Red Hammer 1994

Always dressed to a tee, he recalled another age. Maybe it was the distinct European flavor to his manners and speech that he purposely fostered. Even in today’s blistering heat, he was freshly pressed in a beautifully tailored Italian suit, complemented by a subtle silk tie that blended superbly with his pale blue shirt. His silver hair and neatly trimmed pencil-thin mustache completed the picture. He fastidiously maintained his weight, kept a country club tan, and was rumored to have had an eye job to remove unsightly bags. He would have been perfectly cast for the OSS under “Wild Bill” Donovon in the war-torn forties, or for Hollywood, for that matter. Director Wilks was a piece of work.

Tardy, but expected, was the blunt, hardworking Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, a favorite of Thomas’s, even when they were on different sides of an issue. The old soldier would bluster and fume, but he always listened and never took offense. The chairman, a Midwestern country boy, had heroically shouldered the unenviable burden of shrinking the US military during tough times. The highly decorated four-star army general had managed to assuage the services and still present his president with an effective fighting force—no mean feat. Big and burly, he looked like a grizzled construction worker rather than the president’s number-one military man. He kept trim by lifting weights and running down the popular bike path skirting the Potomac three days a week, rain or shine.

The others around the table were a mixed bag of NSC staffers. They would listen attentively but keep their mouths shut. The rules were clearly understood. Thomas mused over the agenda. No one had enough time to adequately prepare. Intelligence was sorely lacking. That guaranteed the debate would be a free-for-all. The crux was what were the Russians up to? He doubted anyone knew the answer to that. They waited for the commander in chief.

CHAPTER 11

The president of the United States walked into the room, accompanied by his chief of staff. He resembled most business or government leaders his age. Medium height, not grossly overweight but with a slight paunch over the belt, thinning hair combed straight back, which retrained only a trace of its former color; the man easily looked his sixty-two years. His pale blue eyes lacked the luster that had beamed forth on nomination day at his party’s convention.

Well into his first term, he struggled with the Herculean task of national leadership. The president had come from the Senate, but was quickly introduced to the cold, hard realities of limited presidential power. The job was a cruel magnifying glass that accentuated and distorted every flaw and less-than-perfect decision to grand scale, providing a lightning rod for the all-too-common folks in DC that made a living tearing good people down. Nurtured in economics, he excelled in the Byzantine world of fiscal and domestic policy and had made real progress in cracking the fiscal nut that had dogged his predecessors. When it came to foreign policy and military strategy, he was a dilettante and knew it. He typically deferred to his cabinet for the weightier decisions, always seeking consensus. Thomas admired him for his candor and sincerity. Overall, he was a kind and decent man in way over his head.

All rose in unison and stood motionless until the president was seated. His face was drawn this afternoon and covered with perspiration. He made private conversation with his chief of staff before addressing the group. Thomas thought the president looked terrible. “Please take your seats,” the chief executive said softly.

The president adjusted his tortoiseshell frames and put on a serious face. “I’m sure you all are as concerned as I am about this submarine business. I don’t know what’s gotten into the Russians lately. My last letter to the Russian president has sat unanswered. We seem to have reached an impasse.” He placed particular emphasis on the last words by removing his glasses in a dramatic sweep and scanning the table.

The president returned the glasses to his nose and continued. “I’ve talked to Ron about an hour ago. He’ll query the NATO defense ministers after their meeting. Maybe they know something. Anyway, let’s begin with an intelligence assessment from Director Wilks.”

Wilks smiled graciously. The director had an irritating habit of indirectness. He played true to form by posing a question for his opener. “What do the Russians hope to gain by deploying a Delta submarine so close to our shores?”

“Is this the same Delta supposedly sitting on the bottom of the ocean off the Kuriles?” interrupted Alexander dryly. He wasn’t predisposed to games this hot afternoon. Wilks took it in stride. His plastic smile didn’t crack.

“I suppose one could make that determination,” the director sniffed, “but we have solid evidence that a submarine was lost off the Kuriles; and we now have actual physical evi-dence to back our claim.”