“But, Bartholomew, won’t it compromise your position if you met personally with a high official. You will not have that wonderful thing called ‘deniability.’ If you’re asked a question, you’ll be expected to answer it. You can’t go back later and say your aide misspoke. But if you meet the official yourself, it will be you who’s doing the speaking.”
“Walter, whether I’m speaking, shouting, or jumping up and down, I believe we have the evidence to get the attention of Chernekov himself. As we’ve discussed, Walter, Boris Chernekov is a madman. The Cold War was never hot enough for him. He’s an unreformed communist, but his goals point more toward gathering power, no matter what the ideology. He has a few pet projects, one of which is to resurrect the old Soviet Union. He wants nothing more than to see Russia as the head of a vast empire. He actually believes that, under his leadership, people will happily go back to the days of the Soviet Union. Educating youth is one of Chernekov’s biggest goals. He sees the younger generations as the future of the new Soviet state. In his brief tenure in power he has formed hundreds of ‘youth brigades,’ bringing together children for mass indoctrination. It reminds me of the Hitler Youth. He prides himself on his almost religious dedication to protecting youth from corruption of any sort, sexual or otherwise. If you and I didn’t know better we could mistake him for a stodgy old preacher.”
“Of course our evidence shows otherwise, Bartholomew. We know that he’s a fraud, that he’s a child molester, a serial rapist of young boys, and we know how to expose him, including photographs.”
“Not only will we expose him, Walter. We have enough proof to bring down his government. Then we shall see who determines the destiny of the USS Louisiana and its famous crew member.”
Chapter 24
“Brace yourself, Ali, but I think that the source of the hijacking and kidnapping conspiracy may be a lot closer to America itself. One of my contacts thinks that the former American president, Bartholomew Martin, may be involved.”
“My God, Basim,” Behzadi said, “Bartholomew Martin, America’s first dictator. I was happy when the American voters turned him out of office in a landslide election. Just another reason for my fondness for America. Is this man still active?”
“As you know, Ali, Martin virtually disappeared from sight after the election. He didn’t call President Blake to concede the election, and he didn’t even appear at the inauguration in January. Bartholomew Martin now spends his time in Kurdistan at the compound of his new group. They call themselves The Reformers. My friend thinks that Martin may be involved in the submarine and kidnapping plot.”
“I’ve never seen the world so unstable,” Behzadi said, “and that is because of unstable leaders. Russia is now headed by Boris Chernekov, a tyrannical thug. We are led by Abad Tavana, a religious fanatic and tyrant. Now you tell me that the insane American, Bartholomew Martin, may be involved. And how do you think Iran may be a part of this? Our fearless leader, Tavana, is obsessed with punishing the Great Satan. I don’t know how, but I’m sure Iran will be part of this plot. Just how we would be involved is just speculation, but whoever planned the event won’t be content to let the submarine sit idle or to leave President Blake unscathed. I fear that we are just beginning to see the early parts of this strange plot. Bartholomew Martin is a man given to conniving and plotting. I’m sure that he sees our crazy leader as a man who can be manipulated by his own wild fantasies. I believe that Bartholomew Martin intends to use Iran for his own purposes, just as he used his own people when he was President of the United States.”
Chapter 25
Oh my God, I miss Matt. My theory about the submarine plot is now the theory of the United States Government—the Louisiana still exists and Matt’s alive. But that theory doesn’t replace his being next to me. And the theory doesn’t explain a lot of shit. We still have an enormous amount of unanswered questions, like what do they intend to do with Matt, and how are they treating him. And most important of all—how the hell are we going to free him?
“Agent Akhbar is here to see you, Mrs. Blake.”
Buster walked in. I’ve known him long enough to tell from the expression on his face that he had something important to say. His spook self would cringe at the idea that I can read him from his facial expression. Buster prides himself on anonymity. I pride myself on observation. He thinks his poker face throws everybody off. I can tell when he’s got nothing or a full house.
