The President is Missing: A Matt Blake Novel (Matt Blake Series Book 3)

by Russell Moran

  FLOTUS is a strange word if you think about it. The word makes me think about garbage floating on the water. Sorry, I know that’s gross, but I can’t control my hidden thoughts.

  FLOTUS, of course, is an acronym for First Lady of the United States. That’s who I am. I take back what I said about the garbage.

  My Secret Service code name is “Tweetie.” I guess I got the name because I’m a big Twitter user. The code name is assigned by the White House Communications Agency, not the Secret Service as many people believe. The code names were once secret, but no more. They’re now chosen for brevity, clarity, and tradition. The first letter is always the same for the President and the First Lady. My husband’s codename is “Tango.” They named him that because he’s a good dancer. I guess if he made people laugh all the time they would have called him “Pisser.” Matt’s also known as POTUS for President of the United States.

  So here I am with a PhD from the University of Chicago, eight books published, plus countless articles and papers, and I’m known as Tweetie the FLOTUS.

  My real name is Diana Blake, or Dee as those close to me say, and I’m married to Matthew Blake, the President of the United States, the man I love, the man who went missing an hour ago.

  As we waited for Admiral Spratt I kept trying to keep myself from passing out. The most important person in my life is missing, possibly dead, and here I am in yet another fucking meeting.

  Spratt walked in and took his seat at the conference table. At one end of the table was a large video screen.

  “You may find this upsetting, Dee,” Ashley said. “It shows the debris field near the last known location of the Louisiana.”

  I grabbed the leg of the table to stop my hand from shaking. If I had a stronger grip I think I would have splintered the thing.

  The video was more than upsetting. It was confusing. Splayed across the screen were countless white objects with printing on them. There must have been a hundred or more.

  Distrust the evidence—always distrust the evidence.

  “What are those objects?” I asked.

  “Flotation devices of various types, including life rings and standard flotation vests,” Admiral Spratt said.

  “Can you zoom in on a couple of them?” I asked.

  The camera panned in on one flotation device after another. All of them bore the inscription USS Louisiana.

  “I have some questions,” I said.

  The admiral didn’t know that I already had the answers. I’m an obsessive compulsive when it comes to research, and I always found submarines fascinating – a vessel surrounded by a sheet of metal deep under water. To add to its mystery, a submarine is referred to as a “boat,” never a ship. When Matt planned his underwater address to the nation, I plunged into everything there was to read about submarines, and I thoroughly briefed Matt before his trip. But I wanted to hear what the admiral had to say.

  “Well, ma’am,” Spratt said, “we won’t know conclusively until we recover the data recorder, but the sailing plan called for the sub to be in 1,000 feet of water at the time.”

  “But if the implosion was the result of water pressure, it would have been much deeper, yes?” I said. “Since we get reports steadily from the data recorder, wouldn’t it have alerted us to something out of the ordinary?”

  “Yes, ma’am, we should have been alerted.”

  “And what is the maximum depth a sub can go before it’s crushed?”

  “Anything over about 2,400 feet would result in crushing water pressure,” Spratt said.

  “Can you describe for me what happens when a submarine is crushed, admiral?”

  I already knew the ugly answer, but I wanted to hear it from Spratt.

  “First, the hull is crushed, then all of the interior bulkheads are pushed inward. Think of an aluminum can run over by a steam roller.”

  “Another question, Admiral,” I said. “Where are life preservers and other flotation devices stowed on the sub? Are they in lockers or lying around the walkways?”

  “The vast majority of life preservers would have been in lockers, ma’am. They would be broken out for distribution on orders from the officer of the deck in response to an emergency”

  “One more question,” I said, “and then I have some observations. Can you tell me how long it was between the explosion and the appearance of debris on the surface?”

  “As best as we can tell, ma’am, it was five minutes until the first pieces of debris appeared.”

  It was time for me to brief the admiral on the ways of evidence.

