Blackmail

by Rick Campbell

  In the meantime, he would order his submarine deeper and faster. “Watch Officer. Increase depth to two hundred meters. Ahead full. Set Ultra-Quiet mode.”

  Captain Lieutenant Dolinski acknowledged and gave the requisite orders. Vilyuchinsk tilted downward, increasing speed. It was time to decide on a course. With American strike groups to the west and south, that left east or north. Heading farther east offered the possibility that any pursuing American submarine would reach the edge of its operating area. The area could be adjusted, of course, but that would take time and a trip to periscope depth to send the request and receive the authorization.

  To the east it was.

  “Watch Officer. Come to course zero-nine-zero.”

  Dolinski acknowledged and relayed the order to the Steersman.

  As his submarine turned east and settled out at two hundred meters, Pavlov reviewed what his crew had done. A plan had been put in motion, and he hoped it wouldn’t be long before he understood its goal and the part Vilyuchinsk would play in the future. Assuming, of course, Vilyuchinsk slipped away from the Americans.

  Pavlov listened as the Watch Officer ordered, “Hydroacoustic, Command Post. Report all contacts.”

  USS THEODORE ROOSEVELT

  Captain Dolores Gonzalez monitored the damage reports streaming into Damage Control Central. The fires amidships, initially spreading out from the Hangar Deck, had been contained, but casualties in the Island superstructure were high, with the ship’s Captain wounded. To what extent Dolores didn’t know, until Captain Rich Tilghman arrived in CDC, his arm in a sling and his face covered in soot. Dolores saw the rage on his face, even though it was covered in grime and tinted blue from the CDC displays. Tilghman’s first order had been to hunt down whatever had launched the missiles.

  Gonzalez had vectored two Super Hornets to the east for a visual, just in case there was a surface contact they weren’t detecting for some reason, but the report was negative. The TAO was conferring with the SUBOPAUTH—the Submarine Operating Authority—aboard Roosevelt. There were two fast attack submarines assigned to the Roosevelt strike group, USS California to the west and USS Mississippi to the east. The missile launch datum placed the location of the enemy submarine inside Mississippi’s assigned waterspace, which meant the carrier strike group was Weapons Tight; they could not attack a submerged contact in that operating area for fear of sinking their own submarine. Hunting down the enemy submarine would instead be Mississippi’s responsibility.

  The TAO announced, “Request a bell-ringer for Mississippi. I have a flash outgoing message.”

  2

  USS MISSISSIPPI

  Twenty miles from the Roosevelt strike group, USS Mississippi was already headed east at ahead full. Moments earlier, they had detected missile launch transients bearing zero-eight-two, and were proceeding to investigate. The submarine’s Commanding Officer, Commander Brad Waller, was seated in the Captain’s chair in front of the navigation table, assessing the tactical situation while his crew manned Battle Stations. The launch transient was faint, which meant it was distant, but exactly how far was unknown. The only datum they had was the bearing. They needed more information, which meant they would proceed to periscope depth when Battle Stations were manned.

  The submarine’s Officer of the Deck, Lieutenant George Skeens, sat at the tactical workstation near the front of the Control Room, shifting his attention between the left monitor, selected to the narrowband sonar display, and the right screen, showing the geographic display. The Navy’s Common Operational Picture reported the positions of the Roosevelt strike group to the west, although their locations were several hours old. There were no contacts to the east, in the direction of the launch transient. But there was definitely something there. Perhaps a contact would appear when their Common Operational Picture was updated during their next trip to periscope depth.

  Seated in front of Lieutenant Skeens, the Co-Pilot reported, “Officer of the Deck, Battle Stations are manned.”

  Skeens acknowledged and passed the report to Commander Waller, who announced, “This is the Captain. I have the Conn. Lieutenant Skeens retains the Deck,” which meant Waller would manage the tactical situation and control the submarine’s movements, while Lieutenant Skeens would monitor the navigation picture and handle routine ship evolutions.

