Blackmail

by Rick Campbell

  Kaufmann asked, “Can you elaborate?”

  “They are the most sophisticated detonators ever designed,” Fedorov said. “They cannot be removed or jammed. They are truly tamper-proof.”

  “It turns out,” Kaufmann said, “that our experts agree. You have done a masterful job.” Kaufmann waited a moment while Fedorov basked in the praise. “However, they also believe these detonators can be disarmed by sending an override code. All you have to do is give me the code, and after we verify it works, you will be released.”

  “If I give you the code,” Fedorov said, “I’m a dead man.”

  Kaufmann filed away the first important detail from his interrogation—there was indeed a master override code.

  “I don’t know about that,” Kaufmann said. “But I do know that if you don’t give me the code, you’re a dead man.” He paused, waiting for his words to sink in. “However, if you give us the code, we’ll release you and guarantee your safety.”

  “You cannot protect me,” Fedorov replied with disdain on his face. “The Russian government does not look kindly on traitors. They will find me.”

  Kaufmann evaluated Fedorov’s claim; whether it was true or not was immaterial. That he believed he would be killed was what mattered. Kaufmann shifted gears.

  “Why were you a prisoner in your own villa?”

  Fedorov didn’t answer.

  Kaufmann decided to become more aggressive. Perhaps there was something the Russian would be willing to trade his life for. He pulled a second picture from his folder.

  “Do you recognize this woman?”

  Fedorov examined the photograph for a split second before rage flashed in his eyes. He surged toward Kaufmann, lifting his chair, bound to his hands behind his body, off the floor. Kaufmann lifted his right foot and planted a boot in Fedorov’s chest as the Russian tried to reach him. The muscles in Fedorov’s neck strained and his face turned red as he struggled against his bonds, but he uttered no words.

  Unstable, Kaufmann noted. The picture was becoming clearer.

  Fedorov’s rage subsided and he dropped his chair onto the ground, then slumped into it. Kaufmann left his boot on Fedorov’s chest but said nothing, waiting for the dam to break. Finally, Fedorov began talking.

  “She meant everything to me. My only child. The bastard murdered her.” Fedorov surged forward in his chair as rage overtook him again, but it subsided more quickly this time. When the anger faded, Fedorov’s head sagged onto his chest, and he started weeping.

  Definitely unstable, Kaufmann thought, noting the irony. An unstable engineer working with explosives. He dropped his foot to the ground and waited for Fedorov to regain his composure. When the tears ended, the Russian sat up in his chair.

  Kaufmann pulled a third photograph from the folder, showing it to Fedorov. “Is this the man responsible?”

  Fedorov spit on the picture.

  I’ll take that as a yes.

  Kaufmann was making progress, but a key piece of the puzzle was missing.

  “There’s something I don’t understand. Your daughter is discovered strangled and her body dumped in a back alley, you think her boyfriend is responsible, and you end up a prisoner in a villa on the outskirts of Velikiy Novgorod. What am I missing?”

  “I tried to kill him,” Fedorov replied.

  Suddenly, the missing puzzle piece was in Kaufmann’s hand. But it still didn’t fit.

  “There’s no evidence you tried to kill him. No arrest, not even a news article about the incident. An attempt on this man’s life would have been splattered across every newspaper in the country. But it was swept under the rug?”

  Fedorov nodded. “He’s a powerful man, and the government didn’t want the issue to go public. So they gave me a pass and put me under surveillance so I couldn’t get near him again. But that didn’t stop me.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I hired the Russian mafia. They had him in their sights. One more second…,” Fedorov said, his voice trailing off. “After that attempt, they transferred me to the research facility at Velikiy Novgorod, where I was given a plush villa prison cell with no outside communication. I can’t get near him, nor hire anyone to do the job.”

  Kaufmann mulled the new information over. Under normal circumstances, Fedorov would be in a wooden box six feet underground after two assassination attempts, but he happened to be a brilliant engineer developing stuff the Russian government really wanted. So they kept him alive and put him to work at a remote location, transporting him between the research facility and his villa prison each day.

