We’ve been gone for two days. I assume that Rolly Benton has been sworn in as president under the 25th Amendment by now. At least the country is in able hands. But my thoughts drifted away from Rolly Benton, and shifted toward Dee. She takes up all of my consciousness. I love her as much now as I did the day we met. When I close my eyes, I can imagine the scent of her skin and hair, her beautiful body, and her never-ending smile. She has a mouth like a cab driver in traffic, and I even miss that. Right now, as I’m sitting here, Dee must think that I’m dead, just like everybody else. Not to be able to reach out and tell her I’m okay is an empty emotion that I can’t get in touch with. I’ve never felt this way, because I’ve never been a prisoner before. When you’re President of the United States, you grow accustomed to shaping events. You ask a question, and it gets answered. You see something you don’t like, you make a phone call and it gets taken care of. You have a lot of power, enormous power. But now I don’t even have the ability to move about freely. I have no power at all. I’m a prisoner.
The sub seems to be moving slowly, although I have no way of knowing other than my own senses. My guess is that they’re trying to keep the Louisiana’s audible footprint as obscure as possible.
“Tony, I assume that Rolly Benton was sworn in as president within an hour of our having gone missing.”
Tony Riordan is what any president could wish for in a chief of staff. He’s smart as hell, and doesn’t take crap from anybody. He’s a 6’2” black guy with the shoulders of a linebacker. But he handles his job less through physical intimidation than persuasion and leadership. Tony served four terms in the House of Representatives as a Congressman from Indiana. When his predecessor passed away suddenly, the Speaker of the House named him Chairman of the House Armed Services Committee and he was approved by unanimous vote from both sides of the aisle. The New York Times, not usually a fan of mine, praised my pick of Tony as White House Chief of Staff as a “brilliant appointment.”
“Yes, Mr. President, I’m sure of it. The 25th Amendment is pretty strict about the office of the president not going vacant. They all assume that you’re dead, I’m dead, and that the Louisiana has been destroyed. But Rolly Benton is a good man, sir. He won’t consider this a closed case until he’s convinced that there’s no other explanation. He’ll keep the seat warm for you.”
“Any guess where we’re headed, Tony?”
“My guess is the Kola Peninsula, sir, the big Russian naval base, although now it’s mainly a graveyard of broken down subs. Your thoughts, Mr. President?”
“I think we’re heading to Balaklava on the Crimean Peninsula,” I said. “Until 1996 it was the site of a huge underground submarine base. Now it’s a museum. I’ve gotten intelligence briefings that Putin had plans to reopen it, and I’m sure that Boris Chernekov definitely intends to do so. If you want to hide an Ohio Class submarine, what could be better than an underground base? But the reality is we just don’t know and we won’t until we get there. It’s hard to believe that the Louisiana is under the command of an American naval officer. Joe Campbell, from what I know about him, is a by-the-rules career officer. But if that’s so, how the fuck can we believe that he’s a head mutineer? The son of a bitch stole an American submarine, a submarine under his command, and kidnapped his president.”
“I reviewed his service record, Mr. President, as soon as I learned about our visit to the Louisiana. There was no hint in the papers that he had a penchant for anything out of the ordinary. Just another mystery that we don’t have answers for.”
“Good morning, gentlemen. I hope you enjoyed your breakfast,” Admiral Yuschenko said, after knocking on our door and walking in.
“Good morning, Admiral,” I said. “Thank you. Breakfast was fine, but I’m accustomed to choosing my own location and menu items. I have a question, well I have about a million questions, but for now can you tell us where we are? I don’t see any security problem for you because we’re obviously your prisoners. But it would be comforting to know where we are.”
I’m not sure what “embarrassed” looks like, but that’s exactly how Yuschenko’s face appeared.
“Forgive me, Mr. President,” Yuschenko said, “but I’m a military man. I follow orders, and my orders are not to disclose our location.”
