Red Hammer 1994

The balcony assumed a grim air, the tension palpable. Heavily armed marines guarded the doors, and a handful of senior military officers were clustered by a row of private telephones. Messengers relayed information from the floor to those with the need to know. The secretary and his entourage were immediately ushered to an inconspicuous conference room accessed from a wood-paneled door. At one end was a circular hardwood table for eight, while an adjoining lounge area had overstuffed chairs and end tables with tasteful lamps. The walls contained the usual assortment of pictures of weapon systems in action and military memorabilia expected in such a meeting place for warriors. A tabletop intercom box connected them directly to the watch commander on the floor.

When the president entered, the trio managed an acknowledgment, which wasn’t returned. It wasn’t an intentional slight. The president looked haggard, his face flushed, his breathing labored. Perspiration streaked his blotchy skin. He was closely followed by Secretary of State Genser and a few others. Genser’s face was imprinted with dread. He wiped his deeply furrowed brow with a handkerchief while further loosening his tie. The president was guided to an upholstered chair at the head of the table. He fought to remain composed, taking rapid, shallow breaths. The others took appropriate seats. Thomas had never witnessed such a collection of pained expressions.

No one volunteered to start. The momentary pause proved soothing, medicinal. All were content to simply reflect on the shared tragedy for a few moments. After what seemed an eternity, Alexander tapped the president’s arm and whispered that the American ICBMs had escaped destruction. The news fell flat. The president rolled forward on his forearms. He didn’t want to talk military strategy.

“Have we contacted the Russians?” asked the president weakly.

“Not yet,” said Alexander. “We’ve tried every possible frequency, but no luck. We’re still trying Mr. President.”

The president slowly spoke. “We’ve got to stop the killing.” The chief executive’s body shook with emotion; his hands, balled into fists, trembled. A White House doctor leaned forward in his chair, concerned. No one dared move or speak. The president’s face tightened.

“Mr. President?” probed his chief of staff, himself in bad shape.

The president gripped the chair arms and regained his equilibrium. His breathing became less labored as he straightened in place.

“I’m fine.” He leaned forward, regrouping. “I should have listened to Jonathon,” he said out of the blue. He closed his eyes and shook his head. Hard minutes of reflection had triggered a sadness that marked the commander-in-chief. It was a fatalistic, somber air, a bittersweet moment. The president scanned the room, as if looking for a friend not there.

“What about Europe?” he asked.

Alexander cast a glance Thomas’s way. At the moment, Europe was irrelevant. Alexander answered his president. “The NATO countries are in various stages of alert. They’re waiting to see which way the wind blows.” He had painted to neat a picture. He didn’t say that the American forces still garrisoned in Europe were hostages, at that moment being placed under armed guard by their hosts. Genser changed the subject, still habitually wiping the sweat from his brow.

“What about Russian submarines?” Genser asked pointedly. Alexander sensed the agenda.

“When found, they’ll be destroyed,” replied Alexander matter-of-factly.

Genser’s temper flared. He almost leapt out of his chair. “So that means we’re sinking Russian ballistic submarines in home waters,” shouted Genser. “You’re mad. We’ll never stop this.” His fist made a futile gesture against the wood table.

“It’s militarily sound,” replied the chairman sternly, “and I hope we sink every one of the bastards.”

“It’s hopeless, Mr. President,” said Genser angrily. “We’ve backed the Russians into a corner.”

“What?” blasted Alexander. “How can you say that?”

The president buried his face in his hands, defusing the confrontation. He looked up mournfully, running his hand through his thin hair. An eerie calm once again hung heavily.

“We have to contact the Russians,” he said, working his body upright and leaning on the table, “to explain our actions.”

“Mr. President,” interrupted the watch commander over the intercom, “we’ve made contact with the Russians. President Laptev himself.” A glimmer of hope sliced through the gloom. The president sprang to his feet.

The assemblage was herded to a small telecommunications center around the bend. The large number of bodies crammed into the tiny space made the heat oppressive and the air stifling.