Blackmail

3 WASHINGTON, D.C.

Christine O’Connor, the president’s national security advisor, leaned back into the leather upholstery of the black Lincoln Town Car as it pulled away from the Pentagon’s mall entrance, returning her to the White House after her weekly visit to the Pentagon. Seated beside her was Secretary of Defense Bob McVeigh, carrying an orange Top Secret folder in the locked courier pouch on his lap. Christine could tell his mind was churning, reviewing the information the Office of Naval Intelligence had gleaned from the attack on USS Roosevelt, as well as the implications.

It was only a day ago when SecDef McVeigh called the president, informing him of the missile attack. Inside the folder in his courier pouch was the information collected over the last twenty-four hours, which he’d shared with Christine this afternoon. The evidence left little doubt in her mind as to who was responsible. Just when she’d reached the verge of pushing the Russians from her thoughts, they’d been thrust to the forefront again.

As the Town Car traveled across the Arlington Memorial Bridge into Washington, D.C., sliding past bumper-to-bumper traffic headed out of the District, not even the clear blue sky and warm spring weather could pull her thoughts from the wintry landscape atop the polar ice cap. Despite her best efforts, the memories were constantly there, crowding her thoughts during the day and haunting her dreams at night. Each time she looked at her hands, she couldn’t escape the memory of what she’d done to Captain Steve Brackman, the president’s former senior military aide. Former, as in deceased.

Christine felt emotion gathering in her chest, so she peered out the sedan window. She studied the pedestrians traversing the sidewalks, the construction along Constitution Avenue, the federal building facades. Anything to distract her. She brushed a lock of hair away from her face, and ice-cold fingers touched her skin. The events above and below the polar ice had left a chill in her body that wouldn’t thaw. It was only a matter of time, she told herself, before the memories faded, the pain eased. Until then, stay busy, stay focused.

Upon her return from Ice Station Nautilus, she’d thrown herself into her work, spending sixteen-hour days in the West Wing, seven days a week, stopping only to eat, sleep, and work out at the Pentagon gym. Thankfully, her acquaintances at the gym didn’t bring it up. Didn’t ask why she had killed her good friend. As she returned to the White House, she was grateful McVeigh was accompanying her and would sit in the Oval Office chair Brackman would normally have occupied while discussing military issues with the president. The empty chair during her meetings with the president the last few weeks had been a painful reminder of what she had done.

The only silver lining in the ordeal was the reaction of the president’s chief of staff, Kevin Hardison, her White House nemesis. Their relationship had become poisoned by opposing viewpoints and personal animosity, but upon her return to the White House, he’d refrained from his usual aggressive behavior. How long this reprieve would last she didn’t know, but was thankful nonetheless.

The Town Car stopped under the West Wing’s north portico and Christine and McVeigh stepped from the sedan, passing between two marines in dress blues guarding the formal entrance to the West Wing. After a short walk down the seventy-foot-long hallway, they reached the open door to the Oval Office. Hardison was already seated in one of the three chairs facing the president’s desk, and after the president waved them inside, Christine and McVeigh settled into the empty chairs.

Christine waited for McVeigh to begin. Although she was involved on the periphery, the attack on U.S. military forces was in the SecDef’s domain. He wasted no time getting started.

“I wish I had better news, Mr. President. Roosevelt will be out of commission for several months. She suffered extensive damage to her Flight Deck and Island superstructure. The Navy estimates she’ll be in the shipyard for five to six months.” McVeigh waited before continuing, letting the president absorb the loss of yet another aircraft carrier. “That leaves us with four operational carriers, which means we’re going to have to drop to two carrier strike groups on deployment. The Navy is assessing whether to pull a strike group from Fifth Fleet in the Persian Gulf, or drop our presence off China to one strike group.”

The president asked, “How long before one of the carriers damaged in the war with China returns to service?”

“Another year at the earliest,” McVeigh answered. “As extensive as Roosevelt’s damage is, she’ll be the first back in service.”

“Is there any way we can speed up the repairs?”

McVeigh shook his head. “Every yard is already in twenty-four-seven shiftwork, and we’ll be delaying the repairs of other carriers, refocusing our efforts on Roosevelt as soon as she arrives at Pearl Harbor.”

The president nodded. “Have you determined who attacked Roosevelt?”

“We have,” McVeigh answered as he unlocked the courier pouch and retrieved the orange Top Secret folder. “There are several critical pieces of information. The first is that Roosevelt was attacked by a twenty-four-missile barrage.” He pulled a printout from one of the Aegis Warfare System displays, showing twenty-four inbound missiles, placing it on the president’s desk.

“The second piece of information,” McVeigh said as he placed another printout on the desk, “is that the missiles were launched from a submarine. As you can see,” he said, pointing to the second printout, “there were no surface or air contacts in the launch area.”

McVeigh pulled a report from the folder, laying it beside the printouts. “Next is ONI’s analysis of the missile flight trajectory — speed, altitude, and evasive maneuvers prior to impact — which identifies the missiles as SS-N-19 Shipwreck missiles. SS-N-19s are Russian-made P-700 Granit missiles, and only Russia has this weapon in its inventory.

“Finally,” McVeigh said, “the only submarine capable of firing a twenty-four-missile salvo of Shipwreck missiles is an Oscar II. There is no doubt, Mr. President. Roosevelt was attacked by a Russian guided missile submarine.”

The president leaned back in his chair, a surprised expression on his face. Until this moment, the obvious perpetrator was China.

The president asked, “Do we have any intel that explains why Russia would attack us?”

“No, Mr. President. We have no answers at this point.”

The president asked no further questions as he assessed the complicated situation: the reason for Russia’s aggression, how to broach it with the Russians, what to release to the American public, and last, but most important, the United States’ response.

Finally, the president spoke. “This doesn’t make any sense. Russian fingerprints are all over this attack. They can’t deny it.”

“They can always deny it,” Hardison replied. “And I wouldn’t put it past them.”

“What do you recommend?” the president asked, surveying the three members of his staff and cabinet.

Christine answered, “You could call President Kalinin directly. But rather than confront him, I recommend you just lay out the facts and let him explain. As you pointed out, the evidence seems irrefutable. See what he has to say, and you can take it from there.”

The president turned to Hardison, who agreed, then McVeigh, who said, “I think that’s a good start. Hopefully, there’s a reasonable explanation for what happened. The last thing we need right now is a conflict with Russia, right on the heels of our war with China.”

After a moment of reflection, the president nodded his agreement. Looking at the documents on his desk, he said to McVeigh, “Make copies I can give to the Russians, redacting whatever is appropriate.”

To Hardison, he said, “Get the Russian ambassador over here. Today.”