Blackmail

97 BLACK SEA

The full moon’s reflection wavered on the water as the two RHIBs headed farther out to sea, the glowing embers of Chernov’s villa fading behind them as the shoreline retreated into the distance. Aside from the low rumble of the outboard engine on each boat, the journey was quiet; neither Christine nor the eight SEALs spoke. She kept her arms wrapped around Harrison, not caring where they were headed or how long it took to get there.

The SEALs idled the RHIB engines, then angled the two boats toward each other. They drifted together with a gentle bump, and a SEAL at the front of each RHIB fastened a line to both bows. Two green glow sticks were activated, one hung from each bow. The engines were revved a few seconds, and the boats coasted apart until they pulled the line between them taut. The engines were secured, and the two RHIBs floated on the dark water, bobbing in the waves.

As Christine wondered what they were waiting for, the SEAL at the front of her RHIB said, “Incoming at two hundred yards.”

Christine looked ahead but saw nothing in the darkness. Then again, she wasn’t wearing night-vision goggles like the SEALs. As she peered ahead, a submarine periscope materialized out of the darkness, approaching swiftly. The periscope snagged the line between the two RHIBs, and the boats were yanked around and pulled toward each other as the periscope towed them toward shore, then began a slow U-turn, hauling the RHIBs farther out to sea.

After reversing course, they picked up speed and waves occasionally broke over the bow of Christine’s RHIB. When the Black Sea coast was no longer discernible under the full moon, the periscope slowed, then stopped.

Harrison released his arm from around Christine. “We have scuba gear for you,” he said.

He helped Christine into her gear while the SEALs in both RHIBs donned theirs. As she finished wriggling into her equipment, the SEALs detached the engines and began deflating both boats. After verifying her face mask had sealed and her regulator was working, she and Harrison slipped into the water. With a firm grasp on Christine’s arm, he pulled her downward.

It wasn’t long before several green glow sticks appeared in the distance and the shadowy shape of a submarine formed in the murky water, along with two Dry Deck Shelters attached to the submarine’s missile deck. The nine-foot-diameter door of the port Dry Deck Shelter was open, with two Navy divers waiting nearby. Harrison guided her inside, and a few minutes later, the two deflated RHIBs were hauled into the shelter, joined by the Navy divers and SEALs.

The hatch was shut, and after the water was drained from the shelter, Christine followed Harrison’s example and removed her scuba gear. Harrison and Christine were the first to exit the hangar, dropping down through dual hatches into Missile Tube Two, then out through a hatch in the side of the tube, where a familiar face greeted her.

Commander Joe Aleo, the physician assigned to Michigan’s SEAL detachment, escorted her to Medical, where he conducted a preliminary assessment — pulse, blood pressure, and flashlight in her eyes. A concerned look formed on his face as she sat there listlessly, providing succinct answers to his questions and nothing more. At the end of his exam, his eyes went to her cheek.

“You’ve got a nasty cut, but I don’t think it’ll need stitches.” After cleaning and disinfecting the wound, he carefully affixed Steri-Strips to her cheek, sealing the cut shut. “That should do it,” he said. “If you end up with a scar, it’ll be faint.”

After cleaning the cuts on her wrists where the handcuffs had sliced through her skin, he applied an antibacterial salve and wrapped both wrists in white gauze.

Lieutenant Harrison stood outside Medical, waiting for Doc to complete his examination. After a reasonable wait, he knocked on the door, and after Aleo acknowledged, he stepped into his office. He eyed Christine carefully; she sat on the bed staring straight ahead, her eyes unreadable, her body unnaturally still. When she failed to respond to his entry, Harrison looked at Aleo.

“She’s fine,” Aleo said, answering Harrison’s unasked question, “aside from a few cuts.”

Physically, perhaps. Harrison wasn’t a doctor, but he’d seen the symptoms before: acute stress reaction — Christine was in psychological shock. Aleo met Harrison’s eyes and he nodded slightly, confirming Harrison’s assessment. His eyes went to her bandaged wrists, realizing she’d been in handcuffs, and he wondered what the Russians had done to her.

Aleo turned back to Christine, touching her shoulder to get her attention. “The SUPPO will be here shortly with a change of clothes.”

Christine didn’t reply, but she looked down at her thin, soaked nightgown; it clung to her body and was practically see-through now that it was wet. On cue, Michigan’s Supply Officer, Lieutenant Commander Kelly Haas, entered Medical with a stack of clothes in her hand.

“I borrowed some of Lieutenant Stucker’s underwear,” Kelly said. “Pretty close to your size. Maybe we should stock some of yours for future deployments.” Kelly smiled.

Christine accepted the clothing without a response, holding it as she sat on Doc’s bed.

“Well, then,” Doc said. “We’ll let you change in private.”

Doc ushered Harrison and the SUPPO from Medical, and as he closed the door, Christine was still sitting on the edge of the bed staring straight ahead, the stack of clothes in her hands.