“Do you have any idea how long to our destination?” I asked.
“A matter of days, Mr. President. How many days I cannot say. Please relax and enjoy the comforts we give you. I have American movies on DVD discs that you can watch on the television. Please let me know if there is anything else you need.”
Our friendly captor took his leave.
“What’s your take on the admiral, Tony?”
“He strikes me as a guy who’s following orders, Mr. President. I’m quite familiar with Russian military officers. They’re tough and relentless about getting a job done. But there’s something about Yuschenko that tells me he’s going through the motions. Yeah, he’s following orders, but I don’t think he likes his orders.”
“I get the same impression, Tony. Let’s keep observing this guy—as best we can.”
Chapter 6
We heard loud sounds on deck, which was surprising because we were still submerged. For two hours we heard nothing but a steady cacophony of bangs, scraping, and commotion. Most of the noise seemed to come from the area of the conning tower, which is now called the sail, about 150 feet aft of us. Every few minutes, the sub would shudder as if grabbed by a giant. The noise went on unabated.
“Tony, do you have any idea what that noise and shaking is all about?”
“No, sir. I can’t imagine what kind of work they could be doing while we’re still under water.”
When the noise finally stopped, the sub went silent for about an hour, except for short tapping sounds.
After 10 minutes, Tony and I both felt a change in the sea condition. The familiar thrum of the engines over the past few days was replaced by different sounds. We heard orders shouted and a lot of movement on deck. Tony, an Annapolis grad and former Navy man, has seen his share of sea duty.
“Those are the sounds of a special sea and anchor detail, Mr. President. We’re tying up to a dock.”
Admiral Yuschenko walked into our room. He wore a smile as usual. Something about This guy does not remind me of a kidnaper, I thought.
“You’re being temporarily relocated, gentlemen. Please come with me. I think you will enjoy some fresh air.”
We followed Yuschenko up the ladder onto deck. I wouldn’t call the air fresh, but it was pleasantly different. What greeted us was an amazing site—a gigantic underground submarine base. I recognized it from photos as the sub base at Balaklava. Looks like my destination guess was accurate.
The space before us was breathtaking. I felt as if I was standing at the edge of an indoor football field looking across two others. A large doorway at one end suggested that more of the facility stretched beyond our vantage point. The walls appeared to be at least 100 feet high, topped by a curved ceiling, which was partially constructed of windows, giving the cavernous space an eerie glow of partial sunlight. I could see roller mechanisms and tracks across the ceiling and running down to the docks. My guess was that metal sheets could be rolled into place as a shield in case of a threatened attack. Along the bulkhead were docks for submarines. Across the walkway from each dock was a large door, apparently for on-loading supplies and large equipment. Only one other submarine occupied the gigantic space. It was tied up across from us about 300 feet away.
“Here’s something that blows me away, Mr. President.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Do you realize that we entered this cave without surfacing?” Tony said. “From what I remember when I studied it, the sub base is carved into a huge cliff surrounding Balaklava Harbor. When it was fully operational they could dock as many as seven submarines at one time. Because a sub could enter or exit under water, they didn’t have to worry about spy satellites seeing the boats co
me and go. More than 300 feet of rock sits atop 15 feet of reinforced concrete, creating a bomb shelter that could hold more than 3,000 people for 30 days. It gives me the creeps to think that Chernekov is dusting off this place to make it useable again as an active sub base.”
“So, assuming that we keep this place under satellite surveillance, the Louisiana could come and go without our satellites noticing?” I said.
“That’s right, Mr. President. Our arrival at Balaklava does nothing to change the story that we were hijacked. All that noise we heard as we approached was probably some external alterations to handle the tight squeeze through the tunnel. You’ve got to give these guys credit for one thing: they do a good job of preparation.”
