Ice Station Nautilus

EPILOGUE

A light snow was falling from a gray, overcast sky as a cold March wind swept up the green slopes of Arlington National Cemetery. Christine O’Connor stood behind a row of vacant chairs alongside an open pit that would become Captain Steve Brackman’s grave. Standing beside her was Kevin Hardison, along with other members of the president’s staff and cabinet, with others arrayed in several rows behind them. Navy divers had retrieved Brackman’s body from Dolgoruky, and in the distance, working its way up the curving road toward the gravesite, was the horse-drawn limber and caisson carrying his flag-draped casket. Following closely behind was a procession of cars carrying the president and Brackman’s family.

Positioned alongside the road, awaiting the arrival of the burial procession, was the six-member honor guard who would serve as Brackman’s casket team, led by the Officer-in-Charge of the ceremony. One hundred feet from the foot of Brackman’s grave stood the firing detail, a seven-member rifle team that would fire three volleys at the appropriate time. Not far away, up the slope of Arlington National Cemetery, the solitary bugler stood ready.

As Christine waited for the ceremony to begin, her thoughts drifted to the events of the past two weeks. After a few days aboard Michigan, she had returned to Ice Station Nautilus, then began the long journey home to Washington, D.C. During the trip, she was painfully aware of the vacant seat beside her that Brackman would have occupied.

Upon arriving in Washington, her first stop after briefing the president was the Office of Naval Intelligence. ONI personnel had been surprised at her revelation of what Dolgoruky carried. The Bulava missile’s poor performance during flight tests was originally thought to have been the result of inadequate quality control of critical components, which had been corrected. After reassessing their intel, ONI concluded the Bulava missile had a serious flaw that would require an extensive redesign, resulting in a gap of operational submarine launched ballistic missiles as the last Typhoon and Delta submarines reached their end of life. Russia was about to lose its only survivable leg of their nuclear triad, a fact they were desperately trying to conceal.

It had cost Russia two of their nuclear attack submarines. Russia was able to rescue the survivors aboard Vepr and Severodvinsk, but the death toll had still been high; forty-five Russian sailors and almost two full platoons of Spetsnaz, not to mention Brackman and twenty-four other Americans.

The president was still evaluating Kalinin’s proposal; it would be difficult to permanently conceal so much carnage above and below the ice, but so far, the details had been withheld from the media. In the meantime, Kalinin had agreed to include inspections of Russia’s Borei class submarines and Bulava missiles in the follow-on nuclear arms treaty, and the president was wringing additional concessions from Kalinin on a number of international issues, holding the threat of going public with what Russia had done over his head. The president was still seething, searching for other ways to punish Russia.

The limber and caisson carrying Brackman’s casket pulled to a halt just past the six-man casket team, and the president and Brackman’s family stepped from their sedans. Although there were over a hundred persons in attendance, there were only three members of Brackman’s family: Brackman’s mother, father, and older sister, Lisa. Brackman’s wife and daughter were not present, having died three years earlier.

The president and Brackman’s family stopped alongside the road, and the ceremony OIC signaled the casket team, who moved into position behind the caisson, marching slowly in unison. Brackman’s casket was removed from the caisson, and the chaplain took station at the head of the casket team, leading the procession up the slope to the gravesite. Brackman’s family and the president followed.

Brackman’s casket was placed atop the supports that would lower his body to its final resting place, and the casket team remained standing at attention, three men on each side. The chaplain moved to the head of Brackman’s grave while Brackman’s family took their seats in the chairs alongside the gravesite. The president remained standing, stopping behind the chairs, next to Christine.

The casket team lifted the American flag from Brackman’s casket and held it waist high, stretched taut over Brackman’s casket, and the chaplain began the committal service. As the chaplain read the scripture, approaching the final moment when Brackman would be lowered into his grave, Christine grappled with her guilt; her responsibility for Brackman’s death.

It was her recommendation that resulted in Brackman joining her on the trip to the polar ice cap. Compounding her culpability, Brackman would have already transferred to his next job if she hadn’t convinced him to remain the president’s senior military aide for another year. Her motive had been selfish. She and Brackman agreed on almost every issue, and she didn’t want to lose her dependable ally in the political wars waged among the president’s staff. Finally, she had closed the watertight door and sealed Brackman in Compartment Eight.

There was no avoiding it. Brackman was dead because of her. She wondered how many people gathered around Brackman’s grave understood her guilt. She glanced at Brackman’s parents and his sister. They were seated in front of her, looking away toward Brackman’s casket, and Christine was grateful she did not have to look them in the eye during the ceremony.

The chaplain stepped back from the gravesite and the OIC signaled the firing detail, ordering them to attention. The president and military personnel saluted as the firing detail fired three volleys. As the echo of the last round faded, the bugler sounded taps. The long, lonely notes from his bugle filled the air. Christine knew only the first line of the lyrics:

Day is done, gone the sun.

She looked up into the overcast sky, the sun hidden by clouds. The weather, at least, was appropriate. As the last note from the bugle faded, the chaplain resumed his position at the head of Brackman’s grave and offered the benediction. The casket team folded the American flag they had held over Brackman’s casket, then handed it to the president, who presented the flag to Brackman’s parents.

“On behalf of a grateful nation and proud Navy, I present this flag to you in recognition of your son’s years of honorable and faithful service to his country.”

Brackman’s mother accepted the flag as tears streamed down her cheeks. The president stepped back and saluted, then the casket team marched away from the gravesite. The OIC signaled the firing detail, who also turned and headed down the slope.

The president offered his condolences, followed by members of his staff and cabinet, as well as Brackman’s friends from the many commands he served on. Christine remained behind, searching for the right words, but they eluded her. The line of mourners wound down, and when there was no one left, she could put it off no longer.

Christine stopped in front of Brackman’s parents, and as they met her gaze, she decided to keep her condolences short. “Your son saved my life. I cannot thank him, so I thank you.”

Brackman’s parents nodded their appreciation.

Christine wanted to say more, but wasn’t sure if they harbored resentment toward her. After all, their son had traded his life for hers.

Brackman’s sister stood and offered Christine a hug. As Lisa pulled away, she said, “We understand why Steve did what he did. He spoke highly of you.” It looked like there was more she wanted to say, but then she noticed Christine’s pain. Lisa hugged her again, this time whispering in her ear, “Don’t feel guilty. It was Steve’s decision, not yours.”

She had stopped by to offer condolences, but it was Lisa who did the consoling. Her words helped, and the lump in Christine’s throat diminished. Brackman’s family stood, then headed down the slope to their sedan. The president also departed, as did his staff and cabinet, followed by Brackman’s friends, leaving only Christine, the chaplain, and the OIC. The two men bid her farewell, then joined the congregation making its way toward the cemetery’s exit.

Christine remained behind, standing at the foot of Brackman’s grave. She thanked him one final time, then looked up into the dark gray sky, blinking as heavy snowflakes hit her face. The snow was falling harder now. She pulled the collar of her overcoat around her ears, then tucked her chin down as she headed into the bitter wind.