“We can’t be expected to turn our ballistic-missile submarines and bombers over to some third party to be impounded and destroyed. The issue, rightly or wrongly, is sovereignty, and that we, the United States of America, will determine what happens to our nuclear weapons.” Thomas calmly poured himself a half glass of ice water. It tasted wonderful as it slid down his dry throat. His hand was steady as a rock; his mind was surprisingly clear. The Russians were becoming impatient. Thomas drained the last of the water and continued.
“We could place our submarines and bombers under observation, out of operational range, but under our control. Likewise for yours. We would even provide the overhead imagery to the UN or whomever to monitor our systems.”
Strelkov dismissed the idea with a huff. Preposterous, he seemed to be saying. Silayev permitted his mate’s body language to stand as the official group response.
“Tokenism,” Strelkov said with a wave of his strong hand, “a sham. They could be brought to bear in hours. What proof do we have that they wouldn’t?” His black eyes bored in on Thomas.
Silayev nodded. “That is the question, isn’t it? Trust?”
The old marshal pulled himself upright in his chair, smoothing out the wrinkles in his Red Army tunic. He conducted inventory and dusted a fleck of lint off his sleeve.
“We must change our thinking,” he said without preaching. “The past is immaterial, irrelevant. I’ve seen much in my day, the most horrible judgmental errors and fools acting as if they could actually control human events to their liking. But the last week has shown how wrong we have all been.”
Thomas’s ears perked to the barest hint of an apology. The marshal continued in his pleasant, but cutting tone.
“I see the difficulty of our proposal, but what would you have us do? Your submarines hold us hostage, threatening to turn already considerable destruction into annihilation. They have to go. We have little left, but we will not be hesitant to use it,” he said, his voice rising at the conclusion. So much for an apology, thought Thomas as the words crashed on the table. The effect was not lost on the Americans.
Thomas had played the unfolding script an hour earlier while washing up, his version having strayed from this ever so slightly. The Russians were as predictable as their pathetic annual grain harvest. But to be brutally honest, Thomas couldn’t fault their argument or their hesitancy to sign up to an American promise of fidelity based on blind faith. No, the old Soviets would require an air-tight contract, the facts and figures scratched in indelible ink, duly notarized and blessed from above. Nothing changes, Thomas mused. The world marches to its own drummer, with an inertia that man can only dream of impacting.
“I think we’re all tired of the theatrics, the posturing, and the charges and countercharges,” Thomas offered without apology. “You’re absolutely correct, Marshal Silayev, it boils down to trust, and that is sorely lacking, perhaps irretrievably.” His voice had a sarcastic cast that incensed all but Silayev. The marshal feigned indignation, watching carefully, observing each facial muscle movement, every blink of an eye. The tension level escalated amid the silence.
Before Thomas could continue, Brinkman came crashing into the main hall, out of breath, his pudgy face as white as a sheet. He aimed for Thomas and thrust a printout in front of the general.
“Sir,” he stammered, “from the command center.” Brinkman bent over, hands on knees, unable to catch his breath. The others looked on in astonishment.
Thomas swiftly read the three simple lines of text, his blood pressure ratcheting up a notch with each hard carriage return. “Forces placed at DEFCON TWO — attack imminent. Satellite coverage indicates Russian mobile ICBMs commencing launch preparations. US forces readied for EAM receipt. President wants recommendation ASAP. Hargesty.”
Thomas did his best to hide the news, but failed, his face losing color, his jaw tightening in distress, not determination. The Russians sat passive, pensive, yet somehow knowing. Thomas suppressed the urge to curse and scream and hurl himself at the wall of SOBs opposite him. Instead he turned inward; the moment of truth had arrived. The solution lay within. Did he have the strength, the courage?
Thomas passed the message to Collettor who gasped, all but paralyzed. He lowered his head within his folded arms. The Russians keyed in on this much more dramatic response.
Thomas took in the scene deliberately, scanning left to right, drinking in the moment. He would remember this simple room the rest of his life, this misplaced, out-of-date reminder of another, much more refined age. He recalled the president’s plea — you must succeed at all costs. Thomas stood abruptly, his ice-blue eyes ablaze, his fists resting knuckles down on the table in confidence. The collective teams jerked in startled unison.
Strelkov jumped to his feet, cursing. Burbulis failed at the same maneuver, instead acquiescing to an upright position that required the assistance of a Spetsnaz trooper. Guards of three nationalities positioned. Thomas’s eyes locked on the marshal, seemingly to grab him by the collar and raise him from his chair in one swift motion. Silayev sensed the rock-hard resolve. It left him flustered. Two Americans reached to haul Thomas back. He politely shoved them away.
“Trust,” Thomas announced. “There’s no other way.” His words filled the room but left the impression they were meant for others.
Silayev displayed confusion for the first time. It was Strelkov who once again answered.
“What are you talking about? Some sort of cowboy showdown? You have been watching too many of your movies, my friend.”
Thomas stared the colonel general of the Strategic Rocket Forces into the ground. Strelkov took a step back.
“I’m going to go with you.”
“What sort of trick is this?” Strelkov shot back. “We are not fools.” He whispered a warning to Silayev.
By now everyone was standing. Colonel Hopkins became unnerved. “You can’t be serious, General; I won’t allow you. They’ll pump you full of drugs and drain your brain. The president would never allow this. You know too much.”
Collettor jumped in. “He’s right, General, you have no authority to do such a thing.”
Thomas turned and looked at the two, annoyed, but forgiving. “The president gave me full authority over this mission,” he said. “I answer to no one.”
Hopkins turned to Benton. “I’m ordering you to stop him, Major.” The Russians were still confused, the Americans only slightly less. Benton didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward and looked Thomas in the eye.
“General Thomas, I’ll go with you.” Thomas placed his hand on Benton’s shoulder.
“No, Major, this is my hand to play.”
“This is madness,” shouted Collettor. “The president will be horrified.”
“You’re a traitor to your country,” barked Hopkins. Thomas turned on the colonel in a fury. He stood face-to-face, almost striking him, but instead brought his finger to within an inch of Hopkins’s nose. “Shut your damn mouth. And stay out of my way.” The colonel backed off. “I was just—”
“Shut up!” thundered Thomas.
The room was dead silent. “Want an interpreter, General?” Sarah Tillman offered with determination. “I might come in handy.” Thomas thought hard.
“I can’t ask that of you.”
“You don’t have to ask, sir; it would be my privilege.”
When Thomas turned the Russians were in a huddle. They’d glance his way and then bury their heads once again. After a few minutes of awkwardness, the Russians broke.
“Do you expect someone, something in return?” Silayev asked.
“No,” Thomas answered. The Russians were incredulous.