Termination

by J C Ryan

  If it was a video call, Daniel would have seen the shocking surprise on the Russian’s face—and his hesitation. He was obviously not prepared for what he heard.

  “I will look into this matter immediately. But I am not pleased that you authorized engagement, and I trust that no permanent damage was done by your ships.”

  “President Mikhaulov, your sub shot at ours without any provocation. My order to defend our vessels and its personnel stands. I suggest you look into the matter without delay and order your commanders to disengage—unless you want to take responsibility for the consequences.”

  The line went quiet.

  In Moscow, President Mikhaulov glared at his advisors. They had assured him that this new American president was a youngster with no experience—a walkover for a veteran politician like himself. It was obvious by the expressions of angst on their faces they made a gross error of judgement.

  “President Mikhaulov, I take it you need a little time to investigate. Let’s talk again in, say, an hour?”

  “One hour,” Mikhaulov replied abruptly. The connection was severed.

  The room had gone silent while Daniel spoke with Mikhaulov and no one moved as he put the phone down. There were more than a few smiles around the table. If anyone doubted the young president’s courage and tenacity before they walked into the Situation Room, it was resolved in one short phone call—he had the respect of everyone in the room.

  “All right, what’s the situation?” Daniel asked without a hint of anxiety.

  Admiral Johnson began the report—Daniel was aware of the sequence of events and didn’t want the details again.

  “Wait.” He held up his hand. “Just give me the status of our ships that engaged the Russians and the outcome.”

  “According to the report from the Itinerant, the Pozharskiy was destroyed by the Vladimir—she was too close to the Trepang and couldn’t get clear of the torpedo; in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  Daniel’s eyebrows rose, and there were several sounds of quiet amusement and astonishment around the table.

  “The Itinerant also reports that the Vladimir has been destroyed—a direct hit by the Seawolf. The Trepang is resting on a ledge of the Aleutian Trench at nearly twenty-two-hundred feet, her crush depth is twenty-four hundred.

  “At this point, we can’t tell if there are any survivors. The Itinerant has been cleared by the Seawolf, and Captain Wiekelan, to investigate and let us know if a rescue is possible and needed.”

  “Keep me posted.” He turned to address everyone gathered. “All right, ladies and gentlemen, let’s get down to business before I speak with President Mikhaulov again.

  “He isn’t going to be happy about the situation, and I’m not sure he will believe that the Vladimir destroyed the Pozharskiy. We may get blamed for both.”

  “Excuse me,” Admiral Johnson interrupted as he put his cell phone down. “We’ve just received an update from our Russian informants. Two hours ago, three ships and another submarine were dispatched from the base at Vilyuchinsk, and two ships on patrol in the North Pacific were ordered to change course. They are all headed for the Aleutian Islands and the vicinity of the current situation.”

  “I need a plan for dealing with this and bringing it to a peaceful resolution—if possible.” Daniel settled back in his chair to hear the advice and recommendations from his Joint Chiefs and watched Salome evaluating the points in the discussion.

  By the time the meeting concluded, Daniel was ready for another round with his Russian counterpart.

  Five-thousand miles away in Moscow, the atmosphere around their President was very different. After the quick investigation, Mikhaulov took twenty minutes to give his advisors an ass-chewing of epic proportions, and more than one would be seeking a new position by the end of the day.

  Right on time, Glenn placed the call to Russia and handed the phone to Daniel.

  “President Mikhaulov,” Daniel greeted neutrally.

  “President Rossler. I’ve investigated, and as I told you before, I was unaware of, and did not authorize, an attack on your sub. However, Admiral Fedorin informs me that you were sheltering Brideaux and his Council Members onboard that sub.”

  “President Mikhaulov, you’re digressing from the issue. I hope that is not deliberate. One of your subs fired a torpedo on one of ours without reason. That’s the subject of our discussion, not who is or was onboard that sub.”

  “Mister President, I’ll take that as confirmation that Brideaux and his Council Members were in fact onboard that sub.”

