Blackmail

by Rick Campbell

  McVeigh opened the folder on his lap and read the pertinent sentence: “Unit TM85.1051 reports the order was executed flawlessly.” He looked up and added, “The unit designation TM85.1051 cross-references to an Oscar II submarine in the Russian Pacific Fleet, K-456 Vilyuchinsk.” McVeigh refreshed everyone’s memory about the significance of the Russian unit. “Vilyuchinsk was the submarine that launched twenty-four missiles at Roosevelt.”

  The president replied, “You’re saying the attack on Roosevelt was intentional?”

  “Yes, Mr. President. The date in the report coincides with the Russian attack. This is what we’ve suspected all along, and this evidence is enough to convince everyone in the Pentagon that the attack was deliberate.”

  “I have to agree,” the president said, “which puts us in a difficult situation. We have to either ignore the attack despite what we know, or respond. Your thoughts, gentlemen?” The president turned first to his chief of staff.

  “There has to be payback,” Hardison answered. “A quid pro quo.”

  The president turned to Colonel DuBose, giving his new senior military aide the opportunity to weigh in on the first significant issue during his White House assignment.

  DuBose replied, “A response is required, but we need to ensure it doesn’t spiral out of control, either in a tit for tat that ratchets up, or a response that escalates into a broader conflict.”

  When the president turned his attention to McVeigh, the SecDef said, “I agree with Kevin and Colonel DuBose. A response is required, although I’m not sure we can prevent an increasing tit for tat. That decision will rest with Kalinin. However, as Colonel DuBose recommends, our response should be narrow, minimizing the possibility this blows up into a wider conflict.”

  “What do you recommend?” the president asked.

  “One option,” McVeigh offered, “is to damage a major Russian warship. The Russian Northern Fleet has entered the Mediterranean Sea, and most of their surface combatants have docked in the Syrian port of Latakia, loading food and fuel. Their aircraft carrier, Admiral Kuznetsov, remains at sea with Russia’s other nuclear-powered combatants. This gives us a number of targets and options.

  “Admiral Kuznetsov is the most appropriate choice as quid pro quo for Roosevelt. However, it also has the highest potential for escalating, depending on how we engage and the response from her escorts. A better target, perhaps, is Marshal Ustinov, a Slava class cruiser docked in Latakia. She’s the most formidable Russian warship in port, and the third most powerful in Russia’s Northern Fleet after Admiral Kuznetsov and the battle cruiser Pyotr Velikiy, both of which are nuclear powered and remain at sea.”

  “How would we execute the attack?”

  “You could order an air attack, hitting Marshal Ustinov with enough missiles to send her back to Russia for repairs. However, she’s tied up along the waterfront with several merchants nearby, and there’s the possibility of collateral damage if any missiles lock on to the wrong target. We could go with a torpedo. Michigan will enter the Mediterranean Sea soon, only a short distance from Latakia, but you’ve got the same problem: their torpedo could lock on to the wrong target with so many ships nearby.

  “Another alternative,” McVeigh said, “is the SEAL detachment aboard Michigan. They’re trained to sink enemy combatants in port, which is the scenario we’re looking at, plus they can ensure we get the right target.”

  “Is that too aggressive,” Hardison asked, “sinking one of their ships in return for damaging one of ours?”

  McVeigh replied, “Marshal Ustinov won’t be a permanent loss. Sunk alongside the pier, the Russians will raise her, like we did for most of the ships sunk during Japan’s attack on Pearl Harbor and the ships we lost in the Taiwan Strait last year. But we can put her out of commission for six months to a year, which is a reasonable response for what was done to Roosevelt.”

  “Assuming we sink the Russian cruiser,” the president said, “what do we tell Russia when they imply our involvement?”

  McVeigh suggested, “You could tell President Kalinin the same thing the Russian ambassador told you. That SEALs from Michigan were on a training mission, and accidentally attached real ordnance to the bottom of their cruiser.” McVeigh smiled.

