Red Hammer 1994

“I’m not talking surrender, Mr. President,” begged Genser, angered that his words were taken out context. “We’ve both lost; can’t you see?”

“I never thought,” remarked the president, almost to himself, “that the concept of a winner and loser would have any meaning in a nuclear war, but I find myself thinking in those terms. I’m killing millions of human beings thousands of miles away to keep the United States from losing this war. In that process, I’m condemning millions of Americans to a horrible death. I need help, and there doesn’t seem to be any place to turn.” He turned to the military men.

“Would you say,” said the president, for the first time addressing the chairman individually, “that if we accept the Russian proposal, we’ll have essentially surrendered?”

“I’m afraid I would, Mr. President.” The chairman took little solace in the president’s words. “We’ll have been hit with nearly fifteen hundred warheads—substantially more than the number we hit them with. We have limited forces in reserve, while they have two hundred ICBMs in those damn forests, plus any submarines they have left. In my estimation, they will clearly be in a superior position.”

“Does anyone disagree?” asked the president.

There was a painful pause.

“Mr. President,” prompted Alexander, “the bombers are burning up fuel.”

“I’m afraid I can’t deal with this anymore,” the president answered with a wave of his hand. “We’re involved in total war. The military should make the decisions. I will approve your orders. All I ask is that we minimize casualties. I don’t want Russian cities targeted. I insist.”

The president stood, wiping his face up and down with his hands cupped together. By now he was drenched and shivered from the blast of cold air from the ventilation ducts. “I’ve completely failed,” he said sadly, shaking his head. “I’m going to be alone for a moment.”

“Mr. President,” said Alexander, “there is nothing you could’ve done to prevent this.”

The president didn’t look back.

“Mr. President,” he called again. “You have to leave for NEACP.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” replied the president, stopping. “There may be something I can do here. You’ll leave, though.”

“But Mr. President,” protested Alexander.

“I’m still the commander in chief. I’m ordering you to go. I won’t hear any more about it.” He turned and shuffled off toward an unoccupied corner.

“You’d better get moving,” said the chairman to Alexander. “I’ll stay with the president. The vice chairman and the CINC’s will be notified.”

At the main entrance, a small cluster of military officers and civilians began to muster. Thomas called to Alexander, putting the last of a stack of documents in a canvas bag.

“Mr. Secretary, the helicopter is here.” Alexander acknowledged him.

The president walked over. He extended his hand. “God bless you and give you the strength to carry out your duties.” By now tears flowed freely down his cheeks; he made no attempt to check his feelings.

“God’s speed,” said the chairman, firmly grasping Alexander’s hand in a two-handed shake. He did the same to Thomas. “Bob,” he said, not letting go for the longest time, “The secretary needs your support more than ever.” Thomas sadly thanked the general. In his mind, he imagined that his personal journey of suffering was just beginning. In a flash of self-pity, he envied the men and women who stayed behind. The party turned and departed.

The displays in the distance now showed an eerie pattern of colored lines and symbols denoting weapon trajectories, targets destroyed, and forces surviving. Somewhere among the mass of data one could predict the outcome. It had been sixty-five minutes since the first Russian missiles had been detected by DSP. The watch commander approached the chairman.

“Sir,” he whispered, “we have confirmed that warheads are targeted at Washington. Time to impact, twenty-two minutes.”

“I understand,” answered the chairman softly, “notify NEACP and the others that we’ll be transferring command authority in fifteen minutes.”

“Yes, sir,” said the officer, moving away quickly.

CHAPTER 20

Thomas led the procession through the dank cinder-block corridor, forcing the pace. His sturdy frame bowed under the weight of the canvas bag slung over his shoulder. It was stuffed with top-secret war plans that even as they evacuated the NMCC were being executed by the theater CINCs.

Thomas pulled one hand free and glanced at his Seiko; it was 7:33 p.m., over an hour since all hell had broken loose. The other evacuees trailed in his footsteps, twelve men in all, bunched together. Thomas’ sky-blue shirt was soaked with perspiration, his tie and uniform blouse discarded earlier along with his cover—excess baggage at this point. Uniforms would be waiting.