Blackmail

100 WASHINGTON, D.C. USS MICHIGAN

A light rain was falling from a gray, overcast sky as Naveen Chandra’s black limousine veered off Dupont Circle onto Connecticut Avenue for the short trip to the White House. As the American capital slid by rain-streaked windows, Chandra fidgeted with the brown leather satchel on his lap, pausing to straighten his tie unconsciously. It wasn’t often that the American president met directly with a country’s ambassador. The reason was obvious, although the outcome was unpredictable. The president had made a decision concerning India’s involvement in the Arabian Sea last week, and as Chandra’s thoughts churned through the various outcomes, a deepening uneasiness grew in his stomach. American-Indian relations were about to take a turn for the worse.

Relations between the two countries had come a long way since the Clinton administration tried to isolate India after its nuclear tests in 1998. Sanctions were eventually lifted, and the United States, searching for allies in the Pacific against the growing Chinese military, had adopted a policy of accommodation toward India. However, despite strengthening ties between the two countries over the last decade, the Indian government had sided with Russia during last week’s conflict in the Arabian Sea. President Madan’s administration had concluded Russia was reemerging as a global power, their influence in the region growing while America’s waned. However, Madan’s decision had proved shortsighted.

After turning onto West Executive Avenue, Chandra’s limousine stopped in front of black steel bars guarding the White House grounds. Following a search of the vehicle for explosives, the gate opened and the sedan pulled forward, coasting to a stop under the West Wing portico. Waiting to greet him was a young woman barely out of college, flanked by two marines in dress blues.

Chandra stepped from the sedan and one of the marines saluted as the young woman stepped forward, introducing herself as they shook hands. She was Sheree Hinton, a White House intern. Instead of being greeted by the president’s powerful chief of staff, as was customary, India’s ambassador had been greeted by the lowest White House staffer on the food chain. It was an ill omen. The young woman led him into the Roosevelt Room, where she instructed him to wait until the president was ready, then departed.

“No close contacts!”

Lieutenant Jane Stucker made the call as the eighteen-thousand-ton submarine leveled off at periscope depth. After verifying there were no contacts close enough to pose a collision threat, Stucker slowed her revolutions on the periscope, and Christine watched from the corner of the Control Room as the junior officer conducted a low-power scan of the horizon, searching for distant ships or military aircraft.

Stucker completed the search and reported to Captain Wilson, standing nearby on the Conn. “Sir, I have completed a low-power surface and air search. Hold no contacts.”

Wilson acknowledged and took the scope, and as he conducted a detailed search of his own, Christine’s thoughts turned to her pending departure. After Russia’s capitulation and withdrawal from Lithuania and Ukraine, Michigan had begun her journey home to Bangor, Washington, for an overdue maintenance period, passing through the Suez Canal into the Pacific Ocean again. Christine’s time aboard the guided missile submarine was drawing to a close; they’d soon be passing near Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean, where she’d be transferred ashore.

In the week since Michigan departed the Black Sea, Christine had slowly begun to feel like herself again, emerging from her shell as the memories of what she’d done, and had been done to her, on the shore of the Black Sea faded. Harrison stopped by frequently to check on her, and while she found his attention comforting, their interactions left an ache in her heart each time. She began to slowly reconcile her feelings for him; despite his obvious concern for her, he would never be more than a close friend. She’d blown both chances, declining his offer to marry her after high school and college.

Wilson stepped back, turning the scope over to Lieutenant Stucker as an announcement came from the Conn speakers. “Conn, ESM. Hold no threat radars.”

Stucker acknowledged ESM’s report as Wilson stepped toward the communications panel on the Conn, pulling the 1-MC microphone to his mouth.

“Man Battle Stations Missile.”

The Chief of the Watch, stationed at the Ballast Control Panel on the port side of Control, activated the General Alarm, and the loud gong-gong-gong reverberated throughout the ship. As the alarm faded, he picked up his 1-MC microphone, repeating the Captain’s order.

Crew members streamed into Control, taking their seats at dormant consoles, bringing them to life as they donned their sound-powered phone headsets. When Lieutenant Eaton arrived, Wilson stepped off the Conn, leaving the safety of the ship in the Navigator’s and Lieutenant Stucker’s capable hands. Christine followed Wilson down the ladder to Operations Compartment Second Level and into Missile Control Center.

Like the Navigation Center behind the Control Room, Missile Control Center was also transformed during the submarine’s conversion to SSGN. The refrigerator-sized computers were replaced with servers one-tenth their size, and a Tube Status Control Display was now mounted on the starboard bulkhead. The ballistic missile Launch Console on the aft bulkhead had been replaced with four consoles: the two workstations on the right were Mission Planning Consoles, the third was the Launch Control Console, and the fourth workstation displayed a map of Michigan’s operating area, which contained a small green hatched section.

Wilson stopped behind the Launch Control Console beside Lieutenant Mike Lawson, the submarine’s Weapons Officer, with both men looking over the shoulders of a second class petty officer manning the workstation. Glancing at the fourth console, Wilson verified Michigan was within the green hatched area — the submarine’s launch basket, where Michigan’s Tomahawk missiles were within target range.