  After a moment of deliberation, the president replied, “Send the order to Michigan. Sink Marshal Ustinov.”

  23

  MOSCOW

  It was 8 p.m. when the sedan carrying Christine O’Connor and her interpreter, Mark Johnson, pulled to a halt not far from the Kremlin Senate, stopping behind a procession of cars depositing their guests for the evening’s event. As the men and women, dressed in tuxedos and formal evening gowns, stepped from their cars onto a red carpet, they were welcomed by Kremlin officials who escorted them into the green-domed building. For this evening’s gala, Christine had selected a blue dress that hugged her curves. Her hair was up, pulled back to reveal the sleek lines of her neck, accenting her high cheekbones and slate-blue eyes. Diamond earrings, matching pendant, and blue Valentino heels completed the look.

  Christine and Johnson’s car inched forward, eventually reaching the red carpet. Stepping from the sedan, they were greeted by Russian Foreign Minister Andrei Lavrov. After passing through the security screening, Christine and her interpreter were escorted by a young man to the building’s third floor, entering an expansive ballroom with crystal chandeliers illuminating a glossy parquet floor. The room was faced with white marble, with one wall decorated by a painting depicting Moscow, and the other wall, St. Petersburg, symbolizing the centuries-long rivalry between the historic and “northern” capitals of Russia.

  Christine and Johnson mingled as waiters carried silver platters of drinks and hors d’oeuvres throughout the crowd, and Christine selected a glass of champagne as a tray passed by. Several Russian dignitaries introduced themselves, with most needing the help of her interpreter. But others kept their distance, shooting quick looks her way. Christine was used to turning heads when she entered a room, but these glances were more furtive, not the typical wide-eyed, admiring stares. She observed the scene more closely, seeing heads bent in whispered conversations as she passed by, and felt sure they were talking about her.

  Spotting the American ambassador to Russia not far away, Christine decided to inquire about the strange looks. As she moved toward her, Defense Minister Boris Chernov appeared, stopping Christine halfway to the ambassador.

  “Good evening, Miss O’Connor,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

  Christine offered a smile as Chernov’s gaze swept her from head to toe.

  They talked briefly, then Chernov excused himself to mingle with other diplomats. Christine scanned the crowd for the American ambassador again, spotting her in line to greet Russian President Yuri Kalinin, who was talking with the new Chinese chairman of the Central Military Commission—the head of China’s armed forces—and a female companion. Given what occurred during Christine’s last visit to China, when she’d been detained during China’s war with the United States, she decided it’d be best to wait until the two Chinese moved on before joining the ambassador.

  Assisted by her interpreter, Christine chatted with several Russian dignitaries while she kept an eye on President Kalinin. After the Chinese bade farewell, Christine excused herself and headed in the president’s direction. However, she didn’t get far before a voice stopped her.

  “Miss O’Connor.”

  Christine turned as Semyon Gorev, head of Russia’s counterpart to the CIA, approached.

  “It’s nice to finally meet you,” he said as he shook her hand. “I have heard much about you.”

  Christine had heard much about Semyon Gorev as well; the authoritarian director of Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service had earned a reputation for ruthlessness and a thirst for revenge during his time as a field agent.

  “Only good things, I hope,” Christine said, keeping her tone deliberately light.

  “But of course,” Gorev replied.


  He offered a friendly smile, but Christine registered tension behind his expression. She wondered if he’d read her file. She’d killed two Russians at Ice Station Nautilus, but considering Russia lost almost one hundred men in the conflict, her role had been small.

  Their discussion remained cordial, however, and Christine glanced occasionally in Kalinin’s direction, watching the American ambassador work her way up the line. Confident and poised, President Kalinin greeted his guests with ease. During one of her glances, she noticed Kalinin looking her way and their eyes locked for a few seconds. When Christine returned her attention to Gorev, there was a scowl on the director’s face, replaced quickly with a forced smile.

