HERE RESTS IN
HONORED GLORY
AN AMERICAN
SOLDIER
KNOWN BUT TO GOD
The graves she would visit today weren’t unknown, and after entering the cemetery, her car coasted to a halt. She didn’t need to read the headstone number on the document on her passenger seat; the grave was easy to identify. The dirt was freshly turned. After taking a deep breath, she selected one of the flower bouquets and stepped from the car, looking up into the gray, overcast sky. It had stopped raining, but it looked as though the clouds could open up again at any moment. After a short traverse across wet grass, Christine reached Captain Steve Brackman’s grave.
She stood at the foot of his grave, reliving the last few minutes of Brackman’s life. As the ocean poured into the submarine, they couldn’t shut the watertight door, their feet slipping on the wet, sloping deck as water surged through the opening. They’d had a short but heated argument. Brackman was convinced there were only two options: either he died or they both died. As he pulled himself into the adjacent compartment, where he could put his back and legs into the effort to shut the door, she could have refused to help, sentencing them both to death. Instead, she pushed the watertight door closed, then spun the handwheel, sealing him on the wrong side.
Brackman had sacrificed himself for her, and unfortunately, there was no way for Christine to repay the debt. She knelt and placed the flowers against his headstone, then stood and thanked him. She said a short prayer for Brackman and the family he left behind, then returned to her car. After one final glance at Brackman’s grave, she put the car in drive and pulled slowly away.
After a right turn onto Patton Drive, Christine pulled to a halt in front of section 70. With the other flower bouquet in hand, she headed across the thick grass, stopping in front of headstone 1851. There were two names on the marker: Daniel O’Connor on the front and Tatyana O’Connor on the back. Christine placed the flowers atop the gravesite, and although the grass was wet and she was wearing a business suit, she sat in front of the headstone.
Daniel O’Connor died when he was only twenty-two, having never seen his daughter. Serving as a marine during the Vietnam War, he was killed during the waning days of the conflict, and Tatyana gave birth a few weeks later. As Christine told Colonel DuBose, Daniel O’Connor had never been a father.
Christine was raised by her mother, a first-generation Russian immigrant who arrived in the United States as a teenager. Tatyana never remarried, dying from cancer when Christine was in her early twenties. In accordance with policy at Arlington National Cemetery, she was buried atop Daniel in the same grave, her name inscribed on the back of the headstone.
As she sat on the wet grass, Christine wondered if her parents would have been proud of her. Professionally, yes. But she’d made a mess of her personal life. She was in her forties now, divorced with no kids, and her ex-husband had ended up dead on her kitchen floor while the man she truly loved had married another.
Jake Harrison had proposed twice, the first time during their senior year in high school. However, she was headed to Penn State on a gymnastics scholarship and had no time for marriage, much less motherhood. Although she accepted the night he proposed, she returned the ring the next morning. Jake proposed again when she graduated from college, but she’d been swept into a life of Washington politics and wasn’t ready to settle down. She’d be ready in a few years, she’d told Jake. Apparently, eleven was too many, and by the time she was ready, he’d proposed to another woman.
Christine’s thoughts returned to her mom and dad. She said good-bye to her parents, then pushed herself to her feet and returned to her car. After sliding into the front seat, she pulled her cell phone from her purse. Hardison had recommended she get together with a friend this weekend, and Christine decided a girls’ night out was exactly what she needed. She tapped in a number and her best friend, Joan, answered.
“Hey, girl,” Joan said. “Long time no hear. Where are you?”
Christine looked around the cemetery. “Arlington.”
Christine spent a few minutes catching up with Joan, who had been on Penn State’s gymnastics team with Christine and a political science major as well, also ending up in Washington, D.C. Unlike Christine, however, Joan was married with three teenagers, and their different social circles and busy schedules made it difficult to get together.
“I was wondering if you’re available this weekend,” Christine said. “I’d love to go out for dinner and drinks.”