  “Pilot. Ahead two-thirds,” Waller ordered. “Make your depth two hundred feet. All stations, make preparations to proceed to periscope depth.”

  Mississippi tilted upward, leveling off at two hundred feet while the sonar technicians scoured the surrounding water for surfaced and submerged contacts. Skeens was cycling through the various sonar displays on the left screen of his workstation when the Sonar Supervisor, standing only a few feet away behind the Broadband Operator, spoke into his headset.

  “Conn, Sonar. Receiving a bell-ringer.”

  Waller acknowledged the report. The small explosive charges dropped into the water nearby directed Mississippi to establish communications with the Roosevelt carrier strike group. Since they were already preparing for a trip to periscope depth, there was nothing else to do.

  After giving the sonar technicians a few minutes to complete their search, Waller ordered, “Sonar, Conn. Report all contacts.”

  “Conn, Sonar,” the Sonar Supervisor replied. “Hold no contacts.”

  “Pilot, come to course one-eight-zero.” Waller ordered a turn in case there were contacts hidden in the submarine’s baffles behind them.

  The Pilot tapped the ordered course on the Ship Control Station display, and Mississippi’s computer adjusted the rudder to the optimal angle, turning the submarine to starboard. After steadying on the new course and waiting a few minutes for the towed array to stabilize, Waller ordered, “Sonar, Conn. Report all contacts.”

  The Sonar Supervisor again reported no contacts, which wasn’t surprising this far off China’s coast and far from the shipping lanes. However, it also meant they hadn’t closed the gap on their adversary.

  Waller ordered, “Co-Pilot, raise Number Two Photonics Mast. Pilot, ahead one-third. Make your depth six-two feet.”

  Mississippi tilted upward, beginning its ascent.

  The fast attack submarine leveled off with the top of its sail four feet below the ocean surface, and the receiver mounted atop the photonics mast downloaded the latest round of naval messages and tactical updates. Waller watched the geographic display on the Officer of the Deck’s workstation update with the current positions of the Roosevelt strike group, accompanied by a white, scalloped symbol ten miles east of Mississippi. The launch datum.

  As Waller studied the geographic display, the Quartermaster reported a GPS navigation fix had been received, then Radio followed.

  “Conn, Radio. In receipt of a flash message.”

  Waller replied, “Radio, Conn. Bring the message to Control.”

  A radioman arrived a moment later, message clipboard in hand. Waller read the directive. A missile salvo had been fired at USS Roosevelt, with two missiles making it through, damaging the aircraft carrier and terminating flight operations. Mississippi had been directed to track down and sink whatever launched the missiles. They were Weapons Free.

  Waller handed the clipboard back to the radioman, then ordered, “Pilot, make your depth four hundred feet, increase speed to ahead full.” Turning to the Quartermaster, he said, “Report bearing to launch datum.”

  “Bearing zero-nine-three,” the Quartermaster announced.

  “Pilot, come to course zero-nine-three.”

  The Pilot entered the new course, and Mississippi turned back to the east, surging toward the launch datum.

  * * *

  Thirty minutes later, with Mississippi closing on the point, Commander Waller ordered Mississippi to slow to ahead two-thirds, reducing the flow of turbulent water across the bow, flank, and towed array hydrophones, extending the range of the submarine’s acoustic sensors. It had been an hour since they detected the launch transient, and whatever created i
t surely hadn’t loitered in the area. Assuming a transit speed of twenty knots, the evading submarine would be twenty nautical miles away by now, beyond the range of Mississippi’s sensors, assuming it was a quiet fourth-generation submarine.

  Waller waited for the report nonetheless, which the Sonar Supervisor delivered moments later. “Conn, Sonar. Hold no contacts.”

  It was a guessing game now, attempting to determine which direction the target had headed. Mississippi was near the eastern edge of its operating area and would have to request additional water if Waller decided to head east. The Reagan strike group was to the south, which meant it was unlikely the target had headed that way. The north seemed most probable, skirting around the top of the Roosevelt strike group, headed home to China.

