When the Russians broke ranks and headed directly toward the table, it happened. Thomas didn’t want it to happen, but it did. One seldom gets one’s way in these matters. All the mental rehearsals, the anger and frustration beaten back and tucked safely away, the cram course poured into him by the president and the State Department experts, none had prepared Thomas the moment of truth. Unbridled fury swelled from his chest and caught sideways in his throat. His sanity momentarily slipped gears, threatening to unleash the floodgates of his dark self. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, carrying pure, unfiltered hate. He had never felt like this in his life. They drew closer, these Russians who had cursed his world.
God, I can’t do this, he screamed to himself. Thomas swallowed hard, but the anger and pain wouldn’t pass. Please, Lord, help me, he begged. Tillman sensed the reaction, herself panting in shallow bursts at the building tension. She calmly put her hand on Thomas’s forearm and whispered something. He placed his fingers on the back of her hand, not turning, but nodding slightly. It hurt that she knew but helped that she understood. Thomas dug down deep, to depths he hadn’t imagined existed in his soul, searching for the strength to carry him through. “Thank you,” he said softly, his hand slipping back before the last words left his lips. The monster had been forced back into its cage for the moment.
From their stone faces cut with hate, the Russians harbored no good will either. General Vasquez was apoplectic. The Spanish foreign minister gripped his large head between his hands, ready to scream. Plans for a formal introduction were folly. No, they were potentially deadly in this volatile atmosphere. The hosts would shrink out of sight and hope for the best. Both sides glared so hostilely that the entire assemblage squirmed in their seats. The air stank like superheated steam in an old frigate’s engine room, today mixed with an aerosol mist of high-octane gasoline. One spark and the walls would blow outward in a deafening roar. It dawned on more than one sane mind in the audience that this meeting was a terrible mistake. Benton edged forward. The Russian Spetsnaz baboons guarding their leaders moved likewise.
The Russians stood awkwardly, undoubtedly expecting the Americans to rise in deference. They would be disappointed. Burbulis finally seated his contingent with a grunt. The chairs scraped and screeched across the wooden floor. A foul cloud hung over the Russian lineup. Burbulis presided over his men in the manner of a small-town judge bent on a hanging. The Spanish foreign minister started to speak but lost courage. The silence continued unabated. Thomas leaned forward toward the single chrome microphone at his place, Tillman following like the umpire over a hunkered-down catcher.
Thomas would break the ice. He took a quick survey of his team and began. His voice was steady and rock solid. “My name is General Robert Thomas, military assistant to the president of the United States, and vice chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.” He paused to read the words’ effect on the hedgerow of stubborn faces that bore the stamp of a congenital bunker mentality. Only Strelkov seemed attentive. For the rest, it was like talking to a brick wall. Thomas continued slowly, gauging his cadence to synch with Tillman’s necessarily delayed translation.
“The president desires an immediate end to hostilities and is willing to go the extra mile for peace. Too many have died; it is time to stop the fighting.” Thomas straightened, never taking his eyes off Burbulis. The old man fought to escape the stranglehold but couldn’t. His only defense was to lash out at this upstart who had the nerve to occupy the same room.
“Who are you?” he blurted out arrogantly. “Why does this president of yours send some nonperson to do his dirty work? What authority do you have?” The scarecrow next to Burbulis struggled to keep up. His nasally voice blurted out the translation in spurts, lending an accusing tone, like that of a well-oiled prosecutor. Finished for the moment, Burbulis rolled his bloodshot eyes to his comrades, and a smug look crept across his ample face.
Responding to the lead, the Russians stared at the general seated across the table. Contempt dripped from their lips. They noticed the tag on his fatigues that said US Air Force. A creature of STRATCOM, they concluded with a nod. Just like that beast, McClain, who was most certainly running the show. So, the American government had been captured by the old Strategic Air Command coterie? This new president was powerless, a puppet.
Thomas ignored the sweat beading on his brow and leaned forward once more. He squeezed his interlaced fingers resting on the table to relieve the tension. “I have complete authority, granted by the president, to negotiate in his name. You have should have no concerns, Mr. Foreign Minister.” He gestured to Major Brinkman. “I am in direct contact with the president as we speak.”
Burbulis chopped the air. The Americans and their technology! It made his sick! “No concerns, you say? This from the treacherous Americans who propelled the world down this path? The scheming Americans who had disarmed Russia through lies and deceit? The Americans, who when we defended ourselves, escalated the conflict to the cities and factories of Russia? No concerns you say? Hah!”
Burbulis’s hands trembled with rage. Thomas was watching a master in action. The anger reigniting within him threatened to explode like a smoldering volcano. Deep breaths bought only partial relief. He started to respond to the foul-breathed Russian’s accusations, to throw the lies back in his fat face, but pulled back, remembering the president’s counsel—“you’re my only hope.” Brinkman tapped Thomas on the arm, a message had come through. He leaned slowly to his left and read the backlit-twisted LCD screen. It was a personal from the president—“get past Burbulis,” it said. “He’s the bully to draw you out. The old Marshal Silayev holds the keys.” It also said something about secret communications.
Thomas boiled but realized the Russians were waiting. “The president is prepared,” Thomas began, all ears in the room hanging on each word, “to make certain unilateral confidence-building measures to show good will. This would hopefully be followed by similar moves by you.” The stone faces were unimpressed. Thomas swallowed hard and pressed on.
“These steps would be followed by a general ceasefire, under the auspices of the United Nations, with observers permitted at all key command posts and weapons depots in both countries. The president wishes to stress his willingness to take the first step.” Thomas forged ahead, despite the reaction of the people opposite, who appeared as if they had just been offered poison.
“All US strategic bombers and tactical aircraft in Europe and Asia will begin a pullback to the continental United States. This would be followed by—”
“Nonsense,” blasted Burbulis so loudly the walls shook. “Cosmetics. I will tell you what you will do.” The room gasped at the breach of etiquette — the Americans had the floor. The obese ex-general had to refresh his memory as to the party line. He crouched low and whispered with Strelkov. The intense colonel general of the Strategic Rocket Forces spun a furious torrent of words into Burbulis’s waiting ear, tapping the table strenuously in accompaniment. Thomas let him play his game.
The old man nodded and shook his sagging jowls in defiance, like a lion after the kill. “First,” he said, jabbing a sausage-like finger in Thomas’s face, “you will fly all your bombers to Latin America, where they will be turned over to the host countries for internment, until after a permanent peace treaty. We shall do the same, to African airports. The arrangements have already been made.”