  “I know he’s responsible,” Fedorov said. “My daughter and I were close, and she confided in me before her death. Their relationship was deteriorating and she knew too much.”

  “I see,” Kaufmann said. Now that the picture was clear, he realized an arrangement might be possible. He returned the photograph to the folder and tossed it onto the floor.

  “Let’s assume you’re correct, and if you give me the override code, you’re a dead man. Let’s also assume you’re dead if you don’t give me the code. You’re in a pickle, as we say in baseball.” Fedorov gave him a blank stare. “I offer you a deal,” Kaufmann said. “Give me the code and we’ll take care of this matter for you.”

  “You’ll kill him?”

  Kaufmann nodded.

  “I want him dead before I give you the code.”

  Kaufmann hesitated. He knew time was critical. However, it was clear Fedorov wasn’t going to budge on his demand. “Agreed,” he said.

  “I want proof,” Fedorov said. “I want to see his dead carcass.”

  “We’ll provide a picture of his body.”

  The Russian’s eyes bored into Kaufmann for a moment, then he said, “I have a better idea. I want to watch him die. And before he takes his last breath, I want him to see my face and know who is responsible.”

  “You cannot leave this facility before you give us the code. You cannot be there to watch him die.”

  “A video link will be sufficient,” Fedorov replied, “between two cell phones. After I watch him die, I’ll give you the code.”

  “We’ll make the necessary arrangements,” Kaufmann said.

  Fedorov leaned back in his chair, a look of satisfaction on his face.

  Kaufmann was about to leave when a thought struck him. “Anton,” he said, “can we get our hands on some of your detonators?”

  “Of course,” Fedorov replied. “What do you have in mind?”

  50

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Seated at her desk in her West Wing corner office, Christine rested her fingers on her computer keyboard as she stared at her display, replaying President Xiang’s words in her mind for the thousandth time.

  Should I be as ruthless as you?

  His question at the end of their meeting had stung. She wasn’t ruthless by any stretch of the imagination, yet Xiang implied she was more ruthless than him. How was that possible? By ordering the invasion of Taiwan, Xiang was responsible for the death of over one hundred thousand men and women. Yet by killing one defenseless man, she was more ruthless? She wondered if something had been lost in translation.

  There was a knock on Christine’s door, and after she acknowledged, Colonel DuBose entered. “Good afternoon, Miss O’Connor. Just a reminder, the briefing begins in five minutes.”

  “Thanks, Colonel.” She’d lost track of time. Grabbing a notepad from her desk, she joined the marine, then headed down one level into the Situation Room, where they joined Hardison, McVeigh, Dawn, and CIA Director Jessica Cherry.

  It wasn’t long before the president arrived, taking his seat at the head of the table. He wasted no time, turning to Dawn. “Bring me up to speed on the diplomatic front.”

  “I’ll start with Lithuania and Ukraine. NATO leadership is still debating the use of military force and it looks like several countries are preparing to submit a no vote to the secretary-general. Russia is taking advantage of the indecision within NATO, c
ontinuing to push for a continental security summit, and a few NATO countries are considering Kalinin’s offer. The Alliance is unstable, and could capitulate to Kalinin’s demands at any moment.

  “In the Pacific, there’s been no word from India, but thanks to Christine, President Xiang has agreed to remain neutral, and our embassy in Beijing has received the list of concessions he’s requesting. We’re negotiating a few things, but when the dust settles, we’ll have a deal.”

  The president replied, “Do you think we can trust China?”

  There was silence in the Situation Room as the president’s eyes canvased the men and women at the table. His question was rhetorical. No one knew the answer.

  Turning to McVeigh, the president asked, “Where do we stand militarily?”

  McVeigh answered, “The Eisenhower and Bush strike groups are on their way across the Pacific. However, positioning four strike groups in the Indian Ocean will telegraph our intention and we’ll lose the element of surprise. To cover our tracks, we’ll jam Russian and Indian satellites, and those of any other country that might be inclined to pass intel to Russia.”

  “Won’t jamming the satellites alert Russia that we’re up to something?”

