Red Hammer 1994

The Federal Emergency Management Agency or FEMA planners, those men and women who contemplated global nuclear war, worried about such things. Underground food stores, secret fuel-storage sites, emergency communications of every variety, prerecorded videos for every disaster imaginable, were all developed and put on the shelf. Those dedicated souls chased every arcane disaster scenario to all logical and even illogical conclusions. It was their sole purpose in life.

Thomas’s face had worsened. Flushed, the cobweb of age lines were accentuated by the harsh, artificial light. The enormity of the last hour had sunk home. Thomas was inundated by a tidal wave of hopelessness. But he pushed on. They all pushed on, the strong and the weak alike.

Thirty yards down the corridor, a squad of Pentagon guards waited. Thomas was struck by the image of the young marines in their crisp khaki and blue semi-dress uniforms, weighted down with camouflage flack vests, web belts, helmets, and tightly gripped M-16s at port arms. Tension was etched on their adolescent fa-ces. “Follow me,” shouted a stern-looking marine major, his hand squeezing his Beretta 9MM pistol. The official party picked up the pace to a clumsy jog. The marines fell in on the flanks, eyes riveted on their major.

The assemblage crowded into a large freight elevator that would whisk them up to the underground parking garage. The door slid shut with a thud. Government civilians and military officers exchanged awkward glances, shuffling to maintain their balance in the crush of people, equipment, and baggage. The elevator accelerated rapidly, sinking stomachs, and stopped just as quickly. The door jerked open, revealing an astonishing picture in the garage.

In the dim light, groups of Pentagon officials congregated, while nearby soldiers held their hands high and shouted, marshaling orders to the stream of men and women who poured into the garage from the offices above. Many had been forced to stay late, despite the long weekend, when the dispersal had been ordered. Groups engaged in animated exchanges. A handful in shock wandered aimlessly. The clamor was deafening. Surrounding them all were heavily armed marines and army troops who stood in clusters, awaiting instructions. They had been dragged out of nearby barracks on zero notice.

The secretary’s VIP troupe was shepherded directly toward the steep ramp leading to the narrow street on the northeast side of the Pentagon. The tumultuous racket stopped as people recognized who had exited the elevator. A brigadier general shouted, “Attenhut!” Nearby military snapped to attention. Alexander graciously acknowledged the show of respect. Thomas experienced a flush of shame that comes with preferential treatment in time of crisis. It was no secret what would most likely happen to these brave men and women.

Trudging up the ramp, the warm garage transitioned to oppressive heat. The hot, humid summer air hung heavily near the entrance, which was bathed in a soft, early evening pastel glow. In the distance, they could hear the reverberation of helicopter blades beating the air. Reaching the crest, the lead marines hunched down, scanning the perimeter, weapons ready. The major signaled a halt then moved forward and disappeared out of sight. The group instinctively squatted on the angled concrete. Seconds later, the major reappeared. He came directly over to Alexander.

“The helo’s ready, sir, but there’s only room for six more. The JCS people are already on board.” Pained looks spread through the group.

“The others will have to take another helo. The colonel will help them,” he added, pointing to an army colonel barking orders nearby.

“All right,” Alexander said, wearily. “General Thomas, Secretary Genser, his aide, Colonel Bensen, and the doc.” Colonel Bensen carried the top-secret nuclear release codes and authenticators; the doctor was an expert in trauma injuries and radiation sickness.

“Follow the major.” Alexander turned and let Thomas pass, touching his arm in a comforting gesture. Thomas began to say something. The words caught in his throat. He remembered the chairman’s parting words; he would serve Alexander to the end.

“To the left, gentlemen.” The major took off at a jog up the last few yards of the incline. The group struggled to keep up. The sight at the top of the ramp was stunning. A dozen helos, a mix of huge CH-53Cs and army Blackhawks, sat idling on the grass and frontage roads, their turbines whining beneath slowly turning rotors that whipped the foliage on the trees. To the right, an army UH-60 Blackhawk leaped in the air, hanging momentarily then banking sharply and accelerating toward the north.