  “When I worked on legal cases with my husband, he always told me to completely examine the evidence, and then don’t trust the evidence. I don’t know about you two, but I do not trust the evidence we’re looking at. From what Admiral Spratt just said, a sub gets crushed when the water pressure collapses its hull. So please answer this question for me: How the hell can all of those hundreds of life preservers have made their way out from behind twisted metal and bubble to the surface in five minutes?”

  “What’s your thinking, Dee?” Ashley asked.

  “My thinking is that the evidence we’re looking at is pure bullshit. I’m going to make a naked assertion and say that this evidence was planted. It was manufactured. The debris didn’t come from the Louisiana, but from some other source.”

  “But what would have happened to the Louisiana?” Spratt asked.

  “I think it was hijacked—stolen,” I said. “It was either a mutiny or a hijacking. I believe that the Louisiana still exists, but God knows where. POTUS is alive I’m telling you. Matt is now a hostage.”

  I realized that I had just crossed a line. I went from being respected First Lady to hysterical wife in a few moments. “Distrust the evidence,” Matt always said. That’s what I’m doing.

  “Dee Blake is one of the smartest people I’ve ever met,” Ashley said. “What she pointed out here this morning has got me thinking. I can’t find anything implausible about what she’s said. I agree that the debris came to the surface awfully fast. How about you, Pete?”

  “The idea of an American nuclear sub being stolen is a bit far-fetched by my thinking,” Spratt said, “but the First Lady’s observations about the depth and the debris field are right on. Mrs. Blake has a reputation for thinking outside the box, and we just saw it on display. Admiral Patterson, I recommend that we investigate the possibility that the Louisiana was hijacked with a fake explosion in the background.”

  “I just got a text from Vice-president Roland Benton,” I said. “He’s going to be sworn in as acting president under the 25th Amendment this afternoon and wants me to be there. Rolly is a good guy. As you know, he’s a retired Navy admiral, and once commanded SEAL Team Six. Rolly gets it. I want to talk to him about what we discussed this morning.”

  My screaming stomach was feeling better. I don’t think my theory of a hijacking is the ranting of a hysterical wife. After looking at those bullshit photos of “debris,” I think it just may be the truth.

  Chapter 4

  “I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States, and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States.”

  Vice-President Roland (Rolly) Benton stood before Chief Justice John Roberts as he recited the oath of office. The swearing in ceremony of the President of the United States is normally one of gigantic crowds and as much pomp and circumstance as our nation can muster. A small army of people are assigned to the event to help with the spectacle. But, as is always the case with the death of a president (I hate to even think those words), this ceremony was small and brief. Think about the photo of Lyndon Johnson standing next to Jackie Kennedy on Air Force One taking the oath of office after President Kennedy was assassinated.

  The swearing in of Roland Benton took place in the Oval Office with only 25 people present. Because of the circumstances, his oath was not followed by thunderous applause and cheers, only p
olite clapping. The atmosphere of the room can only be described as uncomfortable. I think people felt uptight because I was there. Tough shit, I thought. Nobody’s more uncomfortable than me.

  “My fellow Americans. I have just taken the oath of office as acting President of the United States. Until we receive definitive proof, we’re operating under the assumption that President Blake is alive, and will address ourselves to that question with everything in our power. Our nation has received a shock to its very soul. May God bless America.”

  Rolly Benton is a good man. Matt couldn’t have picked a better running mate. He and Rolly are also good friends. In the three short months of Matt’s administration, I noticed that Rolly was the perfect team player. At age 58, he’s an excellent public speaker, although nowhere close to Matt. He’s a good-looking guy, 5’11’, with light sandy colored blond hair and brown eyes. As a retired admiral and former commander of Navy SEAL Team Six, Rolly has a reputation as a man who gets things done, without any bullshit. His wife passed away from cancer two years ago, so the White House will be without a First Lady. After his swearing-in ceremony and his brief address, he asked me to join him for a private chat.

