Blackmail

by Rick Campbell

  Hardison no doubt regretted his recommendation; Christine was far more forceful now than when they worked together twenty years ago, when she was an impressionable young staffer. Now, Christine was quick to engage Hardison and the president whenever she disagreed with their proposals, which was exactly the way the president liked it. Although he didn’t always agree with Christine, her opinions and recommendations often distilled clarity into cloudy, contentious issues.

  However, since her return from Ice Station Nautilus, she’d been uncharacteristically withdrawn, saying what needed to be said and nothing more, working long hours into the evening and on weekends. It wasn’t hard to realize what she was doing. She was staying busy to keep her mind off of what she’d done. Even Hardison had backed off, toning down his interactions with Christine. He’d become aware of the role she played in Captain Brackman’s death, and it was easy to discern the guilt she felt, deserved or not.

  SecState Cabral’s knock on the Oval Office door pulled the president’s thoughts back to the pending meeting, and as Dawn settled onto the couch beside Christine, the president turned to McVeigh. “Go ahead, Bob.”

  McVeigh replied, “We’ve detected some disconcerting Russian military activity over the last twenty-four hours. Their two largest fleets, the Northern and Pacific Fleets, have sortied to sea, taking every combatant including their aircraft carrier Kuznetsov. Russia’s Baltic and Black Sea Fleets haven’t deployed, but their level of readiness has been increased, as has that of Russia’s ground and air forces.

  “In addition to the deployment of Russia’s two largest fleets, there have been several troop movements. Most are probably related to Russia’s upcoming Victory Day celebration in Moscow, commemorating the end of World War Two in Europe. The parade through Red Square typically features ten to twenty thousand troops and the latest Russian military hardware. However, three Russian units are heading northwest, toward Kaliningrad Oblast. Russia has previously threatened to move more troops and advanced missile systems into the oblast, and appears to be following through. A mechanized infantry division is en route, along with two missile brigades.”

  After McVeigh fell silent, the president said, “Let’s talk about the Russian fleet deployments first. What are they up to?”

  “Our best guess,” McVeigh replied, “is that their Northern Fleet is headed into the Mediterranean to provide additional firepower off the coast of Syria, although it’s curious as to why they would use their Navy instead of additional land-based missile batteries. As to where their Pacific Fleet is headed, we don’t have a clue yet. All we know right now is that they’re headed south, skirting around the Reagan strike group. We’ll learn more over the next few days.”

  “Let’s think out of the box,” the president said. “Syria is one option. What else could Russia be up to?”

  “Ukraine could be a focal point,” Christine answered, “although the Northern Fleet would have to transit into the Black Sea. They’d be in an excellent position, on Ukraine’s southern border. Russia could be coordinating its ground and naval forces, bringing as much firepower as possible to bear on the Donbass region of Ukraine.”

  “How are things going in Donbass?” the president asked SecState Cabral, referring to the civil war between the Ukrainian government and separatist forces in the Donetsk and Luhansk Oblasts, collectively referred to as the Donbass region.

  Dawn answered, “The conflict is currently at a stalemate, with separatist forces controlling most of Donbass. Although an official cease-fire is in effect, sporadic fighting continues along the line of engagement, and tensions remain high. Additionally, a separatist movement has gained momentum in Moldova, on Ukraine’s western border, with ethnic Russians requesting support from the Russian Federation. With unrest in Ukraine’s eastern provinces and now to the west, things are getting dicey for Ukraine.”

  The president nodded. “What else could Russia’s Northern Fleet be up to?”

  After no additional ideas were offered, the president said, “What about the Pacific?”

  Christine answered, “Most of the conflict in the Pacific concerns ownership of natural resources, but I’m not aware of any claims Russia would try to enforce with their Pacific Fleet, unless they intend to join the fray in the South China Sea. But I don’t see that happening.”

  Both SecDef and SecState agreed, and after no further ideas were presented regarding the purpose of Russia’s Pacific Fleet deployment, the president said to McVeigh, “Keep working the problem and let me know what you come up with. What about Russia’s ground unit movements?”