  When the American ambassador was next in line, Christine prepared to disengage from Gorev and join the ambassador. But then the ballroom lights dimmed momentarily. The ballroom floor cleared as guests moved to the perimeter, and a Russian dance company took the floor. Christine deposited her empty champagne glass on a tray as a waiter passed by, then turned back to Gorev. But the Russian was gone.

  The evening’s entertainment began with an exhibition by the dance company, performing two Russian folk dances. Christine recognized the first as a khorovod, a circular dance where the participants hold hands and sing, with additional dancers in the middle of the circle. The khorovod was followed by a plyaska, a dance that told a story, like a play. This particular plyaska told the tale of two men’s quest for a woman’s love and her struggle making a choice.

  After the two folk dances, the floor opened up for the guests, with the first dance being a waltz. Christine declined the request of a young Russian, choosing to observe first, quickly determining the waltz was ballroom style as opposed to Viennese, with an international left-right-left step, rather than the American right-left-right. During the dance, her gaze occasionally drifted to President Kalinin, who was deep in conversation with SVR Director Gorev. But while Gorev’s eyes were fixed on the president, Kalinin’s were pointed straight across the ballroom—at her—and she could feel the intensity of his stare from forty feet away.

  She’d been on the business end of that kind of look a few times in her life—always from a man who wanted her either in the ground or in his bed. Christine cast another glance in Kalinin’s direction. He was still staring at her, and she wasn’t sure which scenario Kalinin was contemplating. Was Gorev, with his reputation for revenge, discussing her role at Ice Station Nautilus? Christine shivered involuntarily, then refocused on the waltz.

  * * *

  From across the crowded ballroom, Yuri Kalinin watched the American woman intently. Gorev followed his eyes to the attractive woman.

  Gorev said, “Please tell me you are not seriously considering this.”

  “She could be Natasha’s twin,” Kalinin replied.

  “Her likeness is remarkable,” Gorev agreed, “but you cannot have a relationship with her.”

  “Why not?”

  Gorev replied with an exasperated edge to his words, having to explain the obvious. “She’s American.”

  “She’s half Russian,” Kalinin countered.

  “She cannot be trusted,” Gorev said with a tone of finality.

  “I appreciate your concern,” Kalinin said, “but I don’t think dinner with her would jeopardize national security.”

  Gorev turned to the Russian president, placing his hand gently on his shoulder. “I know how close you and Natasha were, and how difficult those last few months were. Forget about this American. I will find you a suitable Russian woman.”

  A smile broke across Kalinin’s face. “A bride selected by the SVR? I think my secrets would be safer if I married the American.”

  Gorev grinned. “You are a wise man, Yuri. Still, the president of Russia cannot have a relationship with America’s national security advisor. Do not let her likeness to Natasha influence you.”

  Kalinin replied, “I’ve already given the matter much thought.”

  * * *

  The first waltz wound to a close, and confident she could perform the international version, Christine prepared to accept the next request. She wasn’t prepared, however, when the invitation came from Defense Minister Chernov.

  She accepted, and standing in front of him, Christine embraced Chernov in the semi-closed position, keeping her body a safe distance from his. The music started and Christine focused on following the left-right-left sequence. After a minute with no mishaps, she settled into the rhythm of the dance, her motions becoming more fluid, and she noted that Chernov was an excellent dancer.

  When the waltz ended, Christine released her embrace as she commented on Chernov’s ability. “You also are a superb dancer,” Chernov replied. “If you don’t mind, I would love the next dance as well.”

  Christine was about to reply when a man tapped Chernov on the shoulder. The defense minister turned aside, revealing Russia’s president.

  “May I have the next dance?” he asked.

  Christine glanced at Chernov, who stepped back with disappointment on his face.

  She turned to President Kalinin, fixing a smile in place that she hoped covered her nerves, and accepted. The Russian president caught the attention of the bandleader, requesting another waltz. Christine embraced Kalinin, choosing the semi-closed position again, resting her fingers lightly on Kalinin’s right shoulder as their lead hands joined. The music began, and having worked out the kinks in her dance with Chernov, Christine fell immediately into rhythm.