“Oh, this is a bad weekend,” Joan said, “I have plans with John tonight, Jonathon has a soccer tournament on Saturday, and Anna has a play recital on Sunday. What about next week?”
“I’m headed to Russia on Monday, and I’m not sure when I’ll be back. Depends on how things go.”
There must have been something in Christine’s voice, because Joan picked up on it. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Christine said. “I could use some company, though.”
After a short pause, Joan said, “How about tonight? Say … seven o’clock.”
“I don’t want you to break your date with John.”
“Don’t worry,” Joan said. “He owes me. Make a reservation wherever you’d like. I’ll pick you up.”
“Sounds great,” Christine said. “See you tonight.”
As Christine returned her cell phone to her purse, her thoughts turned to Jake Harrison again, and she decided to give him a call. She had no idea if he was on deployment or not, but figured it was worth a try. She found his number and hit call.
To Christine’s surprise, a woman answered. “Hello. This is Laura.”
Christine was taken aback for a moment, then remembered Laura was Jake’s wife. “Hi, Laura, this is Christine O’Connor. I’m calling for Jake. I must have the wrong number.”
Laura answered, a coolness in her voice. “You’ve got the right number. Jake forwards his calls home when he’s on deployment, in case one of his buddies tries to contact him.” Laura’s emphasis on the male term didn’t go unnoticed.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” Christine said. “Please say hi to Jake when he returns.”
“No problem,” Laura replied, although Christine was certain there was. Without another word, Laura hung up.
As Christine slid the phone into her purse, she wondered where Jake Harrison was.
14
USS MICHIGAN
On the Conn of the Ohio class guided missile submarine, Lieutenant Jayne Stucker surveyed the watchstanders on duty in the Control Room, pausing to examine the navigation parameters:
Course: 040
Speed: 10 knots
Depth: 180 feet
Her eyes shifted to the red digital clock. It was 9:40 p.m., and with the Captain’s night orders directing a trip to periscope depth at 10:00 p.m., it was time to begin preparations.
“Quartermaster, rig Control for gray.”
The bright Control Room lights were extinguished, leaving only a few low-level lights. Lieutenant Stucker reached up, activating the microphone on the Conn.
“All stations, Conn. Make preparations to proceed to periscope depth.”
Sonar, Radio, and the Quartermaster acknowledged, and the Electronic Surveillance Measures watch was manned. While Stucker waited for Sonar to complete a detailed search of the surrounding water, she examined the electronic chart on the navigation table. Michigan was approaching the Strait of Hormuz outbound, repositioning from the Persian Gulf into the Gulf of Oman, now that the latter had been vacated by the Truman carrier strike group.
There were few places more hazardous for ships than the Strait of Hormuz. The opening to the Persian Gulf is only thirty-five miles wide at its narrowest point, and the shipping lanes in the center are even narrower—only two miles wide—separated by a two-mile buffer zone. Thankfully, Michigan was to the southeast, outside the busy traffic lanes, but there were still many ships transiting through the strait in the shallower water where Michiga
n lurked.
After waiting several minutes, giving Sonar time to adjust their equipment lineup and complete a detailed search, Stucker announced, “Sonar, Conn. Report all contacts.”
Sonar acknowledged and reported several contacts. But the ship’s spherical array sonar, mounted in the bow, was blind in the aft sector, or baffles, blocked by the submarine’s metal structure. With Michigan’s towed array stowed due to the shallow water, Stucker had no idea if there were contacts closing on Michigan from behind. She had to turn the ship to find out.
“Helm, left full rudder, steady course two-nine-zero. Sonar, Conn. Commencing baffle clear to port.” Stucker followed up, “Rig Control for black.”
Sonar acknowledged as the lights in Control were extinguished, leaving only the faint multicolor indications on the submarine’s control panels and the red digital navigation repeaters glowing in the darkness. Stucker adjusted the sonar display on the Conn, reducing its brightness to the minimum. Michigan steadied up, headed west, but couldn’t remain on that course for long, as they were headed toward the shipping lanes. After waiting a few minutes for Sonar to complete its search of the previously hidden area, Stucker examined the traces on her sonar display, then called out, “Sonar, Conn. Report all contacts.”
