Blackmail

by Rick Campbell

  As he returned his eyes to his instrumentation, he caught the reflection of a Japanese Imperial Navy ensign—the Rising Sun flag—in the canopy. Bill Houston, half Japanese and half English Channel mix, had been awarded the call sign Samurai by his fellow pilots in flight school. The top of every pilot’s helmet had to be covered in reflective paint or tape in case they ejected into the ocean and required retrieval, and with a call sign of Samurai, Houston had decorated his helmet with the red sun near the front, and red and white stripes radiating over the top.

  As Houston closed on Truman, he heard Approach in his headset. “Bravo-one-five, Air Ops. Mode one landing.”

  Houston acknowledged and turned control of his aircraft over to Truman’s SPN-46 automatic carrier landing system, which would adjust engine speed and flaps to land the fighter at a designated point on the Flight Deck. He wasn’t a fan of delegating control of his aircraft to a computer, but orders were orders and Houston prepared for the hands-off landing.

  Not long after enabling the automated landing, Houston heard Bitching Betty in his headset—the female voice of the F/A-18 audio warning system, with its distinctive southern drawl—proclaiming a warning he’d heard only in the simulator.

  “Engine right! Engine right!”

  Houston’s Super Hornet slowed and yawed to the right, and a glance at his instrumentation revealed a flameout in his starboard engine. He went to afterburner on the port engine and half flaps, straightening his flight trajectory.

  Into his headset, he said, “Approach, bravo-one-five is single-engine at four miles.”

  Approach acknowledged, and while they passed word to the Flight Deck to prepare for an emergency landing, Houston noticed the engine fuel display ticking rapidly toward empty. He’d developed a fuel leak, which explained the reason for the starboard engine flameout.

  Houston disengaged the automated carrier landing system, taking manual control. After evaluating whether to ditch the aircraft into the ocean or risk a landing with one engine and a fuel leak, he decided.

  “Approach, bravo-one-five. I’m bringing it in.”

  * * *

  Captain Randle stood on the port side of the Bridge, looking aft. The damaged Super Hornet appeared in the distance, a small gray speck growing slowly larger, wobbling as it was buffeted by strong winds. Randle’s attention shifted from the jet to the Landing Signals Officer, standing on the Flight Deck. The LSO held a radio handset in one hand, advising the pilot on engine power and glide path. In his other hand, he held the pickle switch controlling the Optical Landing System, containing red wave-off and green cut lights, which directed the pilot to either abort the landing or make adjustments during his approach.

  The Super Hornet angled down toward the deck, its tailhook extended. The pilot’s control of his aircraft was impaired with the engine flameout, and if he landed late and his tailhook missed the arresting cables, he would have to bolter, pushing his remaining engine to full throttle to regain sufficient speed before he ran out of carrier deck. A bolter was always an exciting event, and with only one engine, a hazardous one.

  Randle watched the green cut lights flash periodically during the jet’s descent, sending last-second guidance to the pilot. He followed the Super Hornet in, its wings wobbling one last time before the wheels hit the Flight Deck. The jet’s tailhook snagged the number two arresting wire and the aircraft screeched to a halt. Randle let out a deep breath, relieved the pilot had landed safely. However, that was one more jet down, adding to the repair department’s workload.

  52

  USS MICHIGAN

  With his submarine at periscope depth, Wilson sat in the Captain’s chair in the darkness listening intently to the Conn speaker, which was broadcasting intercepts from the submarine’s Electronic Support Measures sensor. This evening’s trip to periscope depth had been uneventful, with the only required tasks being a radio broadcast download and a position fix for the inertial navigators. After the tense forays to the surface during the past week, in proximity to Russian combatants, tonight’s trip to periscope depth had been leisurely and stress free.

  The bleeps and buzzes emanating from the ESM speaker were a foreign language to the untrained, but Wilson’s experienced ear told him there were no surface combatants nearby. Confirming his assessment, the ESM Watch called out, “Conn, ESM. Hold no threat radars.”

  The Officer of the Deck acknowledged the report, and as Lieutenant Jayne Stucker rotated slowly on the periscope beside him, Wilson reflected on how the U.S. Submarine Force had changed in his almost forty years of service.

  Wilson was a mustang—a prior-enlisted officer, having joined the Navy fresh out of high school. After ten years as a nuclear electronics technician, he received his commission as an officer and worked his way up the ranks, eventually becoming Captain of the nuclear-powered fast attack submarine USS Buffalo. Following command, he was assigned as the senior instructor for newly assigned submarine commanding officers, overseeing their training during tense at-sea tactical engagements as they completed final preparations for command.

  When his instructor tour ended, Wilson accepted command of Michigan instead of a submarine squadron, choosing to end his career at sea instead of behind a desk. With commands of fast attack and guided missile submarines under his belt, along with several years training future commanding officers, Murray Wilson was the most experienced submarine commanding officer in the Fleet.

  Michigan tilted downward as Lieutenant Stucker ordered the submarine back to the safety of deep water, and the low-level lights flicked on. Wilson read Michigan’s latest OPORD, containing the details concerning his next mission. With transit through the Suez Canal on the surface deemed too risky under current conditions and Michigan’s Tomahawk missiles no longer needed in Ukraine at the moment, Navy leadership had identified an alternate use for the guided missile submarine. Michigan’s tactical systems were being called into service.