  To her surprise, Kalinin was an even better dancer than Chernov. He was also much better looking, with a trim, muscular physique, and only a few years older than her. As they glided through the turns, changes, and whisks, he kept the same intense gaze he’d had earlier trained on her. However, Yuri Kalinin didn’t seem the type to waltz with an enemy. If he was attracted to her … well. That opened up a number of interesting possibilities.

  During the dance, the sensation she was being watched grew stronger. Letting her eyes slide away from Kalinin’s, she scanned the room; the stares from Russians in attendance were even more obvious than before. That was to be expected, as she was dancing with their president, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something more.

  When the dance ended, with her fingers still on his shoulder and their lead hands joined, Christine said, “President Kalinin, I have to ask. Why do I get such strange looks from everyone?”

  Kalinin offered her a piercing gaze, then released her.

  “Come with me.”

  Christine followed Kalinin from the ballroom, spotting Semyon Gorev along the perimeter, monitoring their departure. They passed two Presidential Security Service agents, the Russian version of America’s Secret Service, before walking silently down a long hallway. After a left turn, Kalinin unlocked and opened a mahogany-stained door, flicking the lights on as they entered what Christine surmised was his office. Stopping in the foyer, Kalinin pointed to a picture on the wall.

  “My wife, Natasha,” he said.

  Christine might as well have been looking into a mirror. She knew her Russian genetics dominated her looks, but was surprised at how closely she resembled Natasha. The facial structure and even her hair and eye color were the same. It was then that Christine recalled Kalinin was a widower, his wife succumbing to cancer soon after he was elected president.

  “I’m very sorry for your loss,” she said.

  Kalinin nodded, the pain of his wife’s death evident on his face. His normally impassive mask slipped further, and Christine watched indecision play across his face as his eyes shifted from Natasha’s picture to her. It became clear that Kalinin was contemplating the controversial prospect of a relationship with America’s national security advisor.

  On one hand, it wasn’t that far-fetched. Christine knew she’d make one hell of a politician’s wife if the idea ever appealed to her: beautiful, intelligent, and comfortable dealing with powerful men. The main obstacle in a relationship with Kalinin, however, was obvious. She lacked
the loyalty he required. Not only to him, but to Russia.

  Just as Christine decided a relationship with Kalinin was far too complicated and doomed to fail, the president of Russia asked her out.

  “On future trips to Moscow,” Kalinin said, “if you’d like to spend time together, maybe for dinner, let me know. This is a busy month, but once Victory Day preparations are over and a few other issues are resolved, I will have more time. On your next trip, perhaps?”

  The I’m not sure that’s a good idea stuck in Christine’s throat. Instead, she replied, “Perhaps.” She wondered if he heard the reservation in her voice, but if he did, he gave no sign.

  “Wonderful,” Kalinin said. Checking his watch, he added, “We should return to the party before any unseemly rumors begin.”

  While Christine contemplated whether Kalinin was concerned about her reputation or his, there was a knock on the open door. Semyon Gorev and Boris Chernov were in the doorway.

  “See,” Kalinin said. “They are already getting suspicious.”

  Gorev cast a glance at Christine before saying, “Boris has a matter he needs to discuss with you in private. It won’t take long. I’ll escort Miss O’Connor back to the ballroom.”

  “Please do,” Kalinin said. Turning to Christine, he said, “It was a pleasure dancing with you, and I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay in Moscow.”

  * * *

  The door closed, and as Gorev escorted Christine down the hallway, he asked, “What did you and President Kalinin discuss?”

  Christine’s first thought was to tell Gorev it was none of his business. She bit her tongue instead, then answered, “Yuri explained why I’ve been getting such strange looks. He showed me a picture of Natasha.”

  Gorev replied, “On a first-name basis with President Kalinin after one dance? You move quickly.”

  Christine stopped, irritated by the accusation. “For your information, I have no romantic interest in President Kalinin.”