The President is Missing
A Matt Blake Novel
Russell F. Moran
The President is Missing
Coddington Press
Copyright © 2017 by Russell F. Moran
ISBN 0996346694
ISBN 13: 9780996346696
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written permission from the publisher or the author, except where permitted by law. Contact the publisher for information on foreign rights.
Cover Design by Erin Kelly
http://erinkelly.webs.com/
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, dialogue and plot are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.
www.morancom.com
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to the United States Navy SEALs.
Acknowledgements
As always, I thank my wife, Lynda, for her attentive reading and rereading of my many drafts, and for laughing at my jokes. I also thank my friend and copy editor, John White, for his proofreading and editing. And I especially thank my readers, many of whom are a constant source of inspiration and encouragement for me.
Contents
Author’s Note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Characters – The President is Missing
About the Author
The Books of Russ Moran
AUTHOR’S NOTE
You will find a Cast of Characters after the last chapter of the book. It can be frustrating to come across a character on page 150, who you first met on page 20, especially if you’ve put the book down for a few days. I’ve seen this done in Russian literature, and I happily add a cast of characters to The President is Missing, as well as my other novels.
Chapter 1
“What the hell just happened?” I asked Barbara Hightower, my assistant.
We were watching a TV first, a live broadcast by the President of the United States from a nuclear submarine deep under the waters of the South Atlantic. The President, Matt Blake, also happens to be my husband. Matt, dressed in naval officer’s fatigues, faced the camera holding a microphone. He looked great, but then he always does. Matt’s so natural in front of a camera, it’s as if the technology was invented for him. But the screen suddenly went blank.
“Beats me, ma’am,” Barbara said. “If we can’t maintain communications with a nuclear submarine, what the hell can we communicate with?”
A TV anchorman just appeared on the screen.
“This is Shepard Smith for FOX News, ladies and gentlemen. If you were watching you just saw that our communications link with the USS Louisiana went blank. This is an odd situation, because the communications links between the shore and our nuclear ballistic missile submarine fleet is the most sophisticated available. The USS Louisiana is the latest and probably the last of the Ohio Class nuclear ballistic missile submarines. There are 18 Ohio Class subs in service, including 14 ballistic missile submarines, and four cruise missile subs. The ballistic missile subs, such as the Louisiana carry 16 nuclear missiles. At 560 feet in length, she displaces almost 17,000 tons. The president was addressing the nation from the sub’s control room and discussing the recent renovation of the huge vessel when we lost communications. We will continue the live feed as soon as it’s been reestablished.”
“Hey, they’ve never done a live TV network feed from under the ocean before,” I said. “Maybe the technology just has to shake out a bit. I remember Matt giving a speech before the United Nations once, when his sound blanked out. There he was in a gigantic auditorium with his lips moving but no sound coming out. He shouted ‘Read my lips’ to laughs and applause. Right after that the sound came back on. Matt’s good at handling awkward situations. Our contact with the sub should be back on in a minute.”
I was trying to cheer myself up and calm down at the same time. Can you imagine seeing your husband on TV when suddenly he disappears?
Five minutes went by, then ten. Still no communication with the sub. Small talk with Barbara was doing nothing for my twisting stomach. I looked at the TV remote in my hand. A remote is a pretty amazing invention when you think about it. Without moving you just point it at the TV and see a lengthy guide, click one of the buttons and see the details of a movie, click another button and control sound, save and rewind, or turn the TV in and off. But Matt just cut out and I can’t press a button on this worthless piece of shit to bring him back. I shared all of these thoughts with Barbara. The look on her face told me what I suspected, that I was starting to rant like a fucking lunatic.
The intercom buzzed from the receptionist’s desk. I stood up from my spot on the couch and ran across the room, suddenly feeling like an idiot. Barbara’s not just an assistant, she’s a good friend, and she’s great at putting up with my changing moods. I spoke into the receiver but didn’t hear a response on the other end. That’s because I was holding it upside down. Barbara gently took the receiver out of my hand and answered, “Office of the First Lady, may I help you.” She handed the receiver to me—right side up.
“Ma’am, it’s Admiral Patterson, Chief of Naval Operations, on the phone for you,” said the duty officer at NavOps.
Oh Dear God, I thought. Why would Ashley be calling me? Ashley Patterson and I are good friends. I’ve seen her naval career skyrocket over the years, because of one reason—she’s a smart, tough military leader. At the age of 40, Ashley is a tall, beautiful black woman, a rising star in the Navy. When Ashley speaks, people listen, not because of the military timbre in her voice, but because you realize that you’re talking to a leader. She’s one of the best commanders we have in the military.
But why the hell would the CNO be calling me out of the blue? Asking myself stupid questions somehow made me feel better.