  “Mister President.” Daniel had a slight grin. “In that case, I’ll have to take your response as confirmation that you are prepared to let the situation escalate and face the inevitable consequences.”

  “I haven’t said that!” Mikhaulov exclaimed.

  “President Mikhaulov, I’m very much aware that you currently have five ships and a submarine on headings that will bring them into close proximity of the current situation. So, what’s it going to be, Mister President? Are you going to order your commanders to stand down and turn back, or are you going to make a bad situation worse?”

  The line went quiet. Mikhaulov was punch-drunk. His advisors had it wrong yet again. They thought the mention of Brideaux and his cronies being on board that sub would catch Daniel off-guard.

  The line became live again.

  “President Rossler, the attack on your sub was not authorized by me or the Admiralty. The Vladimir was sent to investigate the possibility of the prisoners being onboard—that is all.

  “Captain Yuditsky acted on his own. He was an inherent recreant and was to be relieved of his command when he put in.

  “I’ve issued orders to my navy commanders to turn back immediately.”

  Daniel smiled as he said, “Thank you, Mister President. I appreciate your understanding and cooperation in this matter. I’m sure we’re going to have a very good working relationship.” Daniel handed the phone back to Glenn as applause broke out in the Situation Room.

  In Russia, heads were about to roll as an embarrassed President Mikhaulov replaced the receiver of the phone and started looking around the room at his advisors.

  CHAPTER 11

  Onboard the Itinerant

  THE ITINERANT DESCENDED slowly through the dark, briny water above the Aleutian Trench.

  With the Russian subs destroyed and the Mystic Sea standing by, the Navy had given permission for Marcus to take the rescue sub down to investigate the condition of the Trepang.

  It pleased him to have the knowledge that the Navy was continuing to patrol the area. He didn’t want to be surprised by more unwelcome guests.

  “Passing two-thousand feet,” Taka reported.

  “Hit the floods and get the cameras online. Let’s see what’s left,” Marcus ordered grimly.

  The brilliant radiance of the floodlights illuminated the barren sub-marine landscape along the edge of the trench. Rocks projecting from the steep slope of the trench disappeared into the murky depths.

  Taka whistled, “And to think, that trench is four times as deep and forty times as long as the Grand Canyon.”

  Bill grinned despite the seriousness of the occasion. “Yeah, watch that first step!”

  “No kidding.”

  Within minutes they found the Trepang.

  “Looks like they took it in the seat of the pants,” Dunlap remarked. “That’s the propulsor duct and part of the shaft over here,” he said, pointing to an area further away from the ledge.

  “That looks like what’s left of the main turbine just in front of it,” Marcus said. As they came up to the main body of the sub, he had Bill slow down while he examined the wreckage carefully. “I’d say the torpedo hit the engineering section, but it looks like the nuclear reactor was spared. Move us forward, slowly.”

  “Most of the main body looks intact, Marcus,” Dunlap commented, as they passed the sail. “It doesn’t look like anything in front of the sail survived though. From
the looks of things, I’d say the repairs they made after colliding with the ice failed at depth.”

  “Sure looks that way,” Marcus agreed. “What’s her angle, Taka?”

  “She’s resting tail down at twenty-one-hundred-eighty-four feet listing twenty-two degrees to port on a negative incline of eighteen percent.”

  Marcus looked at Dunlap. “Well, it’s your team—your call. She appears to be stable for the moment, and the lockout trunk is accessible. But you know the drill—if she shifts, I can’t sacrifice this sub trying to get your men out.”

  Dunlap nodded. “I know. Let’s put her down skin to skin and hammer an SOS, see if we get a response.”

  “Bill, set us down about halfway back from the sail. Let’s give it a try.”

  When the Itinerant was in position, Dunlap took a two-pound hammer from the engineer’s toolbox and pounded out the SOS on the hull, then waited.

  When he got no response, he moved a few feet further down the sub and tried again. Still no response. He repeated the procedure several more times with no answer. Disheartened, he was just about to give up when Hunte shouted, “Listen!”

  Tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap. Silence. Tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap.

  “They’re alive!” Taka shrieked.

  The rescue team whooped.

  “All right! Let’s do what we came to do!” Dunlap shouted with enthusiasm.

  Marcus agreed, his heart racing as he gave the order to mate with the Trepang’s lockout trunk. Once the water-tight seal between the subs was confirmed, Dunlap opened the outer hatch on the Itinerant and pounded the SOS on the Trepang’s hatch. He was relieved when the reply came immediately—had the lockout trunk access been flooded, there would have been no way to reach the survivors.

  He knocked again, and the hatch began to open.

  An unashamedly tear-streaked face appeared before them. “You’re really here!” the young man cried, and then turned to shout back into the depths of the sub, “they’re really here!”

  They heard a chorus of cheers echoing from somewhere behind him.

  “Boy, are we glad to see you! Come on down,” he said, stepping away from the ladder. “I’m Ensign Hunter, welcome aboard.”

  Dunlap was impressed the young man had the ability to grant such courtesies under the circumstances and shook his hand. “Thank you, Ensign. Where’s Captain Locklin?”

  “In the CIC, sir, he’s injured.”

  The other five members of the team had boarded, and he turned to them. “Nicholson, you’re with me to the CIC. Sommers and Nelson, work your way aft, Kidd and Nelson work your way forward. I need a head and body count, and general status of survivors.”

  “Aye, sir,” they chorused and spread out.

  * * *

  Onboard the Trepang

  REESE LOCKLIN SHOOK his head. “I’ll not leave ahead of my men,” he said firmly.

  “But sir, you’re injured.”

  “Yes, I’m injured, but I’m still in command of this boat, and I’m not leaving until my crew has been rescued first. Now get on with it before you have to be removed with the injured.”

  Dunlap scratched his jaw. There was a slight twinkle in Locklin’s eyes despite the implied threat, but he wasn’t sure how far he could push the man. “All right, Captain. Have it your way.”

  “Thank you. I will,” Locklin responded with a satisfied grin. “And while we’re on the subject, Littleton goes first.”

  “The ensign is in critical condition,” Dunlap nodded. “He’s being transferred as we speak.”

  Locklin nodded his thanks. “Good. Now go do your job and let me get on with mine. I’ll see you on the next trip. Oh, and by the way—those damned prisoners go last.”

  “Yes, sir,” Dunlap saluted and left the CIC.

  Nearly every Trepang crew member had one or more injuries, so it was by severity of injury, with the exception of the crusty Captain, that they sorted them into transfer groups.

  Since the Itinerant could only take fifty at a time, they would need to make three trips. One-hundred crew members would be taken off in the first two loads. That left fifteen crew members, the Captain, the prisoners, and twenty bodies to wait for the final run.

  Rather than ordering some of his crew to stay behind, Locklin asked for fifteen volunteers—and got them.

  “We’re ready to go, sir,” Sommers advised Dunlap.

  “Very good. Nicholson and I are going to remain here and help. Don’t take your time going, and definitely hurry back.”

  “Aye, sir!” Sommers grinned as Dunlap helped him secure the hatch.

  * * *

  Washington DC

  DANIEL AND NIGEL strolled through the dimly lit corridors and rooms of the main White House structure. Until now, in the quietness of this evening, events requiring Daniel’s attention had prevented him from ‘exploring’ his new residence.

  As they entered the ground floor, they looked briefly in the Map Room, used by President Franklin Roosevelt as a situation room during World War II. It was decorated in the Chippendale style, popular in the latter half of the 18th Century, its furnishings from the mid to late 1700s. Two maps hung on the walls; one, a rare French version of a map charted by colonial surveyors in 1755, and the last map, prepared in the room for President Roosevelt on April 3, 1945.

  In his mind’s-eye, Daniel could almost see President Roosevelt bent over one of the tables, studying a new map and asking for updates on troop movement.

