chandeliers and luxurious, full-length drapes. The round table was beautifully polished hardwood, and the accompanying chairs were covered with brushed velvet. Along one wall was a row of austere wooden chairs, purposely placed for guests. Drawn drapes at one end revealed a large screen for presentations, while a small table with a viewgraph projector stood nearby. The conference table had a pad of paper and a leaded crystal glass strategically placed at each seat, along with bottles of fruit juice and mineral water—typical Russian fare.

“Take a seat,” one of the officers instructed sternly from behind.

The frightening reality began to hit home. Quietly, at the far end of the room, a door opened. The doctor had overlooked this entrance in his cursory search. First through was a Kremlin guards’ officer who signaled the others to prod the doctor to his feet. Next was a group of five high-ranking military officers, marshals and senior generals. The doctor always got badges of rank confused. They individually took station along the wall opposite from Antonovich.

After a few minutes, the Defense Council filed in. They had been in a private session debating the latest military reprisals against rebels in seven provinces. Russian forces were stretched to the breaking point. In the lead was the defense minister, looking unusually sour this fine spring day. Next was the director of the SVR, who was younger, taller, immaculately dressed, and looking bored. He was handsome with dark skin and black eyes that made him look foreign. He was a former KGB man brought out of retirement. His marching orders were to restore much of the old KGB’s internal surveillance skills that had been gutted by the last Russian president and to beef up the overseas SVR apparatus. The spying had never really stopped, as all Russian leaders, regardless of their personal ideology, felt naked without their daily dose of international gossip. It was in their blood.

The Chief of the General Staff, Marshal Kiselev, followed, stepping smartly and appearing much younger than his sixty years. He was fit and wore a dress uniform decked with row upon row of medals, fresh from a formal occasion. A civilian was close on his heels—perhaps the chief of industrial production, newly appointed. There were many new faces in the government lately. Last in line was Nikolai Laptev, looking haggard, his face a pasty white, and large, drooping bags under his eyes. Rumor had him suffering from ills that ran the gamut from daily migraines to prostate cancer. Some dared say that he was becoming unstable, succumbing to the strain, others noted his increased alcohol consumption in public—the curse of nearly every Russian leader since Stalin.

Laptev quickly sized up the room. All stood by their chairs until the Russian president gestured for them to sit. The defense minister was first to speak.

“Dr. Antonovich of the GRU’s Special Analysis Group has kindly consented to share his findings with us.”

The defense minister paused and nodded toward the doctor with a forced smile. “Thank you for attending on such short notice, Dr. Antonovich. We understand you have performed admirably under a rigorous deadline. General Surikov has sung your praises.” He swept his hand toward the waiting projector. “Doctor?”

Antonovich squirmed; the perspiration beaded on his forehead. He slowly rose and walked to the table. His legs were shaking so violently he thought they would collapse. A quick glance convinced him that his audience would offer no sympathy.

The old viewgraph machine had been switched on; the hum of its tiny rattling fan was the only sound in the room. Removing his material from the brown envelope, he paused, cleared his throat, and began, his nervousness riding on his first words.