“Dee (we’re too close for her to call me Madam First Lady), I’m about to be interviewed by Fox News. This isn’t good, hon. We’ve received reports of an underwater explosion near the coordinates of the Louisiana’s last position. Reports of debris are coming in. Dee, I’m afraid that the sub, along with your husband, may have been lost.”
“I’ll be there in 10 minutes, Ashley,” I said. The Pentagon is just over three miles from the White House, so getting there in 10 minutes wasn’t a problem, barring a traffic jam.
When my car pulled up to the Pentagon, a Marine guard, plus my normal Secret Service detail, escorted Barbara and me to the operations room. I felt like my brain was shutting down, but I refused to let it happen. Matt Blake, the President of the United States,
isn’t just my husband. He’s my lover, my confidant, my best friend. He’s the most important person in my life. Could he be dead? Matt occupies such a huge part of my reality that the idea of his death wasn’t ringing true to me. I think psychologists call it cognitive dissonance. It’s the stress you feel when you try to hold two competing thoughts in your mind at the same time. Matt’s just fine, I thought. I had a crisp picture of him in my head. But, and here’s the dissonance part, the Chief of Naval Operations has just told me that he may have died. I guess any couple who are close and in love have a hard time accepting the idea that their spouse may be dead. But my friend Ashley seemed to think Matt was gone along with the sub. I need to look at the evidence before I’m ready to make any conclusions. When Matt practiced law, he was one of the best trial lawyers in the country. I should know—I worked on all of his cases, not as a dutiful help mate, but because I found his work fascinating. One thing that Matt drilled into my head was to look at the evidence—all of it—and then distrust the evidence.
We walked into the operations room as Ashley was making a statement for TV. The broadcast was carried over all of the TV and cable networks.
“I have a startling development to report this morning,” Ashley said after she was introduced by her deputy. “At 10:45 a.m.—25 minutes ago—we lost all communications with the nuclear submarine USS Louisiana. President Blake was addressing the nation from the sub when our link was broken. We’ve received reports, confirmed by listening devices, that there was an explosion near the last known location of the Louisiana. Prior to the explosion, the sub made a sudden hard turn. We have no idea why, but it’s possible that the captain of the sub was maneuvering to avoid a torpedo. Aerial reconnaissance confirmed a large debris field in the area. I’m not going to speculate, ladies and gentlemen. I’ve given you the facts as we know them, and my office will keep the nation briefed as any new information comes in.”
Ashley walked over to me. She abandoned protocol and hugged me. She held me by the shoulders and looked into my eyes.
“Dee, I’m sorry my friend. It doesn’t look good.”
It doesn’t look good. That’s a polite way of saying that your husband may be splattered all over the South Atlantic. We can’t control our thoughts, just as we can’t control the shit that life sometimes throws at us. I thought about the White House, and the possibility that Matt might not be coming home.
Life in the White House isn’t easy to describe. Countless articles and books have been written on the subject over the years, ever since George Washington occupied the office. Every president since John Adams has lived at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. That means the place has been occupied by a President of the United States since 1800. The mansion was set afire by the British during the War of 1812. While the White House was still under reconstruction, President James Monroe moved in, and construction resumed. The semi-circular South Portico was finished in 1824, and the North Portico in 1829. Although the residence had expanded in size, it became cramped because it was also the site of endless government and ceremonial functions. In 1900, President Theodore Roosevelt ordered all office space to be relocated to the West Wing. He also gave the residence its official name, the White House, although it was common for people to refer to the place by that name before it became official. It had been known over the years by various names, including the “President’s Palace,” the “President’s House,” and the “Executive Mansion.” Eight years after Roosevelt, President Taft expanded the West Wing and added the Oval Office. The place drips history. Both Matt and I are history buffs, and we never get over the feeling of awe, but, typical of Matt, he insisted that he and I look at it as a home, not just an official residence. Not easy. We both feel that life in the White House adds a deep dimension to our lives.
But now he’s missing. I may be packing my bags soon.
Chapter 2
I just experienced the weirdest sensation of my life. As I stood in the control room of the USS Louisiana giving my address to the nation, the sub suddenly took a nose dive. I’m not familiar with submarine movements, but that’s the only way I can describe it—a nose dive. As the sub pulled out of its dive I felt the strongest g-force I’d ever experienced. When I trained for the Recon Marines, we were flown to a high altitude in an airplane which would then suddenly turn into a deep dive. When the plane pulled out of the plunge, the feeling was like having your body pressed into the deck. That’s the only feeling like the one I just experienced. I fell to the deck, my legs unable to support me. Then the sub leveled off and accelerated, pushing me across the deck into a bulkhead. I wasn’t accustomed to the sightless orientation of a sub, and could only go by the feelings my body gave off. There are no portholes to look through to see what’s happening. Then I heard a loud explosion from behind and I felt the sub shudder.