Lieutenant Lawson reported to the Captain, “Five minutes to window. Request permission to launch salvo One.”

Wilson replied, “Permission granted. Launch salvo One.”

Following Wilson’s order, there was no flurry of activity. Lawson simply turned back toward the Launch Control Console, his eyes focused on the time as it counted down the remaining five minutes. At ten seconds before the scheduled launch, the launch button on the Launch Control Console display, which had been grayed out until this point, turned a vivid green.

The Launch Operator announced, “In the window, salvo One.”

Lieutenant Lawson replied, “Very well, Launch Operator. Continue.”

When the digital clock on the Launch Operator’s screen reached 00:00:00, the Launch Operator clicked the green button, and Michigan’s automatic Tomahawk Attack Weapon System took control.

“Opening tube Ten,” the Launch Supervisor reported as the green indicating light for tube Ten turned yellow. Shortly thereafter, the indicating light turned red. “Hatch, tube Ten, open and locked.”

A few seconds later, the Launch Operator reported, “Missile One, tube Ten, away.”

The first of Michigan’s Tomahawks was ejected from the submarine, with the missile’s engines igniting once it was above the ocean surface. In rapid succession, another missile followed every five seconds, with the Tomahawk Attack Weapon System automatically opening and closing the missile tube hatches as required. Michigan’s Tomahawks streaked east.

Sheree Hinton returned to the Roosevelt Room, stopping by the door. “The president is ready to see you.”

Ambassador Chandra rose without a word and followed Hinton into the hallway. But instead of entering the Oval Office, Hinton led the way to the basement of the West Wing. As they approached the Situation Room, an Indian idiom came to mind.

There is something black in the lentil soup.

The Americans were up to something.

Chandra entered the Situation Room, joining the American president, his chief of staff, SecDef McVeigh, and SecState Cabral, who were seated at the table. The Americans did not rise from their seats when he entered. Instead, Kevin Hardison pulled a chair back partway. Chandra took his seat while Hinton departed, closing the door behind her, sealing him inside the Situation Room with the four Americans.

The president said, “Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule to join us, Ambassador.”

There was a hint of sarcasm in the president’s voice, for what reason Chandra was uncertain.

“For the last fifteen years,” the president said, “the United States and India have worked diligently to improve relations between our countries, and we’ve made much progress. However, your recent actions have cast doubt upon our relationship.”

Chandra had no viable response.

The president continued, “Your actions last week were tantamount to a declaration of war.” There was a hard edge to his words, and his voice dropped a notch. “And now I must decide the proper response to your aggression and the future of our relationship.”

Under different circumstances, Chandra would have avoided the president’s incriminating gaze. A long silence ensued as Chandra chose his words carefully. As he began to respond, the president held up a placating hand.

“The United States values its relationship with India, and it would be a shame to discard so many years of progress. As China’s influence in the Pacific grows, I cannot overstate the value of our friendship. What happened in the Arabian Sea was unfortunate. But accidents happen. I’m willing to consider the possibility that our ships and aircraft accidentally got in the way of missiles intended for the Russians.”

Chandra was caught off guard. He couldn’t possibly have heard the president correctly. Could India be this fortunate, the United States so desperate for allies in the Pacific? With Russia and China growing their military and economies at a faster pace than the United States, the writing on the wall was clear. But Chandra was surprised the Americans were willing to look the other way.

“I agree,” Chandra replied. “Accidents do happen on occasion, and we will work to ensure they do not occur in the future.”

“Excellent,” the president said. “I’m glad we’re in agreement.” He offered a tight smile, then said, “I’d like to discuss this situation with President Madan. We’ve arranged a conference call.”

Hardison punched the number into a conference phone on the table. The call was answered after the first ring.

“This is President Madan.”

The American president conveyed his thoughts on the recent incident to Madan, following the outline of his discussion with Ambassador Chandra.

There was a long silence on the line before Madan replied, “I agree. We have forged a vital relationship over the last few years, and we will work to repair the damage done.”

“As will we,” the president said. “I look forward to setting aside what occurred, and is about to occur, so we can strengthen our relationship.”

“About to occur?” President Madan asked.

The president checked the clock on the Situation Room wall. “You have five minutes to vacate the presidential palace. Anyone remaining inside will not live to see another day. Do I make myself clear?”

There was no response from President Madan. Instead, the line went dead.

Hardison grabbed a remote from the table and activated the video screen on the far wall. A satellite image of India’s presidential palace appeared — the 340-room Rashtrapati Bhavan in New Delhi — and it wasn’t long before men and women began streaming from the exits, dispersing into the 320-acre complex.

As the last few stragglers hurried down the front steps, the entire east facade of the building disintegrated as several dozen explosions rippled across the front of the palace, the black-tinged fireballs roiling upward.

Turning to Ambassador Chandra, the president said, “It looks like your presidential palace accidentally got in the way of a few Tomahawk missiles. As we learned all too well last week, accidents happen. Please convey my sincere apologies to President Madan.”