  “In my career, Dee, I’ve been in many painful situations, but this one tops them all. You and Matt had, I mean have, a relationship like a page out of literature. Before we get into substantive issues, I want to ask you a stupid question. How are you bearing up under all this?”

  “Mr. President…”

  “The name’s Rolly.”

  “Sorry, Rolly. If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a preliminary question. Am I behaving like a crazy bitch? Am I acting like the hysterical wife who may be a widow but doesn’t want to accept it?”

  “No, you’re not, Dee. You’re behaving like the woman we’ve all grown to like and trust. You’re one of the smartest and emotionally solid people I’ve ever known. The way I size it up, your brain is in full control of your emotions. So let me repeat my question, how are you bearing up?”

  “It isn’t easy, Rolly. As you know, Matt and I had—have—a relationship that I think is rare. The thought that he may be dead is gripping me like a python. But, I don’t think he’s dead. Have you been briefed by Admiral Patterson on my theory that the Louisiana may have been hijacked?”

  “Yes, she briefed me completely before you got here, Dee. My initial response was that you were just grabbing at straws, but when I listened to the details, I thought you may be on to something. I also got an intelligence briefing this morning that you may find interesting.”

  He shoved a document across the desk.

  “Read it aloud, Dee.”

  TOP SECRET - FOR THE PRESIDENT’S EYES ONLY

  “Underwater listening devices in the South Atlantic have picked up a faint signal from a large underwater craft. The sound signature confirms that it could be an Ohio Class nuclear submarine. It is travelling slowly north northeast with its engines rigged for silence.”

  Oh, my God. I just saw confirmation that I may not be indulging in hysterics. My theory just may be on target.

  “Dee, I’ve just shared with you the most Top Secret information in the country right now. I’ve shared this with you not just out of sympathy, but because I trust your thoughts and instincts.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President…Rolly, whatever. I have no idea what to do next, but I’m sure there’s protocol for this. Who do I talk to about relocating? I hope it will only be temporary, but obviously I can’t stay here. Whoever is in charge of situations like this, please have him or her contact me on my cell phone. The last thing in the world that I want to do is get in your way of running the country. I’ve got to start packing my things.” It occurred to me that I was babbling like a lunatic.

  “Dee, I’m still located at the vice-president’s quarters. Don’t be in a big rush to do anything. You still live here as far as I’m concerned. I’ve communicated with your assistant, Barbara, and she’s staying in her room near yours. Please see me here at 8 a.m. tomorrow for breakfast. There’s a lot I want to talk to you about.”

  I showed up at the Oval Office at 8 a.m. I’m an early riser so the time was no problem with me. We sat in the small dining room nearby, and I tried to think of a meal that wouldn’t upset my already screaming stomach. When the waiter came to us I ordered an English muffin without butter, despite the wonderful menu he handed to me.

  “Chef Franco makes great omelets,” Rolly said. “Is that all you want?”

  “You don’t want a half-eaten omelet on this beautiful carpet,” I said. “An English muffin will do.”

  “Dee, let me get right to the point. I want you to take on an official position, not just honored former First Lady. Dee, I want you to be my Chief of Staff.”

  Holy shit. First, yesterday’s intelligence briefing, and now he asks me to take one of the most important positions in his administration. Was he just being polite? That’s not like Rolly. He thinks things through and he thinks fast. I was glad I skipped the omelet.

  “But how can I be your Chief of Staff?”

  “Simple. Just say yes. I’m not asking you to take on a ceremonial title. I’m asking you to be on the inside. Everybody with a connection to the West Wing knew that you and Tony Riordan, Matt’s chief of staff, shared the responsibility of serving your president, your husband. It’s no secret that Matt wanted you to be Secretary of State. He wanted you to take that job for the same reason I’m asking you to take this one. Dee, you’re enormously talented with a mind that never quits. Your primary job is to head up the Louisiana investigation. I’ve appointed Phil Smith as deputy chief of staff. He can take on most of the routine day-to-day details. Nobody could be a better Chief of Staff than you. I’m not saying that to blow smoke, I’m saying that because I’ve seen you in action, and I want you on my team. Your job is to put me out of my job, and find the President of the United States. Dee, your job is to find your husband.”