Our guards escorted us off the sub onto the dock. I could understand why sailors always talk about the first rubbery-leg feeling of stepping on dry land after a long cruise. Nausea swept over me. A chilly wind wafted through the facility, which I found pleasant. We walked for about a quarter of a mile and were taken to a wing of the base that appeared to be used for residential purposes. A sailor showed us into a suite with adjoining rooms and a common area in the middle. We checked for bugs as soon as we entered and found none.
Admiral Yuschenko knocked and walked in as we were having coffee in the common area.
“Gentlemen, I’m pleased to inform you that your submarine days are over, at least temporarily. You will be staying here until further notice.”
“Admiral Yuschenko,” I said, “What can you possibly have in mind? You have kidnapped the President of the United States and his Chief of Staff, as well as hijacked an American submarine. I don’t see any possible scenario that turns out positive for you. Has Boris Chernekov totally lost his grip on reality? Your country has committed an act of war and hopes to get away with it by subterfuge. This can’t possibly work, and I think you know that. Using me or the USS Louisiana for negotiating purposes is idiotic. You may be able to pull this nonsense with a small powerless country, but not with the United States of America.”
“Mr. President, with all due respect, sir, I am a military man simply doing my duty. Whether I believe these actions make sense is immaterial. Someone, presumably President Chernekov, has a plan, and I know nothing of the plan. I have recommended to you before and I say it again now, please think of yourselves as our guests and don’t trouble yourselves with speculation.”
“A guest, by definition, is free to leave when he wants to. So why don’t you treat us as real guests and let us go?”
“That sounds like a simple solution, Mr. President, but life is not always so simple. I will be leaving you now. After my duties aboard the Louisiana are completed this afternoon, it’s unlikely that you will see me again. It has been my pleasure to have met you.”
I looked at Tony as the admiral walked out the door.
“That guy did not want this to happen and does not want it to continue.” I said. “Something in my gut tells me that he’s going to do something about it.”
Chapter 7
“Please have a seat Admiral Yuschenko. Join me in some vodka?”
Yuschenko sat in the office of the new President of Russia, Boris Chernekov. It was the same office that Vladimir Putin once occupied. Chernekov, like his predecessor, preferred dark leather and large spaces, adding to his feeling of power. Chernekov stood at just under six feet. He had a barrel chest, partially from his former exercise routines and partially from genetics. His father was a Russian general and also had a barrel chest, on which he sported his medals, all of which he awarded himself. Chernekov, at 59 years of age, was totally gray. His eyebrows were “bushy,” and drooped down over his eyeglasses.
“Thank you Mr. President, but it’s a bit early in the day for vodka. I’ll have some tea if you don’t mind.”
Chernekov snorted a laugh. “You call yourself a sailor? Suit yourself. So tell me Vasili, how is our guest, President Blake, faring?”
“Well, sir, as a prisoner he’s faring about as well as can be expected. He speaks very little and when he does he asks questions, as you would expect. We allow him to communicate with Tony Riordan, his chief of staff. We see no risk, because they are sealed off from the rest of the world.”
“Vasili, we have big plans for Matthew Blake, not to mention the USS Louisiana.”
“Sir, if I may,” Admiral Yuschenko said, “what are our plans for President Blake and the Louisiana? I hope I’m not overstepping my bounds by asking.”
“You are overstepping your bounds, Vasili. Your job is to follow and execute orders. Leave the speculation to us.”
“Us?” thought Yuschenko, there is no “us.” It’s only him, Boris Chernekov. Yuschenko prided himself on his ability to conceal his contempt for Chernekov, a talent that helped keep him alive as a holdover from the prior administration. Yuschenko considered himself a patriot, and believed that Russia should be at the forefront of world affairs, but not with the medieval skullduggery of Boris Chernekov.
“General Vladimir Zhukov will now take over the entertaining of our special guests,” Chernekov said. “He will arrive at Balaklava this afternoon. Well done, Vasili. I commend you on how you carried out this assignment.”