“Conn, Sonar. Hold twelve contacts, all are far-range except for Sierra three-two, bearing two-six-zero, classified merchant, and Sierra three-three, bearing two-four-zero, also classified merchant. Both contacts are outside ten thousand yards.”
Stucker acknowledged Sonar, then ordered, “Helm, right full rudder, steady course zero-four-zero,” returning Michigan to base course for the trip to periscope depth.
Reaching up, she pulled the microphone from its holder and punched the button for the Captain’s stateroom. “Captain, Officer of the Deck.”
Murray Wilson answered, “Captain.”
Stucker delivered the required report, to which Wilson replied, “I’ll be right there.”
Captain Murray Wilson entered the Control Room and joined Lieutenant Stucker on the Conn, settling into the Captain’s chair on the starboard side. After reviewing the sonar display and the submarine’s parameters, Wilson said, “Proceed to periscope depth.”
Stucker acknowledged the Captain’s order, then reached up in the darkness and twisted the port periscope locking ring. The barrel slid silently up through the submarine’s sail, and Stucker folded the periscope handles down as the scope emerged from its well, then placed her right eye against the eyepiece.
“Helm, ahead one-third. Dive, make your depth eight-zero feet. All stations, Conn. Proceeding to periscope depth.”
The Helm rang up ahead one-third on the Engine Order Telegraph as the Dive directed his planesmen, “Ten up. Full rise, fairwater planes.”
As Michigan rose toward the surface, silence descended on Control, aside from the occasional depth reports from the Diving Officer.
“Passing one hundred feet.”
The Dive reported the submarine’s depth change in ten-foot increments until the periscope broke the ocean’s surface. Stucker began circling, completing a revolution every eight seconds, scanning the darkness for nearby ships. She spotted two distant white lights to the west, correlating with Sierra three-two and three-three.
“No close contacts!”
Conversation in Control resumed, now that Michigan was safely at periscope depth, and after a quick aerial search detected no air contacts, Stucker slowed her rotation, periodically shifting the scope to high power for long-range scans.
The Quartermaster announced, “Conn, Nav. GPS fix obtained.”
A moment later, Radio followed up. “Conn, Radio. Download complete.”
Stucker announced, “All stations, Conn. Going deep. Helm, ahead two-thirds. Dive, make your depth one-eight-zero feet.”
The Helm and Dive acknowledged and Michigan tilted downward. The periscope optics slid beneath the ocean waves, and Stucker lowered the scope back into its well.
“Rig Control for gray,” she announced, and the low-level lights flicked on.
A few minutes later, as Lieutenant Stucker ordered the Control Room rigged for white, a radioman entered with a message clipboard in hand. Captain Wilson flipped through the messages: all routine traffic except for one. Michigan wouldn’t stop after entering the Gulf of Oman. Their journey had become longer and perhaps more hazardous—they would enter the Mediterranean Sea, passing through the Suez Canal.
* * *
Wilson stepped from the Conn and entered Michigan’s Battle Management Center, located behind the Control Room, where his crew did Tomahawk mission planning and managed SEAL operations. Michigan had been converted into a guided missile submarine, carrying Tomahawk cruise missiles in twenty-two of its twenty-four missile tubes, with the remaining two tubes providing access to two Dry Deck Shelters attached to the submarine’s missile deck. Within one shelter rested a SEAL Delivery Vehicle—a mini-sub able to transport Navy SEALs miles underwater for clandestine operations, while the other shelter contained two Rigid Hull Inflatable Boats.
Aboard Michigan tonight were two platoons of Navy SEALs, ready should their services be required, along with sixty tons of munitions stored in two of Michigan’s missile tubes: small arms, grenade launchers, limpet mines … anything a SEAL team might need.