“So tell me, my brilliant spook, what is your current thinking?”
“My thinking, Dee,” Buster said, “and I’ve gone over this with Bill Carlini countless times, is that Bartholomew Martin is about to use Iran as his surrogate in declaring war on the United States. Martin would never be so stupid to think that his band of hoods could pull such a thing off by themselves. No, I’m convinced that he wants to use the Louisiana and President Blake to do what he can’t do alone.”
“Do you expect them to move the Louisiana—and Matt—to Iran?”
“That’s the inescapable conclusion, Dee. It lets Russia off the hook and brings the End of Days and Ayatollah Tavana’s prayed-for conflagration of the West closer. It make ultimate sense to have the Louisiana docked in Iran.”
“Any idea where in Iran they plan to make the move?” I asked.
“It could be any Iranian naval base,” Buster said, “but we’re concentrating on Bandar Abbas, the main facility of the Iranian Navy. The base is located on the Strait of Hormuz on the Persian Gulf. It can accommodate large ships which will be useful if they think a defensive battle is necessary. The surrounding area is flat and defensible.”
“Buster, I know this is just in the early stage, but give me an idea of how we plan to attack.”
“Yes, Dee, it is in the early stages, but here is our current thinking. Once we get a fix on the president’s location, we’ll send in a company of SEALs to secure his safety, and back that up with hundreds of aerial strikes launched from our carriers in the Gulf. We’ll infiltrate the Louisiana with some of our people who are trained in operating a submarine, because one of our objectives will be to secure and remove the sub. We’ll position surface ships and attack subs nearby to provide support. But our primary objective is to insure that President Blake is safely removed from danger. If necessary, once we have your husband in our safe custody, we’ll attack and sink the Louisiana by aerial bombardment and torpedoes. That’s only if we’re unable to capture it ourselves.”
“Buster, how do you feel about these plans? Frankly, they scare the living shit out of me.”
“I’ll be honest with you, Dee, which is the only way the two of us communicate. It scares me too. The SEALs are the best fighters on earth, but we’re talking about a very fluid operating theater. We’ll be vastly outnumbered, which is a familiar scenario for a SEAL operation. An open field battle is not in the SEAL vocabulary. But it won’t be an easy mission. The president is your husband, and he’s also my Commander in Chief. We’re all on the same page. Don’t worry, Dee, we’ll get POTUS the hell out of there.”
“I admire your fighting spirit, Buster, but I remind you that we don’t even know where ‘there’ is. Do we have any inside people on the Louisiana?”
“I remind myself that when I’m talking to you, Dee, I’m talking to the White House. So, as much as it horrifies me as a spook to say this, the answer to your question is ‘yes.’ We do have inside people, three to be exact, aboard the Louisiana.”
“And we freely communicate back and forth with these people?” I asked.
“Yes, Dee, I talk to a Marine Captain named Mike Conklin. He’s our agent in charge.”
So Buster has a plan, one that involves guns, rockets, and bombs. And in the middle of all that shit will be Matt—my Matt.
Chapter 26
I rigged a comfortable blindfold to shield me from the garish light bulb. It wasn’t tight, more like a bandana loosely draped over my forehead. I resumed my time-keeping routine of exercise, the Gettysburg Address, and meditation. Adju
sting from my time in total darkness, I estimated that I’d been in solitary for 10 days. My mind kept wandering to Dee, and I did nothing to stop it. Just like the woman herself, the thought of her calmed me. The thought that she thinks of herself as a widow did not calm me.
A gentle knock on the door grabbed my attention. It was not the full-frontal intrusion of General Zhukov with his jingling medals, a sound I’d learned to expect.
“Good morning, Mr. President,” Petty Officer Jackson said. He carried a tray of food.
“Looks like we have a new chef,” I said. Scrambled eggs, home fried potatoes, and ham, along with rye toast. Something has obviously changed, I thought.