  Although Michigan was built as a ballistic missile submarine, it was a far different ship today from when it was launched three decades ago. With the implementation of the Strategic Offensive Reductions Treaty, the Navy reconfigured the four oldest Ohio class submarines as special warfare platforms. In addition to carrying Dry Deck Shelters with SEAL mini-subs inside, Michigan had been reconfigured with seven-pack Tomahawk launchers in twenty-two of the submarine’s twenty-four missile tubes.

  During the conversion from SSBN to SSGN, Michigan and her three sister ships received a slew of tactical system upgrades. The combat control consoles were now the most modern in the submarine fleet, as were Michigan’s new sonar, electronic surveillance, and radio suites. The torpedoes aboard Wilson’s submarine were also the newest in the U.S. Navy’s arsenal; Michigan was fully loaded with MK 48 Mod 7 torpedoes, the most advanced heavyweight torpedo in the world.

  Wilson approached the Quartermaster, seated at the navigation table. “Hand me the waterspace advisories.”

  Petty Officer Pat Leenstra handed the folder to Wilson, who perused the messages, which detailed the routes of all fast attack submarines transiting across the Atlantic Ocean, so the ballistic missile subs on patrol could stay out of the transit lanes. There were two fast attack submarines, one from Groton and one from Norfolk, fresh out of maintenance periods, late to the party and hightailing it across the Atlantic toward the Mediterranean.

  Wilson estimated they’d be a few hours behind, and Michigan would lead the way.

  53

  MOSCOW

  Darkness had enveloped the Russian capital by the time three black sedans pulled up to Hotel National, not far from the Kremlin. Christine O’Connor and Dawn Cabral, weary from the long flight from Washington, D.C., stepped from the center car while Diplomatic Security Service agents emerged from the other two vehicles. Christine was looking forward to a good night’s sleep; the Russian morning would come soon enough, followed by the first day of the continental security summit. Without much prodding, Russia had arranged a reception the first evening, w
here the summit participants could socialize while discussing less contentious topics. It was there that their translator, Elena Krayev, would attempt to snare Boris Chernov.

  While the bellhops collected their luggage, Christine and Dawn entered the hotel lobby, where they were met by Barry Graham, an aide to the U.S. ambassador to the Russian Federation. After introductions, he handed the two women their door cards, informing them their rooms were on the tenth floor. As Christine and Dawn prepared to call it a night, Graham informed them that their translator for the summit was on her way over and would arrive shortly.

  It wasn’t long before Elena Krayev entered the hotel lobby, wearing a form-fitting skirt and tailored blouse accentuating her figure, draping a garment bag over a shoulder while pulling a carry-on suitcase behind her. Elena was even more stunning in person than on paper. Heads turned, both male and female, following her as she walked through the lobby.

  Elena spotted Christine and Dawn and headed their way. Upon reaching the Americans, she greeted them with a firm, confident handshake. She was given a hotel room on the same floor as Dawn and Christine, purportedly in case the negotiations went later than expected, so she wouldn’t have to endure the long trek to her home on the outskirts of the city. In reality, she’d been given a hotel room nearby with the hope she could entice Chernov to her place instead of his tomorrow night. In case things didn’t go as planned and she needed assistance, a CIA extraction team was only a few doors down the hall. If they went to Chernov’s place, an emergency extraction would be much more complicated.

  The three women headed to the tenth floor, where they gathered in Christine’s room. Elena explained the one detail of her assignment pertinent to the other two women. One of them would introduce her to Chernov, and she would take it from there.

  After Elena left, Christine prepared for bed, donning a silk nightgown before slipping under the sheets. Although she was tired from the long trip, her body told her it was only midafternoon due to the jet lag. She tossed and turned for a while, her thoughts shifting frequently to Elena’s assignment to assassinate Chernov, before she eventually drifted off to sleep.

  * * *

  The morning arrived quicker than Christine had hoped. After a shower and a cup of strong coffee, brought to her by one of the Diplomatic Security Service agents, she was ready to begin the day. Elena was waiting in the hallway, wearing a business suit and leaning against the wall, a black attaché case in one hand. Christine knocked on Dawn’s door and she answered, and they headed to the lobby.

  After their car pulled to a halt in front of the Kremlin Senate, they were greeted by an aide to Foreign Minister Lavrov, who escorted them to a conference room on the third floor, one Christine knew well. The first two rounds of follow-on nuclear arms reduction talks had been held here. The thirty-seat conference table was already half-full, and Christine spotted the three seats reserved for them, with placards on the table in front of each chair.

  Foreign Minister Lavrov approached Christine and her two companions. “Miss O’Connor,” he said, “it is a pleasure to see you again. I’m glad you were able to join us.”

  “It’s good to see you again as well, Minister Lavrov.” Turning to Dawn and Elena, she introduced America’s secretary of state and their interpreter.

  Russia’s foreign minister engaged them in conversation, containing nothing of substance, until the meeting was called to order. Before Christine headed to her seat, she searched the conference room for Defense Minister Chernov. He was nowhere to be found.

