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.
“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?
