Blackmail

12 WASHINGTON, D.C.

Christine returned to her office and had resumed reviewing the draft nuclear arms treaty for only a few minutes when there was a knock on her door. She looked up to see a Marine Corps Colonel standing in her doorway along with Sheree Hinton, one of Hardison’s interns.

“Miss O’Connor,” she said, “I’d like you to meet Colonel Bill DuBose, the president’s new senior military aide.”

At the mention of Captain Brackman’s replacement, Christine’s stomach tightened. She rose from her desk and strode across the office, forcing a smile onto her face as she extended her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Colonel.”

The Colonel’s handshake was firm, matching his muscular physique. “If you’ll excuse me,” Sheree said, “I have to run an errand for the chief of staff. I’ll let you two get acquainted and be back in a minute.”

That was the last thing Christine wanted to hear. At the sight of the president’s new senior military aide, the memory of what she’d done to Brackman resurfaced; she was aboard the sunken submarine again, the cold metal handwheel in her hands, turning it shut, sealing Brackman in the flooded compartment. Through the portal in the door, she watched Brackman drown, sucking in a lungful of cold seawater with his last breath, staring at her until his eyes glazed over and he drifted into the darkness.

The memory of what she’d done had slowly faded over the last few weeks, but the arrival of Brackman’s replacement ripped the wound open anew.

“I’m looking forward to working with you, Miss O’Connor,” he said.

“I, as well,” Christine replied, before retreating to her desk. As she slipped into her chair, she said, “I apologize for being abrupt, but I’m pressed for time. I leave for Moscow on Monday and have a lot to review.”

She looked down at the documents and picked up a yellow highlighter, trying to focus and push Brackman from her thoughts. The Colonel remained in her doorway, waiting for Sheree to return and continue his introductions to the White House staff.

“How did you end up on the president’s staff,” DuBose asked, “being from the other party, I mean?”

“I interviewed for the job,” Christine answered without looking up.

“Will I have routine meetings with you and the president, or only when required?”

“When required,” Christine said quickly, attempting to conceal her irritation; could he not decipher she wasn’t in a talkative mood?

“Sheree told me that you and Captain Brackman worked closely together. I hope we can do the same.”

Christine replied without thinking, “I won’t make that mistake with you.” She clamped her mouth shut, but it was too late.

There was a long silence before Colonel DuBose said, “Is there something about me or marines that you don’t like?”

“My father was a marine,” Christine replied, her eyes still glued to the document in front of her.

There was an awkward pause before DuBose asked, “Was he a good father?”

“He was never a father.”

Another long silence, then DuBose said, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

It seemed DuBose finally got the message, because he asked no further questions before Sheree returned. As she prepared to continue with his West Wing introductions, Colonel DuBose said, “It was a pleasure meeting you, Miss O’Connor.”

Christine knew she should say something gracious, but all she could manage was, “Please close my door.”

The door closed with a solid click. Christine put the highlighter down and pushed back from her desk. Visions of her trip to Ice Station Nautilus — Brackman drifting off into the murky water, of the Russian’s hand around her throat as she jammed an ice pick through his, of her tumbling through the darkness into the icy water — swirled through her mind. She didn’t know how long she’d been sitting there, trying to stuff those thoughts back where they belonged, when there was another knock on her door. She pulled up to her desk and retrieved the highlighter, then acknowledged the knock.

The door opened to reveal Kevin Hardison.

“Do you have a minute?” he asked.

“Not really,” Christine replied. “I’m preparing for my trip to Moscow.” She dropped her eyes to the document on her desk.

Hardison closed the door and settled into a chair in front of Christine’s desk. “Sheree introduced the president’s new senior military aide, and the Colonel and I had a nice chat. The typical introductory stuff, until he asked if you were always this… cold.”

“It is a bit chilly in my office,” Christine said without looking up. “Perhaps you could take care of that.”

Hardison replied, “I lied and told him you were normally quite nice, but that you had a lot on your mind and were pressed for time.”

Christine highlighted a section of the draft treaty that needed to be modified, and when she didn’t respond, Hardison asked, “Do you remember when we first met, twenty years ago on Congressman Johnson’s staff?”

Christine replied, “You mean, when you weren’t an ass?”

Hardison glared at her for a moment, then continued. “I admired you then. Smart, driven, easy to get along with. With the experience you’ve gained over the last twenty years, I thought you’d make a great national security advisor. The president interviewed you based on my recommendation, which you’ve never thanked me for, by the way.”

“Thank you, Kevin.” Christine’s highlighter kept moving, her eyes shifting between her notes and the draft treaty.

“But that’s beside the point,” Hardison said.

“What is your point?” Christine asked, her eyes still downward. “It’s hard to talk to you and concentrate on what I’m doing.”

Hardison reached over and grabbed the highlighter from Christine’s hand. She looked up, an exasperated expression on her face. “What do you want?”

“What I want,” Hardison answered, “is for you to stop blaming yourself for Brackman’s death.”

“I don’t have time for this,” Christine replied, reaching for the highlighter.

He pulled it back out of her reach. “You’re going to make time for it, because this conversation is overdue.” Christine leveled an icy stare at him as he continued, “It was Brackman’s decision, not yours.” His words seemed to have no effect, so he added, “Yes, I know. You spun the handwheel, sealing him inside the flooded compartment. But you had no choice.”

“Everyone has a choice.” Christine’s voice quavered as she spoke; her facade was beginning to crumble.

“Not in this case,” Hardison said. “You need to accept that. You are not responsible for Brackman’s death.”

Christine pushed back from her desk and folded her arms tightly across her chest, attempting to maintain control of her emotions, forcing her breathing to remain steady.

“I want you to take some time off,” Hardison said.

“I don’t work for you,” Christine replied.

“It’s Friday morning. Take the rest of today off.”

“I have too much to do.” Christine pulled her chair back to her desk, reaching for the highlighter in Hardison’s hand again.

He kept it beyond her reach. “I don’t want to see you here over the weekend either. I’m going to leave an order for the marines at the entrance to not let you in.”

“They don’t work for you, either.”

“They don’t, but they work for the president, and I’m sure he’ll give the order if I ask. I’m not the only one who’s noticed your demeanor since you returned from Ice Station Nautilus.”

Hardison added, “Do something to take your mind off of things. Have a few drinks with a friend. You do have one, right? Someone who can tolerate your presence?”

Christine reached for the highlighter again, this time keeping her arm extended. “Give me the highlighter.”

Hardison brought the highlighter almost to within reach. “Only if you take the rest of today and the weekend off.”

Christine dropped her hand. “Keep the damn highlighter.” She opened her desk drawer, rummaging through its contents for another one.

Hardison slammed his hand on her desk. “Christine!”

She paused, then slowly closed the drawer and folded her arms across her chest again, staring at the documents on her desk. Hardison was right. She needed time away. From all of it.

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll take the rest of today and the weekend off.”

Hardison placed the highlighter on her desk. “I’m not leaving your office until you do.”

Christine closed her notepad and slid the draft treaty back into its folder, placing both in her leather briefcase along with the highlighter and several other documents she’d need on her trip. After grabbing her briefcase and umbrella, she left without a word.