“I was expecting to see my favorite conversationalist, General Zhukov,” I said.
“General Zhukov had an accident, sir. His body was found floating a few yards from the Louisiana this morning. He seems to have slipped and hit his head.”
“If you slip and bang your head, a splash of water in the face is usually enough to revive you. I’m surprised that it killed him, the poor man.”
“The right side of his skull was bashed in by a large blunt object,” sir.
“What a pity,” I said. “I’ll have to send my condolences to the family.”
I’ve thought of Petty Officer Jackson as a friend, sort of. Compared to the recently departed General Zhukov, a rattlesnake would look like a friend. This morning’s conversation nailed it. Could this sailor really be an ally, not a mutineer?
“Sir, your quarters are about to be moved. You’re going back to the Louisiana, along with Mr. Riordan, your Chief of Staff. I can’t say any more.”
Leaving this rat hole is one of the few pleasures I’ve allowed myself to contemplate. But why are we going back to the sub? I’d find out shortly.
Chapter 27
Three men entered my compartment and blindfolded me—not with my comfortable light-dousing blindfold, but a full head covering. Before wrapping my head, one of the men told me to gather my belongings. Didn’t take long—my toothbrush, toothpaste, and the can opener that I used to mark time.
As they escorted me up the brow to the sub I wondered why the hell a blindfold was necessary. Could someone be worried that I could identify the Louisiana?
Once aboard, they took me to my new quarters. One of the men removed my head covering. I immediately recognized the compartment as the same one that I occupied before.
“Please make yourself at home, sir,” said one of my handlers in perfect English. He gave me a mug of fresh brewed coffee.
“Is the prisoner secured?” came a shout from outside my room.
A tall fit man wearing Marine fatigues walked into my space. He was about six-feet, had close- cropped square haircut, blue eyes, and the martial bearing of a typical Marine.
“You are now my prisoner,” he said loudly as he seated himself. “You will speak when spoken to, and not before. Any interaction you have with a crewmember will be directly through me. Do I make myself understood?”
Great, I thought, a General Zhukov with a Midwestern accent.
“Yes, Captain, quite understood.”
He stood and checked the lock on the door. When he returned to his seat, he spoke softly.
“Buster sends his regards, Mr. President.”
I dropped the mug and spilled coffee all over the table.
“Are you saying that you communicate with Buster, aka Gamal Akhbar?”
“To get right to the point Mr. President, I’m a mole, Buster’s hand-picked insider. I’m on your side, sir.”
People know me as a man who’s quick with words. But I had no words. I sat and stared at Captain Conklin.
“Another thing, sir. The First Lady sends her love.”
Of all the crazy shit I’ve been through since the Louisiana was captured, I had my first feeling of hope. For Dee to send her love meant that she knew I was alive. Obviously Buster would have told her about my mole friend, Captain Conklin.
“Did Buster communicate the First Lady’s message, Captain?”
“No sir, she told me herself. President—acting President—Benton—has appointed your wife as his Chief of Staff. She told Buster, with the power of the White House behind her, that she wanted to give you a personal communication, and that she’d do it through me. Buster went crazy, of course. As a super spook he has a firm rule that only he should speak directly to a mole. But your wife didn’t ask—she told him. She’s one tough lady, Mr. President.”
“So people think I’m alive, and that the Louisiana was not sunk? My wife doesn’t think she’s a widow?”
“Sir, it’s an open secret in the States that the sinking of the Louisiana was an elaborate ploy. Your wife is a hell of an expert on submarines. She saw through the plot from the beginning. Buster said that she kept telling everybody, ‘don’t trust the evidence,’ a rule she learned from you. After the phony explosion, another sub released hundreds of pieces of ‘debris’ to convince the world that the Louisiana had blown up. It didn’t convince your wife. As Buster told me, she referred to the debris field as a ‘bullshit yard sale.’ ”
That’s Dee. I could almost hear her saying the words.
“What are the plans, Captain? What’s next?” I asked.