The captain was standing nearby, holding onto a rail. He didn’t look upset, or even surprised.
I stood up, my legs still trembling, and grabbed a rail to steady myself. I could hear the sound of distant gunfire, amplified by the confines of a submarine.
“Captain, can you explain what just happened?”
“Certainly, Mr. President, but there’s a gentleman here who can explain it better than me.”
A man walked into the control room. He was a bit short, maybe 5’8,” and overweight. He wore the uniform of a Russian Naval officer. A Russian Naval Officer?
“Good morning, Mr. President. My name is Vasili Yuschenko. I’m an admiral in the Russian Navy. Please do not be concerned. You are perfectly safe, as is Mr. Riordan, your chief of staff.”
“I’m waiting for an explanation, Admiral,” I said.
“I’m known as a blunt man, Mr. President, so that’s exactly how I shall address your question. Russia has captured the USS Louisiana and you are now our prisoner and our hostage. That explosion you heard was a ruse, a contrived event to make the world think that the Louisiana has been destroyed. You are being taken to a location that I’m not yet ready to disclose.”
“What happened to the crew?” I asked. “What about my Secret Service detail?”
“Mr. President, we had to take some drastic steps, as I’m sure you understand. Your people put up a brave struggle. Some of the crew have been shot, along with your personal body guards from your Secret Service. A few remain as prisoners.”
“Did you personally order the killings?” I asked.
“No, but I stand behind the actions of my men.”
He looked down at the deck when he said that. He looked like a guy who was reporting something that he’d rather not talk about.
“Pardon me for being a skeptic, Admiral, but are you saying that you’re holding me, the President of the United States, as a hostage? Are you going to try to arrange for a prisoner exchange? Has Vladimir Putin lost his mind?”
“Putin has lost more than his mind, Mr. President. He has lost his power. Exactly three hours ago a new regime took the reins of power in Russia by a coup d’état. Our new president is Boris Chernekov. I’m sure you’re familiar with his name.”
“Yes, I’m quite familiar with it.” I said.
Time to shut up, I thought. Do not give this man your opinion that Chernekov is a psychopathic madman who wants nothing more than world domination.
“What about the crew of the Louisiana?” I said. “Are they part of a mutiny?”
“Yes, Mr. President, some of them are definitely mutineers. The others have been shot. You are going through a carefully planned and executed operation. We’ve been working on this for years. For Vladimir Putin, it was just a contingency exercise. Boris Chernekov decided to make it a reality, and he planned it to coincide with the coup against Putin. When we heard the announcement that you would be visiting the Louisiana, we knew it was time to act. As far as the world is concerned, the Louisiana is missing, and so are you.”
So the world thinks I’m dead. Dee thinks I’m dead. It’s a sickening feeling when you know that the person you love has the wr
ong information about you—and there’s not a goddam thing you can do about it. You can’t call and say you’re alright. You can’t text or email her. You just have to accept the fact that your wife thinks you’re dead. I focused my attention back to the admiral.
“Is the Louisiana’s captain, Joseph Campbell, part of the mutiny?” I asked.
“Yes, he is, a valuable part.”
It was hard to believe what I just heard. Captain Joseph Campbell is a well-known officer in the Navy. A Naval Academy graduate, his many assignments included Naval Aide to the White House under my predecessor. Campbell is about six feet in height and he looks the part of a disciplined military leader. He was on a lot of short lists, including mine, to make admiral. Now he’s part of a mutiny? I pride myself on judging a person’s character, a trait that helped get me into the White House. But Campbell fooled a lot of people, including me. We were totally ignorant of who he really was. A solid character you thought you could count on turns out to be a treasonous son of a bitch.
“What do you want from me?” I said.
“I want you to be comfortable and worry free. Your next role in our operation will be disclosed to you in time, and not by me. Actually, I don’t know what your future role will be. My aide will now show you to your quarters, and I trust you will find them comfortable. You will be guarded by armed personnel at all times, so I suggest that you abandon any fantasies as a former Marine war hero.”
Chapter 3
“Admiral Patterson is waiting to see you, Madam First Lady,” Ashley’s aide said.
My mind, which I haven’t quite lost yet, is racing. I’m sitting in the Naval Operations Room at the Pentagon with Admiral Ashley Patterson for another meeting. We’re waiting for Admiral Peter Spratt, the Commander of Submarine Forces, United States Navy. While Ashley brought me up to date on the latest information, I kept myself busy shredding a napkin.
The President is Missing: A Matt Blake Novel (Matt Blake Series Book 3) Page 1
