CHAPTER 35
Thomas sat in the private quarters on board Air Force One. The newest model of the presidential plane made the one retired in the early nineties look like a flying Greyhound bus. He had protested the arrangements, but the president had issued a direct order. He lacked the attendant staff that normally accompanied the president. The huge plane held only eleven passengers besides the normal four-man air-force crew and two attendants.
Besides Thomas, Benton, and four other Rangers were the acting secretary of state, an interpreter, a doctor, and two military officers — one army for communications and one air-force computer expert for proposal analysis. The latter was most likely a McClain plant. The lieutenant colonel had come direct from CINCSRAT’s staff in the field, and most certainly had his orders — warn the general if Thomas was giving away the farm. The ranking civilian in the crowd, an ex-senator and now acting secretary of state, had been told to keep his mouth shut. Thomas would be running the negotiations. It was quite a cast, but Thomas only truly trusted Benton. The tough Ranger had become much more than a mere bodyguard; he was a confidant and friend. Benton possessed a simple Southern charm and educated dry wit that put the chaos and pain into perspective. Easily passed off as a dull country boy, the physically hard major possessed an unshakable faith that uplifted Thomas. He didn’t want to face the Russians without Benton watching his back.
Rumor had a US arms-control contingent from Geneva on the way to lend assistance if the bartering became bogged in technical detail. They would remain in the background, locked in some second-class tourist hotel until needed. Everyone had their spin, what to discuss, how to act, including the tone of voice to convey just that special message. Thomas had silently suffered the nonsense. No one would face the hard truth that the chances of success were slim to none. No one except the president. The man had wagered the house limit on this one. His inner circle would be apoplectic if they knew the latitude Thomas had been given.
The send-off had been telling. The president’s face exhibited depths of despair that said it all. It reminded Thomas of late Civil War pictures of a war-weary Abraham Lincoln. His incredibly sad, hollow eyes and the facial lines that seemed to go on forever hinted at a tragic story that only the owner could fathom.
Thomas sat in a pale peach overstuffed chair, slumped, with his legs spread apart, in his shorts, enjoying a cold soft drink. An earlier wander by the full-length mirror had shown a lean body that had dropped over a pound a day, revealing muscles that had lain unseen from years of slothful desk duty. Intrigued, he had stepped closer. His freshly cut hair seemed suddenly to have encountered a snow flurry, the specks of white and gray having multiplied tenfold.
He couldn’t imagine a more bizarre backdrop for what were surely his final days in uniform and in the service of his country. He loved that country more than his own life. It was something he was never fully able to describe. The passion had always caught in his throat. The patriotic stirrings had always been there on national holidays or when visiting battlefields that recalled unimaginable bravery and courage. But now it became personal. His country was dying.
Why did the new president believe so deeply in him, far more than he believed in himself? Why had God chosen him for this impossible mission? What was it about him that gave hope to others in these desperate times? He had shaken his head in puzzlement, unable to answer the myriad of questions that tumbled through his brain.
On the adjacent king-sized bed lay two uniforms, air force dress blues and a set of pressed battle dress utilities. The dull black stars and flat-black JCS crest hanging from the left breast pocket were barely visible on the mottled black, brown, and two shades of green cloth. The latter suited his mood, he decided with a grim satisfaction. The dress uniform, with all its parade-ground properness, splashes of bright color, and rows of silver stars on royal blue carried too much psychic baggage and painfully reminded him of a not-so-distant past.
Thomas’s mind drifted down another channel. He recalled a dry textbook he read over fifteen years ago, which clinically described the aftermath of a limited nuclear exchange between the United States and the former Soviet Union involving economic targets. Only three hundred to five hundred large weapons were needed to destroy a vast majority of the heavy industrial base in each country. What he had found incredible were the detailed graphs developed from sophisticated computer models showing recovery as a function of time. In some scenarios, only five years were required for total recovery — a span he found patently fraudulent. He wondered if deep in some underground bunker the computer analysts and their models were grinding away, predicting how soon the nation would return to an acceptable level of economic production, one that could sustain the surviving population. If he failed, their FORTRAN models would be nothing more than harsh reminders of a failed age.
A rap on the cabin door roused Thomas from his pointless reflections. “Enter.” It was Benton. The normally reticent major almost cracked a smile at catching Thomas in his underwear.
“Fifteen minutes to touchdown, General Thomas. The men are ready.” Benton pulled back through the aluminum door. After the ground rules had been communicated — no weapons allowed by the opposing parties once off the planes — Benton had handpicked his most capable hand-to-hand fighters. He wasn’t taking any chances in some crowded conference room if a free-for-all erupted.
The jumbo jet banked starboard for the final run to Tenerife, capital of the Canary Islands situated off the west coast of Africa. The Canary group consisted of five main islands and smaller odds and ends sprinkled about. Owned and administered by Spain, they provided neutral territory where the belligerents could meet. Despite Spain’s persistent flirtation with NATO, the Russians acquiesced, considering the alternatives unacceptable. Symbolically, Tenerife was nearly equidistant from the Russian and American capitals.
The Spanish government had arranged comfortable quarters in town and a meeting hall well away from the crowds. They had also established strict rules of conduct. The United Nations had hoped to be cohosts but was in chaos, acting more like terrified patrons fleeing a theater fire than a world body concerned with the fate of the earth. The nation states most concerned were the Europeans. Closest to the conflagration by treaty and geography, they felt the heat and had the most to lose if negotiations collapsed. The next round of strikes, if it came to that, would most certainly be violent and widespread. Facing annihilation, the Americans and the Russians wouldn’t care if innocent bystanders got caught in the crossfire. The Spanish had permitted their European neighbors observer status for the talks, but they were strictly forbidden to communicate with either party. The warning was unnecessary. America’s allies were avoiding her like the plague.
It had been lonely over the Atlantic. All commercial air traffic had scattered to the four corners of the globe the day fighting broke out. Thomas and his group had the skies to themselves. The Russians would be the only other plane in the air that morning, coming from the northeast.
The Russian delegation was a mystery. Each side was groping in the dark. Some pundits said the new Russian president was a second-tier party boss from Saint Petersburg. But all agreed the Russian military held the real power. Was it any different in the United States? Thomas thought. The civilians wouldn’t admit it, but they silently lived that reality daily. A united US military leadership could pull the plug on any government. The odds were slim; however, as the distasteful prospect of ruling a crippled nation of over two-hundred-million hungry, terrified people was anathema to the generals and admirals. It wasn’t in their blood. The civilians correctly sensed that reluctance, both sides acknowledging boundaries, sensitive to time-honored customs and traditions.