“Sir, I’m one part of a big machine. I know what I know, and as you understand from CIA policy, ‘need to know’ is the doctrine that rules the day. It’s the time honored way of keeping a secret just that, a secret. Of course, as President of the United States, your need to know surpasses everybody else’s. I tell you in all honesty, sir, that I have no idea what the immediate plans are for the Louisiana and yourself. I have a hunch that our government doesn’t know either. I’m in communication with Washington, but we don’t have much to communicate right now. Mr. President, you know our government better than I do, so I think we both know that plans are in the making to launch a rescue operation and get you the hell out of here. I must be going, sir. You and I can meet for only short periods of time. Keeping my identity secret is the key to all future operations. When I speak to you publicly I will occasionally use harsh words to emphasize that you’re my prisoner. But make no mistake, sir, you are my Commander in Chief, and I’m part of a team that intends to reinstall you in the Oval Office.”
There was a knock on the door.
“There’s someone here to see you,” Conklin said.
Tony Riordan walked into my room. I hadn’t heard anything about him for weeks. For all I knew he could have been dead.
We threw protocol aside and hugged.
“You look a hell of a lot thinner than the last time I saw you, Tony. Been watching your weight?”
“Yes, sir, I’ve been watching it disappear. You look quite slim yourself, sir. Cold beets and potatoes does wonders for one’s waistline.”
I brought my index finger to my lips to indicate ‘silence.’ Tony and I then checked for bugs. In spite of my conversation with Captain Conklin, I’ve learned to be paranoid in the past few weeks.
“No doubt about it, Tony, the General Zhukov diet seems to work,” I said.
“Have you seen that sadistic bastard recently, Mr. President?”
“I guess you haven’t heard. Zhukov has been whacked and tossed into the water. I’m afraid we missed the memorial service. Please remind me to send flowers to the family.”
“I haven’t heard anything about that, Mr. President. All I know is that we’re back on the Louisiana. With Zhukov dead, I guess that changes things.”
“Yes, a lot of things have changed,” I said. “Let me bring you up to speed. We’re still prisoners, but we have friends on the inside—deep inside. What I’m about to tell you are things that we have to whisper about.”
“Holy shit. We’re no longer alone?” Tony said.
“Not even close to being alone. Have you met Mike Conklin, the Marine Captain?”
“He’s the guy who showed me into your room. We didn’t meet, but I saw his name and rank on his uniform.”
“W
ell, Conklin is the most important man in our lives right now. He’s an inside mole, hand- picked by none other than Buster the spook.”
“When do I get to meet Conklin, Mr. President?”
“He’s a typical spy, Tony. He only comes out of the shadows when he thinks it’s necessary. Don’t approach him. He’ll contact you at the appropriate time, and he’s the guy who decides when it’s appropriate.”
“Has Captain Conklin been in touch with you, Dee?” President Benson asked.
“Yes sir. He called me this morning,” I said. “I spoke to Buster in detail about Conklin, and I’m convinced that we’re dealing with a real professional spy. If Buster thinks the guy’s good, he’s definitely good. From everything Buster told me, and from my conversation with Mike Conklin this morning, I think we’re dealing with the right guy. One thing bothers me though. Conklin said he has no idea where the Louisiana will be headed and no idea of its course.”
“Can’t Conklin monitor the sub’s position and keep us updated?” President Benton asked.
“I wish it were that simple, Mr. President. According to Conklin, all navigational tracking has been disabled and information on the sub’s position and course is limited to a select few people. Conklin isn’t one of them.”
“Then we’ll establish a sonar track of the Louisiana as soon as Conklin tells us it left Balaklava. Once we get a track on her we won’t let go.”
“Once again we have a problem, Mr. President,” I said. “Conklin told me that they’re going to rig the sub to run deep and run silent. As you and I know, the Louisiana is one of the stealthiest submarines in the world. It will be difficult to track even with another one of our subs.”
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