  She turned to Lavrov. “Will Defense Minister Chernov attend the summit?”

  “He is disposed otherwise,” Lavrov replied.

  Christine’s stomach knotted. Their plan hinged on Elena meeting Chernov.

  “But he plans to join us tonight at the reception.”

  The tension eased from Christine’s body. Their plan was still on track.

  * * *

  The summit progressed slowly at first, then picked up speed once the participants settled on the objective for the meeting. Without full NATO participation, no agreement could be reached. However, it was decided that the summit would develop a framework for formal negotiations, and that plan suited both sides. The Russians were pleased because things were progressing toward a peaceful and favorable solution, and the United States and its NATO allies were satisfied since the plan stalled substantive discussions; the United States had no intention of negotiating away part of Lithuania or the eastern one-third of Ukraine. Although the participants were prepared to work through the weekend, it soon became clear that a suitable framework would be developed by the end of the day.

  54

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Seated at his desk in the Oval Office, the president hung up the phone, then turned sideways in his chair, looking across the south lawn as the early morning sun illuminated the rose garden’s red, pink, and white flowers. Deep in thought, he smoothed his blue tie against his white shirt, failing to notice that his tie, a gift from the first lady, matched the color of the drapes and the presidential seal on the rug.

  The president’s telephone discussion with CIA Director Cherry had been short and nondescript, the details of their conversation deliberately vague. The continental security summit in Moscow had wrapped up and the operation was on track. In a few hours, if everything went as planned, the detonator disarm code would be obtained and the president would give the order, placing thousands of men and women in the military in harm’s way. There would be a significant loss of life, SecDef McVeigh had explained: hundreds, if not thousands, of Americans dead. It was a decision the president did not take lightly, but one he had already made. The United States could not sit by and let Russia annex portions of two sovereign countries.

  The president pressed the intercom button on his phone, directing his executive assistant to get Prime Minister Susan Gates on the line. With the assistance of the British prime minister, the stalling tactics had worked, pushing off the votes on the resolutions authorizing the use of NATO force to expel Russia from Ukraine and Lithuania.

  “Mr. President.” The voice of his executive assistant emanated from the phone’s speaker. “I’ve got Prime Minister Gates on the line.”

  The president picked up the phone, and after thanking Sue for her assistance within NATO, he broached the sensitive subject, informing her that the United States would go it alone, attacking Russian forces within a few hours if things went as planned. Once the order was given and the attack imminent, the United States’ permanent representative to NATO would inform the remaining NATO countries of the U.S. military response.

  As the president prepared to conclude his conversation with Minister Gates, he considered revealing plan B, the second phase of the campaign. However, it was a delicate operation, its success dependent even more on secrecy. He decided to leave that part out.

  The president hung up, then checked his watch. Evening was approaching in Moscow, and with it, the reception where Elena Krayev would meet Boris Chernov, and the one obstacle standing between them and the detonator disarm code would be overcome.

  55

  MOSCOW

  It was 6 p.m. by the time the summit ended, and after a quick dinner in the hotel restaurant with Dawn and Elena, Christine returned to her room and changed into a formal dress for the evening’s reception. After touching up her makeup, she stepped from her room and knocked on Elena’s door. It was slightly ajar and Christine pushed it slowly open, calling Elena’s name. She was sitting on the edge of her bed, wearing an elegant, form-fitting Russian Federation–red evening gown with her hands folded in her lap, staring at the wall. She turned her head slowly when Christine opened the door, then stood without a word. After grabbing a small purse from her desk, she joined Christine in the hallway as Dawn emerged from her room.

  They descended to the lobby and headed to the hotel entrance, where a black limousine, situated between two sedans containing Diplomatic Security Service agents, was waiting to take the
three women to the Kremlin Senate. During the short drive, Elena was silent, staring out the side window at the buildings along Mokhovaya Street. As they approached the southwest corner of the Kremlin, her attention was drawn to the five-century-old Borovitskaya Tower, with its green decorative spire rising to a ruby-red five-pointed star, symbol of the Soviet Union. After passing through Borovitskaya Gate, their car pulled to a halt in front of the Kremlin Senate.

  They were escorted by a Kremlin aide to a ballroom on the third floor—the same one the Victory Day gala had been held in: a white marble–clad room with exquisite crystal chandeliers, their sparkling lights illuminating a glossy but crowded parquet floor. Waiters dressed in tuxedos made their way through the crowd, carrying silver platters filled with hors d’oeuvres and glasses of wine and champagne, offering the contents to the guests.

  Upon entering the ballroom, Elena transitioned from the quiet, reserved woman in the car to an outgoing, enchanting personality. Christine watched in fascination as Elena turned on the charm, gathering a small crowd around her. The intended victim of her charm—Defense Minister Chernov—was nowhere to be found, however.

  The three women engaged various diplomats, with Elena translating on occasion. Christine kept an eye out for Chernov, eventually spotting him enter the ballroom, stopping to chat with a representative from France. Elena also noticed Chernov’s entrance, and the two women broke from their conversation with several Italian and Russian diplomats.