Inside the Battle Management Center, Commander John McNeil, in charge of the SEAL unit aboard Michigan, was meeting with his two platoon Officers-in-Charge, Lieutenants Jake Harrison and Lorie Allen, reviewing the potential operations they might be tasked with now that they were repositioning into the Gulf of Oman. Lieutenant Allen was in his twenties, while Harrison was much older; the prior enlisted SEAL had reached the rank of chief before receiving his commission as an officer. If there was ever a poster child for the prototypical SEAL, Harrison was it: tall, lean, and muscular, with a chiseled jawline and deep blue eyes.
“Change in plans,” Wilson announced, handing the message board to McNeil. The senior SEAL read the message, handing it to Harrison as he asked, “Do you know what’s up?”
“Not yet. This is just the waterspace message. We should receive an operational order soon, but right now all we know is—we’re headed into the Med.”
15
MOSCOW
Seated at his desk in his office, Yuri Kalinin listened intently as his chief of the general staff, General Sergei Andropov, delivered the daily update on Russia’s progress. So far, things were proceeding well, but all that had been authorized were the preparations. Despite his outward confidence and decisiveness, Kalinin hadn’t committed. The time was rapidly approaching, however, when a final decision would be required, and if he approved, Russia would step onto a precipice from which it could not retreat. In the meantime, he monitored the progress.
“Everything required to achieve the primary objectives has been arranged,” Andropov said. “The initial military units are en route, agreements have been made in Ukraine, and President Lukashenko has agreed to his part. Our oil and natural gas price discounts to Belarus had to be significantly increased, but came in as projected.
“We are now focused on the insurance aspects you requested be added to the plan. Defense Minister Chernov has already met with Iran and is meeting with India and China this weekend. Of the three countries, the commitment from Iran is the most crucial and they have agreed. China and India’s participation isn’t essential, but would place the United States in an untenable position, eliminating their ability to intervene.”
Kalinin nodded his understanding. “Keep me apprised of our progress.”
16
BEIJING, CHINA
Defense Minister Boris Chernov peered out the side window of his sedan, its armored frame riding low to the ground, as it wound through the center of Beijing. Joining Chernov in the back of the car was the Russian ambassador to China, Danil Sokolov, who would translate during this morning’s meeting with Xiang Chenglei, China’s president and general secretary of the Party. The sedan came to a h
alt in front of the Great Hall of the People, where President Xiang’s executive assistant greeted the two Russians as they stepped from their car. Sokolov translated as the men spoke.
“Welcome to Beijing, Minister Chernov. I am Xie Hai, the president’s executive assistant.”
Chernov shook Xie’s hand. “Thank you for arranging this meeting.”
Xie smiled. “It was my pleasure.”
Xie escorted the two Russians up the steps toward the building entrance, framed by massive gray marble colonnades. As Chernov entered the Great Hall of the People, his thoughts turned to Belarus. The request Chernov would make today would be similar, but the dynamics were different. Although Russia’s share of oil and natural gas imports to China was rising, it was still a small fraction due to China’s insistence, wisely so, on multiple sources. Still, the deal could be sweetened other ways.
Whether China was willing to enter another conflict so soon was unknown. Russia and China’s relationship over the last several centuries had been contentious, but there was much common ground, particularly when it came to the United States. Chernov was a firm believer in the proverb The enemy of my enemy is my friend. The Soviet Union had employed the construct during World War II, working with the West despite their inherent distrust. Now, Russia would strive for an allegiance with the East.
* * *
The meeting didn’t take long. As Chernov and his translator exited the Great Hall of the People and slid into their waiting sedan, Chernov reflected on his discussions with the Chinese president and the head of the People’s Liberation Army. Neither man asked many questions, and when they did, Chernov had difficulty gauging their level of interest. The Chinese language was complex, with many nuances lost in translation. Still, the proposal had been made, and President Xiang was mulling the offer over.
Blackmail Page 6
