Red Hammer 1994

Four computer terminals were manned by military personnel specially trained in crisis procedures. They dutifully inputted text as spoken and transmitted the formatted message via radio frequency links to the Kremlin. Both outgoing and incoming messages were displayed on a LCD screen above the terminals, obviating the need to crowd the soldiers. Crushed against the wall, Thomas held his breath as the first words from the president of the Russian Republic cascaded down the backlit screen.

Nothing had prepared them for the rubbish. The chairman swore. Alexander’s head hung in frustration. Genser and the president withheld judgment, hanging onto every word, looking for hidden meaning. Laptev got right to the point.

“This tragedy has been caused by unprovoked American acts, which forced the Russian government to protect our homeland. We had monitored the dispersal of your bombers. We acted in self-defense. And now you have escalated the crisis by launching your entire land-based missile force in an attempt to gain the military advantage. You will not succeed. You may be assured of that. Despite this wanton act, we are willing to consider an immediate cease-fire. All Russian forces will stand down, and US forces must do likewise. The Russian government desires to end this madness before it leads to the total destruction of the planet. The fate of mankind is in your hands.”

“We should accept Laptev’s offer immediately,” said Genser excitedly, even before the others had finished digesting the words. “This is our last chance, our only hope.”

“They attacked us,” protested the chairman vehemently, “I see no reason to believe their lies now.”

The president squinted and rocked forward, hoping he had read the words incorrectly. The man was searching for that one carefully chosen word or tightly constructed phrase that would permit the slightest opening to a meaningful dialogue. Even in his debilitated state all he saw was a stone wall. The negotiator in him, although requiring a dusting off, rejected Genser’s plea out of hand. The attack was intentional, he reluctantly concluded.

“We should state that our response was limited,” offered Alexander. “We need to ignore the rhetoric and focus on developing a dialogue. This isn’t the time for posturing.” Alexander blushed. He was acting out a canned role, the faithful advisor, the wise counselor. In his heart, he knew it would most likely fail.

“I agree,” answered the president. “I pray I can convince President Laptev. Are you certain their initial attack was as widespread as reported?”

“Yes, Mr. President,” said Alexander. “That assessment is correct.”

The president leaned over the army-enlisted operator, placing his hands on the young man’s shoulders. The words came slowly as he tried to frame a measured response that was conciliatory but not weak. He mustered all his remaining strength and began.

“This is the president of the United States. Although I strongly disagree with your description of our actions, I am encouraged by your willingness to discuss a cease-fire. I want to emphasize the limited nature of our response. We have launched only those weapons which were threatened with destruction. The majority of our forces have not been committed. Our bombers have been instructed to hold over Canada, and—”. The door burst open. The watch commander was sputtering. Additional Soviet ICBMs and SLBMs had risen from Russian forests and the ocean’s depths, four or five hundred weapons.

The president hung his head in disbelief, tears welling in his swollen eyes. He gasped, succumbing to overwhelming despair. Beaten would be a charitable description of his condition. He was helped from the cramped room by his chief of staff. The chairman, vindicated, cursed at the Russians for their renewed treachery. The secretary of state bowed his head and futilely fought back tears. Alexander appeared outwardly calm yet pallid. An empty look was painted across his face.

“It’s over,” said the president, his frail voice cracking, “I’ve failed.”

“There’s still time!” said Genser passionately. “We can accept the Russian cease-fire. We’ve got to break the cycle of strike and counterstrike.” The president looked at his trusted advisor like a priest holding confession. His eyes were compassionate and forgiving; the tears were still wet on his cheeks. The startled Genser took a step back.

“I understand now,” said the president calmly. “The Russians had this all planned out. I can’t imagine anyone that callous. It is nothing more than calculated butchery.” His voice had taken on a different tone, soft and reflective. He exuded an inner peace. Thomas was convinced the man had snapped. A glance at Alexander seconded his diagnosis.

“It wouldn’t make a difference,” he continued, sounding fatherly, looking at Genser. “The Russians would make exorbitant demands. Am I to surrender simply because they struck first? I can’t do that, no matter how badly I want to stop this.”