Red Hammer 1994 by Robert Ratcliffe Read Free Book Online Page A

previous night’s drizzle steamed and dissolved under a bright blue, cloudless sky; the sun’s precious warmth was building in intensity. Moscow was shaking off the bitterest winter in nearly a decade. Skeleton trees struggled to unfurl their spring coats, while the usual rainbow of annuals lay moribund, bruised by recent temperature fluctuations.
    Dr. Sergei Antonovich walked briskly across the old Red Square toward the massive stone edifice of the Kremlin Fortress, clutching a large, sealed brown envelope under his arm. He moved hunched over, deep in thought, his thinning gray hair blowing randomly in the light breeze from the east. He was plump and rumpled and looked every inch the research scientist. Approaching the gate beneath Savior Tower, he fumbled for the wrinkled piece of paper which commanded his presence at an emergency session of the Defense Council. Antonovich led the technical team which had been assigned to investigate strange sightings transmitted to earth by a covert reconnaissance satellite only weeks earlier. His stomach churned, a gas pain forcing him to pause and grimace. Surely there must be a mistake, he thought. Why me? Let the others handle this! Antonovich was a busy man who had better things to occupy his valuable time than stroke politicians.
    The lone Kremlin guard, stone-faced and immaculate in his heavy gray overcoat and polished black leather boots, gave the old doctor a cursory glance then waved him through like a cop directing routine traffic. Antonovich’s destination was the presidium, one hundred meters down the worn cobblestone way on the right. He pressed forward gripping the package even tighter. His heart raced. He was deeply troubled by his most recent findings, those too new to receive wide dissemination. Both the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service (SVR) and the military intelligence (GRU) had been criminally remiss in not forecasting this incredible leap in American technology. Those clever Americans were wizards, thought the doctor, shaking his head admiringly. Blame would fall on someone; he was certain of that. Why couldn’t Colonel Kulencho have accompanied him? It was his responsibility to deal with the politics of the intelligence community. The doctor groaned in protest.
    Antonovich paused before the impressive presidium entrance, taking a last deep, purging breath. A rush of blood surged to his head, clearing his rambling thoughts. The doctor struggled up the steep granite steps and past the twin guards bracketing the entrance. He cautiously stepped inside, stopping and fishing for his identification card lost in his coat pocket. How he hated the insolent guards at Russian government buildings. Some things never changed.
    Locating the worn card amidst numerous notes and wadded receipts, Antonovich flashed it at the sour-looking young man stationed just inside the door. The soldier, no more than a teenager in a freshly pressed uniform, motioned for him to step closer, reaching out and flicking his gloved fingers in the doctor’s face. He rudely snatched the card and held it high in the air, then finally motioned toward the security desk. He had the look of a man about to kick a disobedient dog for messing on the floor.
    A few meters away, lurking in the shadows, a contingent of fellow Kremlin guards congregated near an ornate wooden counter, talking quietly and eyeballing the visibly distressed old man. The contingent leader, a young-looking Interior Ministry officer stepped up. He was handsome, immaculate, and arrogant.
    “What is the nature of your business?” he demanded, scanning the doctor suspiciously.
    “I’m Dr. Antonovich,” he stammered. “I have an appointment with General Surikov.”
    “Identification please?” The young officer cautiously reexamined the doctor’s ID. He studied it closely, as if his man had most certainly overlooked something critical. He took his time and smiled at his men. They chuckled in reply.
    Antonovich fumed.
    “What’s