  Moving on, Daniel realized there was still a myriad of pressing matters to attend to, but he was glad Nigel had suggested the stroll— stretching his legs and taking a break from the ‘worries-of-the-world’ as he and Sarah called them, was good for body and mind.

  Some rooms they bypassed, others they entered, and Nigel told Daniel a brief history of the room or something in it. In some cases, he shared a story about an occurrence or memory there from his time serving as President.

  There were vestiges of restoration work in the Center Hall. The beautiful deep-red rugs had been rolled up and stored neatly to one side, revealing the rich brown and beige tiles laid in diamond patterns beneath.

  The vaulted ceiling was undamaged, as were the chandeliers that illuminated the one-hundred-sixty-one-foot windowless passageway. Daniel noted that the bullet riddled doors to the Diplomatic Reception Room had been removed and the door jambs replaced. Just waiting for the new doors to be delivered.

  Both shook their heads as they passed the China Room where the china used by each serving President was on display—in chronological order of term.

  “It’s a woman thing.” Daniel shrugged. “Had to have been thought up by the First Ladies.”

  “Undoubtedly,” Nigel said. “There are a couple of side-chairs in there that belonged to George Washington.”

  “Now that’s worth putting on display!” Daniel laughed.

  They turned left, crossing the hall, and climbed the wide staircase to the First Floor, also known as the ‘State Floor’, where they entered the Red Room.

  “During the Madison administration, this was called the Yellow Drawing Room,” Nigel informed Daniel. “Dolly Madison held her ever-popular, high-fashion, Wednesday night receptions here, and it was Mrs. Lincoln’s favorite sitting room.”

  Daniel wandered through the room, taking in the abundance of ormolu work, vases, and various other items on display. “Beautiful pieces,” he said admiringly.

  “Yes. Most of it was brought in during the Monroe and Madison administrations.”

  Moving on, they saw that repair work on this floor had presumably been completed. The deep-red rugs matching those on the ground floor had been spread through the Cross Hall again, muffling the footsteps of all who tread their path.

  They entered the oval Blue Room, the place where presidents traditionally, formally received guests, and Nigel let his gaze travel over the French Empire style decor of the room. “The business of democracy, the social graces of diplomacy, and the en
tertaining of kings has taken place in this room,” he said almost reverently.

  “I remember reading somewhere that Grover Cleveland and Frances Folsum got married in this room—the only president ever to be wed in the White House,” Daniel said, breathing in the historical atmosphere.

  I can almost feel the power of the men who have attended this room.

  “Yes,” Nigel agreed. “That’s true. Did you know the idea of the oval rooms in the White House goes back to George Washington? He preferred rooms where no one could get stuck in a corner,” Nigel smiled. “And the circle has become a symbol of democracy.”

  Daniel let his fingers trail across the coolness of the marble-top center table as he left the room. “I’m glad most of the damage was in the lower, modern levels and that all this history remains intact—this is a monument of national treasures.”

  The East Room was easily recognized, as it was frequently the location of press conferences and bill-signings. Daniel had been sworn in as Vice-President, in this room, at the same time the late Laurie Campbell was sworn in as President. The memories of all that transpired since that day flashed through Daniel’s mind making his throat tighten and eyes sting briefly.

  Sensing his mood shift, Nigel nudged Daniel saying, “Did you know that young Tad Lincoln once harnessed a pair of goats to a kitchen chair and had them pull him through this room?”

  Daniel eyed him, his expression clearly stating he didn’t believe the story.

  “It’s true! Check the White House museum records if you don’t believe me. And the Roosevelt children used it as a roller-skating rink!”

  “As I recall, both Lincoln and Kennedy lay in state in this room, after their assassinations,” Daniel said flatly.

  “True, true,” Nigel agreed. “And Nixon gathered his staff here to announce his resignation. But here’s something I’ll bet you’d never guess.” Nigel leaned toward Daniel and lowered his voice as if sharing a conspiracy. “Before this room was completed, Abigail Adams hung laundry out to dry in this very place.”