  Assuming, of course, the submarine was Chinese. Waller was sure the Office of Naval Intelligence was already working on it, evaluating the flight parameters of the missiles, as well as having Roosevelt’s crew scavenge the carrier for missile pieces. Hopefully, enough would be gleaned to determine the perpetrator, which would lead to the next question. Why?

  Someone else would answer that question. Waller had been tasked with sinking their adversary. But he had to find it first.

  “Pilot, come to course north. Ahead full.”

  Mississippi swung to port, increasing speed.

  3

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Christine O’Connor, the president’s national security advisor, leaned back into the leather upholstery of the black Lincoln Town Car as it pulled away from the Pentagon’s mall entrance, returning her to the White House after her weekly visit to the Pentagon. Seated beside her was Secretary of Defense Bob McVeigh, carrying an orange Top Secret folder in the locked courier pouch on his lap. Christine could tell his mind was churning, reviewing the information the Office of Naval Intelligence had gleaned from the attack on USS Roosevelt, as well as the implications.

  It was only a day ago when SecDef McVeigh called the president, informing him of the missile attack. Inside the folder in his courier pouch was the information collected over the last twenty-four hours, which he’d shared with Christine this afternoon. The evidence left little doubt in her mind as to who was responsible. Just when she’d reached the verge of pushing the Russians from her thoughts, they’d been thrust to the forefront again.

  As the Town Car traveled across the Arlington Memorial Bridge into Washington, D.C., sliding past bumper-to-bumper traffic headed out of the District, not even the clear blue sky and warm spring weather could pull her thoughts from the wintry landscape atop the polar ice cap. Despite her best efforts, the memories were constantly there, crowding her thoughts during the day and haunting her dreams at night. Each time she looked at her hands, she couldn’t escape the memory of what she’d done to Captain Steve Brackman, the president’s former senior military aide. Former, as in deceased.

  Christine felt emotion gathering in her chest, so she peered out the sedan window. She studied the pedestrians traversing the sidewalks, the construction along Constitution Avenue, the federal building facades. Anything to distract her. She brushed a lock of hair away from her face, and ice-cold fingers touched her skin. The events above and below the polar ice had left a chill in her body that wouldn’t thaw. It was only a matter of time, she told herself, before the memories faded, the pain eased. Until then, stay busy, stay focused.

  Upon her return from Ice Station Nautilus, she’d thrown herself into her work, spending sixteen-hour days in the West Wing, seven days a week, stopping only to eat, sleep, and work out at the Pentagon gym. Thankfully, her acquaintances at the gym didn’t bring it up. Didn’t ask why she had killed her good friend. As she returned to the White House, she was grateful McVeigh was accompanying her and would sit in the Oval Office chair Brackman would normally have occupied while discussing military issues with the president. The empty chair during her meetings with the president the last few weeks had been a painful reminder of what she had done.

  The only silver lining in the ordeal was the reaction of the president’s chief of staff, Kevin Hardison, her White House nemesis. Their relationship had become poisoned by opposing viewpoints and personal animosity, but upon her return to the White House, he’d refrained from his usual aggressive behavior. How long this reprieve would last she didn’t know, but was thankful nonetheless.

  The Town Car stopped under the West Wing’s north portico and Christine and McVeigh stepped from the sedan, passing between two marines in dress blues guarding the formal entrance to the West Wing. After a short walk down the seventy-foot-long hallway, they reached the open door to the Oval Office. Hardison was already seated in one of the three chairs facing the president’s desk, and after the president waved them inside, Christine and McVeigh settled into the empty chairs.

  Christine waited for McVeigh to begin. Although she was involved on the periphery, the attack on U.S. military forces was in the SecDef’s domain. He wasted no time getting started.

  “I wish I had better news, Mr. President. Roosevelt will be out of commission for several months. She suffered extensive damage to her Flight Deck and Island superstructure. The Navy estimates she’ll be in the shipyard for five to six months.” McVeigh waited before continuing, letting the president absorb the loss of yet another aircraft carrier. “That leaves us with four operational carriers, which means we’re going to have to drop to two carrier strike groups on deployment. The Navy is assessing whether to pull a strike group from Fifth Fleet in the Persian Gulf, or drop our presence off China to one strike group.”