  “Jamming isn’t the best term,” McVeigh replied. “We have the ability to upload modified satellite images, like a closed-circuit camera being fed prerecorded tape. It’ll look like the two carrier strike groups leaving the West Coast are headed to China, to replace the two we’ve sent into the Indian Ocean.”

  “Got it,” the president said.

  “Although we’re moving naval assets into position,” McVeigh said, “we’re having difficulty with Air Force units. Every country in the region except Afghanistan is refusing to let us base military assets in their territory, fearing Russia will blow their pipelines in retaliation. That means we can’t get tactical missile batteries close enough to the Gulf of Oman, and Afghanistan is too far away for significant tactical air support. The best we can do is provide air support using long-range strategic assets, which will play a role at the beginning of the conflict but quickly lose relevance once the battle begins. Given those constraints, however, we’ve developed a plan.

  “It’ll be a phased approach,” McVeigh said, “taking out the Russian air bases in Iran before attacking Russia’s surface combatants. We’ll then concentrate on the mobile land-based missile batteries once they engage and give away their positions, hoping they don’t do too much damage before we take them out. Once we begin the offensive above the water, we expect Russia will attack with their submarines, and their two-to-one advantage poses a significant challenge. The plan is to hold off the Russian submarine assault long enough to eliminate Russia’s surface combatants and missile batteries, which will allow the carrier strike groups to focus their efforts on the subsurface battle or vacate the area if things get out of hand.”

  “What about NATO naval assistance?” the president asked.

  McVeigh answered, “As Dawn explained, NATO countries are currently paralyzed, refusing to commit military assets to the conflict. It’s not much of a loss, though. Compared to our Navy, other NATO maritime assets are marginal.”

  “Thanks, Bob,” the president said. “Where do we stand on the pipeline sabotage? We can’t move forward in the Persian Gulf unless we’ve disarmed the explosives.”

  McVeigh turned to CIA Director Jessica Cherry.

  “I have mostly good news,” Cherry said. “We’ve extracted the Russian who designed the detonators, and there is indeed a code that will disarm them. He’s agreed to give us the code, but on one condition.”

  Cherry went on to explain what happened to the Russian’s daughter and the deal they had made. “Unfortunately, this is going to be a difficult operation for two reasons. The first is the target itself.” She paused, as if to heighten the tension, then explained. “The man who supposedly murdered our friend’s daughter is Russian Defense Minister Boris Chernov.”

  Christine sucked in a sharp breath. Chernov had wandering eyes, but she had never suspected anything sinister. “You’re sure?” she asked.

  “We’re not,” Cherry replied. “But our Russian friend believes it and that’s what matters. We kill Chernov and we get the code. However, there’s another complication. We need to establish a video link between the killer and our Russian friend just before Chernov is axed, so our friend can watch him die and Chernov can see his face before he takes his last breath. That means we can’t kill him from afar, with a sniper, for example, by wiring his car with explosives, or by destroying his house with a missile. It has to be an up-close-and-personal affair.

  “This wouldn’t be difficult if the target was an ordinary citizen, but we’re talking about a high-ranking government official, who happens to be well guarded due to two attempts on his life, courtesy of our Russian scientist.” Cherry let everyone absorb the challenges they were facing, then continued, “We’re working on a plan, leveraging Chernov’s reputation as a ladies’ man, hoping to get him alone with the right beautiful woman. We’ve already selected the agent.” Cherry opened a folder in front of her and passed out several copies of a portfolio.

  “Elena Krayev,” she said. “An ethnic Russian working at the U.S. embassy in Moscow as a translator. She’s also a highly trained field agent, who runs errands for us on occasion.”

  Christine received a copy of Elena’s portfolio and turned to the first page, containing a head shot and full-body picture. She was stunningly beautiful.

  “The last element of the plan we’re working on is how they meet. It needs to be innocuous, in a way that doesn’t raise Chernov’s suspicion, nor that of his security detail. We’re thinking about some sort of official government reception in the evening, because he rarely leaves without a beautiful woman on his arm. Unfortunately, Russia’s invasion of Lithuania and war with Ukraine have put a damper on these types of activities. I understand time is critical, but we’re currently at a loss on this aspect of the plan.”