Zhukov? That’s just great, thought Yuschenko. He’s a sadistic brute if there ever was one, a perfect lackey to Chernekov, and now he’s going to be in charge of guarding the President of the United States. When the word gets out, as it inevitably will, Russia will stand like swaggering whore before the world. This crazy operation gets stranger by the minute.
Yuschenko had an epiphany at the end of his meeting with Chernekov.
For the good of Mother Russia, I will personally put an end to this madness, he thought.
Chapter 8
I complain to myself about being too busy, but that’s bullshit. The busier I am the less I think about Matt. The job of Chief of Staff to the President is an insane business, which is why the turnover is so high. During the Obama Administration, the average time on the job was one year—It’s easy to see why. The job is like herding cats with a candle. The many tasks include daily administrative processes, paper flow, scheduling, and personnel decisions. On top of that, President Benton made it clear to me that my primary job is to solve the Louisiana mystery, the Matt Blake mystery. Of course that’s why I took the position. Nobody in this country wants to see Matt Blake alive more than me. A thought that never leaves me, a thought that occupies every moment of my life, is that the most important person in my life is a prisoner—assuming he’s alive.
I already received my on-the-job training during Matt’s brief tenure in office by watching Tony Riordan do his work. Tony’s a master of organization as well as diplomacy, a key requirement for the job of Chief of Staff. Because I was also a close advisor to Matt (more like the closest) I got to see Tony handle the office with grace and dedication. Matt told me—and he never bullshits with a subject like this—that he thought of me as a co-Chief of Staff. I hope I can do the same for Rolly Benton.
This afternoon I’ll meet with people at the Office of Naval Operations. But this morning I had a major chore, one that required every bit of diplomatic skill I could muster. Both the senate majority leader and the speaker of the house are scheduled to meet with the President in the Oval Office. The subject is the new armed forces appropriations bill. This bill is a major item on the congressional agenda as well as the president’s. One of Matt’s campaign platforms was to strengthen the military, and President Benton is dedicated to seeing it through. A missing nuclear submarine provides a dramatic background to the meeting.
That the Louisiana may have been hijacked is now common thinking throughout the government. It’s no secret, and the news media has picked up on it as well. That means that whoever stole the sub (presumably Russia) is aware of our knowledge. That means getting the appropriations bill through Congress fast, and putting in place whatever military contingencies we may face. The public awareness of our missing president and sub provides President Benton with a p
owerful bully pulpit. It’s difficult for a member of congress to vote against a military appropriations bill in face of the action taken against the country. Of course, the various members saw the bill as an opportunity to slip in some vote-getting pork. A highway ramp leading to a constituent’s new amusement park is just what the country needs. Matt and Rolly have more patience for this shit than I do.
I thought the meeting was a success, and I was happy with the way I handled it. You can’t just stand up and say to two powerful members of congress that the president has a lot on his plate besides the appropriations bill, and that they need to move their asses. I managed not to piss them off, which I consider a win.
Last night I slept in my new quarters at Blair House, the president’s guest facility across from the White House. Under the weird circumstances of the Louisiana disappearance, there were few guidelines for what to do with a First Lady who may be a former First Lady. My job as Chief of Staff makes it even more complicated. Not my problem. The government has protocol mavens who spend their time dwelling on bullshit questions like this.
Shortly after noon, I met with Admiral Spratt at the Office of Naval Operations.
“We have something, ma’am. I’m not sure what it is but here’s what we know. Yesterday afternoon one of our listening devices picked up a submarine near the Crimean Peninsula. It’s possible that it could be an Ohio Class, according to our experts, but we’re not certain. This is meager evidence, but I wanted to let you know anyway.”
“Do we know where the sub was headed?” I asked.
“We’re almost certain it went to Balaklava, the former underground submarine base that’s being reinstated. If you want to keep a submarine hidden, an underground facility is perfect.”
The President is Missing: A Matt Blake Novel (Matt Blake Series Book 3) Page 3