  The president asked, “How long before one of the carriers damaged in the war with China returns to service?”

  “Another year at the earliest,” McVeigh answered. “As extensive as Roosevelt’s damage is, she’ll be the first back in service.”

  “Is there any way we can speed up the repairs?”

  McVeigh shook his head. “Every yard is already in twenty-four-seven shiftwork, and we’ll be delaying the repairs of other carriers, refocusing our efforts on Roosevelt as soon as she arrives at Pearl Harbor.”

  The president nodded. “Have you determined who attacked Roosevelt?”

  “We have,” McVeigh answered as he unlocked the courier pouch and retrieved the orange Top Secret folder. “There are several critical pieces of information. The first is that Roosevelt was attacked by a twenty-four-missile barrage.” He pulled a printout from one of the Aegis Warfare System displays, showing twenty-four inbound missiles, placing it on the president’s desk.

  “The second piece of information,” McVeigh said as he placed another printout on the desk, “is that the missiles were launched from a submarine. As you can see,” he said, pointing to the second printout, “there were no surface or air contacts in the launch area.”

  McVeigh pulled a report from the folder, laying it beside the printouts. “Next is ONI’s analysis of the missile flight trajectory—speed, altitude, and evasive maneuvers prior to impact—which identifies the missiles as SS-N-19 Shipwreck missiles. SS-N-19s are Russian-made P-700 Granit missiles, and only Russia has this weapon in its inventory.

  “Finally,” McVeigh said, “the only submarine capable of firing a twenty-four-missile salvo of Shipwreck missiles is an Oscar II. There is no doubt, Mr. President. Roosevelt was attacked by a Russian guided missile submarine.”

  The president leaned back in his chair, a surprised expression on his face. Until this moment, the obvious perpetrator was China.

  The president asked, “Do we have any intel that explains why Russia would attack us?”

  “No, Mr. President. We have no answers at this point.”

  The president asked no further questions as he assessed the complicated situation: the reason for Russia’s aggression, how to broach it with the Russians, what to release to the American public, and last, but most important, the United States’ response.

  Finally, the president spoke. “This doesn’t make any sense. Russian fingerprints are all over this attack
. They can’t deny it.”

  “They can always deny it,” Hardison replied. “And I wouldn’t put it past them.”

  “What do you recommend?” the president asked, surveying the three members of his staff and cabinet.

  Christine answered, “You could call President Kalinin directly. But rather than confront him, I recommend you just lay out the facts and let him explain. As you pointed out, the evidence seems irrefutable. See what he has to say, and you can take it from there.”

  The president turned to Hardison, who agreed, then McVeigh, who said, “I think that’s a good start. Hopefully, there’s a reasonable explanation for what happened. The last thing we need right now is a conflict with Russia, right on the heels of our war with China.”

  After a moment of reflection, the president nodded his agreement. Looking at the documents on his desk, he said to McVeigh, “Make copies I can give to the Russians, redacting whatever is appropriate.”

  To Hardison, he said, “Get the Russian ambassador over here. Today.”

  4

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Dusk was settling over the city skyline as Ambassador Andrei Tupolev emerged from the rear entrance of the Russian embassy, slipping into the back seat of his limousine, its door held open by his driver. The door closed with a thud and a moment later, his car pulled into traffic on Wisconsin Avenue for the short drive to the White House. The driver said nothing during the transit and Tupolev’s thoughts turned to his pending meeting with the U.S. president, reviewing the information hastily provided by the Kremlin.

  Ambassador Mushroom. That should be his official title tonight. Like a mushroom, he was being kept in the dark and fed manure. Which, in turn, he would feed to the Americans. Tupolev had been a diplomat for forty years and knew when he was being lied to. He had a suspicion as to what was really going on, and if he was correct, the American president’s reaction would determine Russia’s next step.