  Events have never moved faster in my life. Just hours ago Matt went missing, and now I’m being asked to take on one of the biggest jobs in Washington. The way Rolly put it—my primary job is to find Matt—made it hard to say no.

  “I accept, Mr. President—Rolly. The way you said it makes it impossible to turn the job down. But keep in mind, sir, that I will work for you. I expect you to fire me if you suspect I have another agenda.”

  “I’m not worried about that, Dee. We have the same agenda. Sure, I feel tremendously honored to be President of the United States, but I only want this job if it really belongs to me. And I have strong suspicions that it doesn’t. I think of myself as a caretaker, a place holder until we find Matt. You may be interested to know that I will be sleeping in the Lincoln guest bedroom. I refuse to completely move into the President’s quarters.”

  The position of Chief of Staff to the president is the highest ranking job in the White House, next to president and vice-president. The position is a modern successor to the earlier job entitled the president’s private secretary. The role was formalized as assistant to the president in 1946 in the Truman Administration, and acquired its current name when Kennedy was in office in 1961. The idea of Chief of Staff seems to have taken off in all walks of life. Now, you can find a chief of staff in a Rotary Club, Kiwanis, or a local chamber of commerce. The Chief of Staff to the President of the United States, however, is a powerful one. The Chief of Staff is appointed by and serves at the pleasure of the president. It does not require senate confirmation. I didn’t say it, of course, but Rolly has made a wise choice. I’ve yet to meet anybody who can kick ass as well as me.

  “Dee, your theory that the Louisiana may have been hijacked is brilliant. Admiral Spratt and his staff had some doubts within minutes of the Louisiana’s disappearance. That yard-sale debris field is absolute bullshit, as you put it. No way could all of those flotation devices surface within five minutes of a sub being crushed under water. When Admiral Spratt and CNO Patterson heard it from you, that nailed it for them. And of course there is the
unexplained sudden shift in course and acceleration of the Louisiana just before the explosion.”

  “Any suspicions so far, Mr. President? I’m sorry, but I have a hard time calling you Rolly.”

  “Yes, we have some strong suspicions, but we have no idea about future intentions. We think it was the Russians. Besides the fact that they’re the only ones with the ability to pull something like this off, we also have to take notice of the new regime in Russia. As you’ve no doubt heard, Boris Chernekov has deposed Vladimir Putin, and has taken the Russian presidency by coup. Chernekov is old school KGB—extremely old school. He makes Putin look like a school crossing guard. Chernekov has made it clear in countless speeches that he wants to restore the old Soviet Union and he’s willing to do it by force if necessary. He’s a fucking lunatic, if you pardon my language, but a smart one. His whole career is one of taking risks, sometimes crazy risks. You may recall that he tried to convince Putin to replace the Hungarian Prime Minister with one of Russia’s choosing. Now that he’s president, there’s little to stop him. And what could be riskier than to steal an American nuclear submarine and kidnap the President of the United States?”

  “What could their strategy be?” I asked, posing a question for Rolly as well as myself. “If they’re holding Matt as a prisoner, what is the bargain they’re looking for? A friggin’ hostage exchange? And what the hell are they going to do with one of our nukes? They have plenty of their own. A lot of this isn’t adding up. The big question is why Chernekov would pull some wild shit like this.”

  “That’s why I asked you to be my chief of staff, Dee. You ask the right questions.”

  Chapter 5

  It’s been two days since the Louisiana was hijacked and I became a hostage. Tony Riordan, my Chief of Staff , is in the stateroom next to me. We have no restrictions on speaking to one another, but we’re careful what we say. Both Tony and I have checked every square inch of our living quarters and we couldn’t find any bugs. We both like to be overly cautious.