“I’m sorry for your loss,” offered the president once more.
“I suppose,” said Thomas with a sniff, “that I had better get moving if I’m going in for another round.”
“Good-bye,” the president said.
“Good-bye, Mr. President.” Thomas set the receiver in its cradle and looked over at Benton. “My son’s dead,” he said with a look that only a fellow parent could understand. “My son, who made it known to all he wouldn’t be caught dead in the military; my son, who teased me about my obsession with duty; who always told me I could make a hell of a lot more money somewhere else — is dead. Burned to death by a goddamn nuclear bomb fired by some bastard half a world away.” Thomas felt a dull lifelessness tug at his core.
“He couldn’t have died instantly. No, he had to lie in his own puss and body fluids, to dry out, in agony. It should have been me. I’m the soldier.”
Benton couldn’t answer. Thomas shifted his gaze from Benton to his own face in the mirror across the room. He felt a sudden revulsion for his chosen career, for his whole adult life, wasted, flushed down the toilet in a single sickening moment. “Fuck it. Fuck the Russians. Fuck the whole goddamn world.”
“I’m sorry about your son.” Thomas looked into Benton’s eyes and saw shared pain and fear, fear for his own family somewhere in Georgia. Memories began to flood Thomas’s thoughts. Memories of his son as a mischievous youngster. As a young man who on occasion gave his dad fits. Then he had thoughts of Sally and his daughter. What of them? It was all so confusing, so hard to understand. He had to stop trying. Thomas wiped the last of the tears and massaged his face with both hands. “I need to be alone.”
Benton understood. He silently stepped to the door and left without a word. Thomas stood to full height, surveying the extent of his current, shattered world, observing the four walls that held him prisoner. He felt like a stranger, a visitor to a hostile planet. He had no one to turn to. Thomas fell to his knees and prayed with all his might. He desperately needed help.
The grounds were deserted, a probable casualty of the afternoon’s debacle. The tropical moon cast mysterious shadows over the granite steps leading up to the conference-hall entrance. A fresco of pink angels and attentive cherubs graced the well-formed arch over the threshold, beckoning the weary and sinner alike. Thomas was surely both. He glanced up at the happy heavenly tribe and then on to the stars that spread like a canopy of sparkling lights over a world he wished were his.
Few Spaniards, or others for that matter, remained within the compound’s walls. For the hosts, only General Vasquez and a lower-level foreign ministry official dared show their faces, along with dozen of guards. Officially, Spain had washed their hands of the matter, and the UN and European observers had politely declined the rematch. The majority had already filed lengthy postmortems with dire predictions of renewed nuclear exchanges within forty-eight hours. Panic spread through the capitols of the world. Governments prayed for peace but expected the worst.
The early evening had brought little relief from the stifling daytime heat that universally plagued the tropics. The seasonal westerly breeze had vanished, the humidity hanging heavy; the thick sweetness suspended in the air was now an enemy. Such evenings shorten tempers and promote mischief. Thomas sensed an eerie and troublesome foreboding. His troops sensed it too.
The heavy crystal chandeliers were woefully inadequate, only a dull, yellow light emanated from candle-shaped bulbs. Every footstep echoed down the hall.
Thomas took stock of his band; they were holding well. He proceeded unflinching, correct and erect, every inch the officer. He suddenly realized his hip didn’t hurt — the humid tropical climate having worked wonders.
The Russians were already in place, half their afternoon numbers. The Americans took the same seats, not speaking nor paying heed to the dwindled Russian delegation. Thomas said a few words left and right then turned and placed both forearms on the table, interlacing his fingers and forming an arrow pointing directly at his opponent. The microphones were gone, unnecessary where one could hear a pin drop. The Americans had left their high-tech gear at home. Brinkman waited in the foyer with his satellite equipment.
The meeting would be informal and most-likely short. Thomas had his instructions. He studied the faces poised before him, their weary and bloodshot eyes tracking his. It was an odd feeling, much different from the anger that overwhelmed him in the afternoon. The still night seemed to have sucked the aggressiveness out of them all. Thomas felt a numbing resignation to the whole affair.
Gone were the Russian interpreter and the other foreign ministry bureaucrats. Seated opposite Thomas was the old marshal, Silayev, while Burbulis, looking exhausted, was to the right, not quite so imperious. The climate seemed to be taking a heavy toll on the obese Russian. The fire was gone from his gray eyes, now lifeless and dull; his cheeks sagged under mussed hair. Perspiration collected on his wrinkled forehead and dripped to the table. Strelkov was to the left, angry and defiant still, smarting from his personal humiliation. His dark eyes and swarthy complexion basked in the waxen light, happily at home where the shadows ruled. He was that kind of man. The veins and muscles in his neck bulged in anticipation.
Silayev looked strangely out of place. One would have thought he had been transported in time as his uniform and physical appearance remained unchanged from the afternoon session. His remaining white hair was neatly combed, his chalky face dry and unemotional. But his deep blue eyes flashed intelligence and a sound wisdom, even for an enemy. Thomas had missed it in the first confrontation. He had ignored the president’s instructions to his own detriment. He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.
The two ranks sat quietly for the longest time, neither side anxious to start. Maybe due to the fear of failure, the somber mood sobered the room. Or, just maybe, they were all exhausted.
The old marshal spoke to Tillman, his voice surprisingly strong and steady.
“He says that I should interpret for both parties,” Tillman said with a touch of surprise. Thomas nodded approval.
Silayev calmly removed a silver cigarette case from his tunic and cleverly popped it open with one hand. He removed a lone smoke then glanced up and shoved the case across the table at Thomas as casually as if the two were sharing a drink at a local neighborhood bar. His experienced eyes captured Thomas’s intense gaze, a shoulder shrug from the marshal passed for an offer.
“Tell the marshal no thank you,” he said to Tillman. Silayev was unfazed by the rejection. He lit his cigarette, his thoughts elsewhere, obviously delighting in the first drag of the thick smoke. His exhaled smoke mixed with the curling trail from the cigarette’s tip, spiraling toward the ceiling. One of the chandeliers was flickering off in a corner. Diffracted light from the handful of outside floods filtered through open windows. The inside temperature was several degrees warmer than outdoors.
“It seems we are at an impasse,” Silayev said matter-of-factly, sounding disappointed. “Perhaps the general has some thoughts? I’m afraid our position still stands, and given the gravity of events, is quite reasonable and moral. Many others agree.”
Thomas gave Silayev a noncommittal grunt. Collettor cleared his throat and looked down. The other Americans sensed a building storm. The Rangers, who had been at parade rest to the rear, stiffened.
“Unfortunately, your offer is unacceptable,” Thomas announced clearly, all through Tillman. The Russian faces tightened. “However, there may be a middle ground.”
Burbulis poised to jump in, but Silayev cut him off with a chop of his hand. Burbulis fumed, but obediently remained silent. Silayev was definitely calling the shots. He prompted Thomas to continue with a professorial nod of his white head.