Red Hammer 1994

Thomas had found the slat bench next to Alexander, first pulling off his shoes and socks then moving on to shirt and pants, peeling off the sweat-soaked clothing. Alexander’s head was down, avoiding eye contact with his bench mate. The rush of cool air on Thomas’s skin felt magnificent. He silently begged to sit for just a moment, a respite from reality. The civilians hesitated, awkward at disrobing in the truck. They seemed to be waiting for guidance.

“Looks like a large for you, sir,” said a corporal. Thomas nodded in the affirmative. “Eleven-and-a-half boot,” he added. He pulled on the trousers, then the socks. The corporal came back with the boots and a properly starched cap. The rest went on quickly, a brown T-shirt, a belt with brass buckle, and a loose-fitting top. When Thomas stood to his full height, he felt the tug of the freshly pressed cammies. Gone was the uniform of a desk-bound officer. It all felt proper. The corporal walked over with an olive-drab webbed belt and a holstered Beretta. Somehow he knew Thomas wanted a weapon.

Thomas cinched the belt against his flat stomach. He sensed his role. The last few years had unwittingly prepared him for this trial, the constant bombardment of strategic issues, arm wrestling the power players. He had to focus on the task at hand, guiding Alexander as best he could. His family? His heart had broken hours ago. His personal concerns had to be put on hold till another day.

The group sat quietly, hunched over, their forearms on their thighs, collectively distraught and emotionally drained. When the last had finished dressing, Ogden addressed Alexander, his hands folded in his lap. Like the other civilians, Alexander felt awkward in the military garb, tugging at the seams, moving in jerky motions and resisting the stiff fabric. They had irretrievably entered the fighting man’s world.

“Mr. Secretary, we have tents for you and Secretary Genser. The others will have to make do. Both the conference van and the command-and-control van are fully operational.”

Alexander stood wearily. He was in charge. The usual sharpness to his words was gone.

“General Bartholomew, I want a status of comms with NEACP and Looking Glass, and anyone else important. General Thomas, I want you and General Ogden to remain. We’ll convene in the conference van in thirty minutes. Get something to eat.”

The players quietly filed out the door, ducking and disappearing into the night. Alexander addressed Thomas personally for the first time since they left the Pentagon. His sad brown eyes told the story. The usual spark and quick intelligence were gone, replaced by an extreme weariness.

“Bob, I want an accurate estimate of damage. Get me the status of our surviving forces, same for the Russians. Get the best picture you can.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Secretary.”

Alexander gently touched Thomas’s arm before he could leave. “Bob, I’m counting on you.” Thomas stopped dead in his tracks and sighed. His eyes met Alexander’s. “You don’t have to worry, Mr. Secretary.” He turned and left.

Alexander refreshed himself with a deliberate, deep breath. “Any plans for relocation, General Ogden?”

“We’ll remain here for the time being, sir, then evaluate the situation in the morning. This is one of five surveyed sites within eighty miles, so we have options. Fallout is a factor. With the silo fields hit, we’ve got up to thirty hours, maybe more, depending on the winds. If we’re lucky, the majority of the fallout will go due east, missing Virginia. The winds could shift, though. If it’s bad, we’ll have to helo you out. Maybe get you airborne.”

Alexander listened intently.

“No aircraft,” he said. “The Russians will be throwing everything they have at the airborne command posts once they land to refuel and re-crew. They’ll have agents covering every field in the country and an ICBM RV on top in forty minutes. That’s if they don’t shoot them down first.” The life expectancy of NEACP and the other key aircraft was thought to be twenty-four to forty-eight hours at best. If they got the SIOP off, they had done their job.

His energy fading, Alexander sat down heavily. “How secure are these sites?”

“Elements of the Rangers and the 82nd Airborne are scouting the area, looking for agents and any saboteurs. But there’s no guarantee, sir; that’s why we’ll keep on the move.”

“The bunkers?” prompted Alexander.

“If they’re not hit over the next two days, they’re probably OK. We believe the Russians don’t know about either site, North Carolina or Georgia. If forced to, we’ll get you out of ICBM and bomber range for the long haul.”

Alexander looked puzzled. “You mean out of CONUS?”

“If need be, sir. The sites will be ready.” There were things even the secretary of defense didn’t know. Alexander let out a long sigh and slapped his hands on his thighs. “Very well, show me to my tent.”