Thomas pulled his cap from the table and moved through the Americans. They shook hands in turn. At the end of the receiving line, Benton stood proudly.
“Major Benton,” Thomas said, holding his hand outstretched, “I want you to find my wife and daughter, tell them both I love them. And report personally to the president. Tell him I did my best, and that my prayers are with him.”
The hardened Ranger snapped to attention and crisply saluted. “Yes, sir.”
Thomas returned the tribute. “It’s been an honor, Major. I mean that.” Thomas wheeled in place and marched round the table. He didn’t hesitate as he stepped across the imaginary line into the enemy’s camp. He anticipated the ritual as he stopped, ramrod straight, arms raised, ready for the frisk. The Spetsnaz troopers converged and obliged, thoroughly, yet respectfully. With one at each elbow, Thomas stepped to Silayev and once again captured the old marshal with his eyes.
“Shall we go?”
Silayev showed no emotion, only grudging respect. Even the sullen Strelkov stood his distance.
“Yes, we will go.” He then turned to Strelkov. “Contact Moscow immediately. Tell them what has happened.”
Thomas took a last look at the Americans across the table. “Strange,” he thought, “how different the room looked from this side of the table.” The American air force general, emissary of the president, and vice chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, walked off, surrounded by the enemy. There was no turning back.
Thomas exited immersed in a sea of Russians. Stepping into the milky moonlight, Thomas stopped, his escorts bracing to shove onward, but told to hold by someone’s silent command. Thomas raised his head to the heavens and admired the multitude of stars, brighter than before, blazing against the inky blackness, magnificent and awe inspiring in their stark mystery that never lost its freshness. The nocturnal breeze had resumed from the west with a refreshing coolness. He smelled the flowers again, their fragrance carried aloft, pungent and spicy, and for a moment, he thought he heard approving words from the president whispered in his ear.
“Your imagination,” he mused. He grunted softly, a small dose of reality breaking the magic spell. For the first time in a week, Bob Thomas felt at peace.