  Christine suggested, “Kalinin’s continental security summit. Would that work?”

  Cherry pondered Christine’s suggestion, then replied, “Yes, that would work. Elena can be assigned as a translator for the American representatives.” Cherry looked to the president, who turned to Dawn.

  “Agree to the summit,” he ordered, “and get it scheduled ASAP. Try to get as many NATO countries as possible to attend, but time is critical, so give them a twenty-four-hour deadline to decide, then move forward with whoever has agreed. While you’re at it, let the Alliance leaders know we don’t intend to capitulate to Kalinin’s demands; we’re working on something. But don’t mention Elena. We can’t afford to let our plan leak out.”

  Turning to Christine, he said, “You’re familiar with the players and have experience negotiating with the Russians. Accompany Dawn to Moscow for the meeting, and you can introduce Elena to Chernov.”

  After Dawn and Christine acknowledged the president’s order, McVeigh said, “Mr. President, it’s going to take time to get our naval assets into position. With your permission, we’ll begin uploading fake images into the appropriate satellites.”

  The president gave his concurrence, and after reflecting for a moment on the day’s briefing, he said to McVeigh, “I want … a plan B.”

  “Plan B?” McVeigh said.

  The president spent the next few minutes explaining his idea while McVeigh took notes. When the president finished, he asked, “Can we do this?”

  “Yes, Mr. President, it’s doable. We’ll have to begin mobilizing assets and redeploying others, but I don’t foresee any obstacles.”

  “Good,” the president said. “Get started.”

  51

  USS HARRY S. TRUMAN

  In the southern Arabian Sea, just west of the Maldives, USS Harry S. Truman headed into the wind as an F/A-18E Super Hornet moved forward on the Flight Deck, locking into the starboard bow catapult. Seated in his chair on the Bridge, Captain David Randle watched as the jet blast
deflector behind the fighter tilted up, shielding the F/A-18F behind from the aircraft’s twin-engine exhaust. A moment later, the Super Hornet raced forward, angling up and to the right after clearing the bow, headed out to relieve one of the fighters in Truman’s combat air patrol.

  The next Super Hornet also launched successfully, completing this launch cycle. In another thirty minutes, the returning fighters would land aboard Truman. In the meantime, Randle’s eyes scanned the video screens mounted below the Bridge windows. The Reagan strike group was a hundred miles to the west, with both strike groups staying a safe distance from the Russian Northern and Pacific Fleets camped out at the mouth of the Persian Gulf. However, if events unfolded as expected, it wouldn’t be long before Truman headed northwest, with Reagan and two new strike groups alongside. The Eisenhower and Bush strike groups were fresh out of maintenance periods, as were their air wings, but that wasn’t the case for Truman.

  USS Harry S. Truman had been at sea for eight months, and the grind was beginning to wear on personnel and equipment. Aircraft carriers had tremendous repair departments, well stocked with spares and well-trained technicians, and Truman was no exception. However, the higher than normal flight tempo had taken its toll and the failures requiring depot-level repair were mounting. With combat looming on the horizon, Randle had been pushing hard to ensure every aircraft aboard was fully operational.

  The ship’s Communicator approached, handing Randle the message board. He read the OPORD, then reflected on his new operational orders. The basic battle plan had been laid out, although the start time was TBD. There was still time to prepare, and his repair department needed to fix all inoperable aircraft, while Randle crossed his fingers and hoped no more broke in the meantime.

  * * *

  Five miles east of Truman, Lieutenant Commander Bill Houston aimed his single-seat Super Hornet toward the moving gray postage stamp in the Indian Ocean. It’d been a long five hours on combat air patrol and he was approaching bingo fuel. He was glad to be heading back to the floating bird farm, his home on the water for the last eight months. Real home, with his wife and three kids, would have to wait. Houston’s eyes went to a small, worn photo of his family wedged against the rim of his instrumentation panel. He had his arm around Nell, with the kids in front, his hand on John’s shoulder while Nell pulled Kate and Jackson close.