  McVeigh answered, “It looks like they’re deploying the Second Guards Motor Rifle Division and two missile brigades into the Kaliningrad Oblast. One of the missile brigades is an offensive weapon system, employing the Iskander short-range ballistic missile, which can carry nuclear or conventional warheads. The second missile brigade employs the S-400 Triumf air defense system, which is Russia’s most advanced version, able to engage targets out to two hundred and forty miles. They’re deploying twenty-four battalions, which translates to over one thousand missiles. And that’s just what’s being added. Kaliningrad Oblast already has a significant air defense capability.

  “By adding a Guards mechanized infantry division and the two missile brigades, Russia is turning Kaliningrad into a fortress from which they can neutralize NATO airpower in northeastern Europe, undermining a central pillar of NATO war planning. Additionally, their 448th Missile Brigade gives them a significant surface attack capability. The Baltic States are concerned, to put it mildly. It’s possible Lithuania and Poland will refuse to allow the additional Russian troops across their border into Kaliningrad Oblast, and if so, Russia will be incensed. We’re not sure how they’d respond.”

  The president contemplated the information laid before him, then said, “As far as the Russian Navy goes, let’s keep an eye on both fleets, with forces close enough to engage quickly if necessary. What are our options?”

  McVeigh answered, “Most of the Atlantic Fleet has been transferred to the Pacific, but we have five submarines we can send across the Atlantic to shadow Russia’s Northern Fleet. We also have a guided missile submarine near the Persian Gulf that we can send into the Mediterranean via the Suez Canal, where she can await the Northern Fleet’s arrival. As for Russia’s Pacific Fleet, we can have the Reagan strike group shadow it as it heads south, or assign that task to the Truman strike group, which is in transit from the Indian Ocean to replace Roosevelt off China’s coast.”

  The president replied, “Let’s leave the Reagan strike group where it is. I don’t want to go from two strike groups off China’s coast to zero. Have the Truman strike group rendezvous with the Russian Pacific Fleet as soon as possible, but keep them at a reasonable distance. Between Russia and China, tension in the Western Pacific is high, and I don’t want any interactions that could escalate out of control.

  “Regarding the Russian ground force redeployments,” the president said, “keep me informed as the situation develops.”

  As the meeting drew to a close, the president said to Christine, “You’re heading to Russia on Monday, right?”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  After a moment of reflection, the president said, “Proceed with the trip.”

  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 highl
ighter and several other documents she’d need on her trip. After grabbing her briefcase and umbrella, she left without a word.

  13

  ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

  In the Pentagon gym locker room, Christine dried her hair with a white towel, then tossed it onto a nearby bench. After leaving the White House, she had mulled over what to do the rest of the dreary, rainy day and decided to start with a good, hard workout. It was still morning and she had plenty of pent-up energy, so hitting the gym was a perfect way to start her weekend.

  Upon leaving the Pentagon, Christine headed toward her town house in Clarendon. During her journey, the rain slowed to a drizzle, then ended. After a moment of indecision, she stopped at a grocery store and selected two flower bouquets. After placing them on the passenger seat of her car, she opened the glove compartment and retrieved two yellow envelopes, one new and one worn. She pulled the documents from the new envelope, which included a car pass, placing it on the dashboard.

  Christine grasped the steering wheel and steeled herself for the encounter. She didn’t know how long she sat in the parking lot, but her hands began to hurt and she noticed they had turned white from gripping the steering wheel so hard. She relaxed her hands, letting the blood flow back into them for a moment, then shifted the car into drive. A few minutes later, she was heading down Memorial Avenue, then turned left onto Eisenhower Drive, where a sentry examined the pass on her dashboard and waved her into Arlington National Cemetery.

  Established on the grounds of Arlington House, a mansion owned by Robert E. Lee’s wife, Mary Anna, and seized by the federal government during the Civil War, Arlington National Cemetery spans 624 acres, containing almost three hundred thousand headstones. As Christine headed down Eisenhower Drive, up the gently sloping hill to her right was the Tomb of the Unknowns, commonly referred to as the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. She’d stopped by there many times as she left the cemetery, watching the Tomb Guards, soldiers from the 3rd Infantry Regiment, The Old Guard. She had memorized the words inscribed on the western panel of the tomb: