The President is Missing: A Matt Blake Novel (Matt Blake Series Book 3)

by Russell Moran

  “We need to keep satellite reconnaissance focused on that area,” I said. “When the sub surfaces to enter the base, we’ll have proof, proof for President Benton and for the United Nations if need be.”

  “Bad news, ma’am,” the admiral said. “Balaclava is not just an underground facility, but it has an underwater entrance. A sub can enter and exit without surfacing. Our satellites will pick up nothing, I’m afraid.”

  I should have known that. When I did my study of submarines for Matt, I included the Russian submarine fleet. I completely missed the fact that Balaclava can be accessed without surfacing. But it was an unused museum at the time, and we had no intelligence that it was going to be returned to active service. I’ve got to stop beating myself over the head.

  “Good morning, this is Laura Ingraham calling for the First Lady, I mean the chief of staff, hell, you know who I mean.”

  “Laura, good to hear your voice, my friend,” I said.

  “Dee, honey, I can only imagine what you’re going through. You and Matt had a marriage that I personally found inspirational.”

  “Make that present tense, Laura. Matt and I have a marriage.”

  “Of course, sorry Dee. Which kind of brings me to the point. I’m sitting in for Bill O’Reilly next Tuesday on the O’Reilly Factor, and I’d love to have you on the show. It’s an open secret that the government believes that the USS Louisiana may have been hijacked, and that the president may be alive. You and I have been friends for a long time, Dee. You know that you don’t have to worry about me asking questions that are too sensitive.”

  “And you know that I won’t answer them,” I said laughing. “I look forward to the show.”

  Perfect, I thought. Laura Ingraham has a huge audience. She knows how to ask tough questions, and I know how to answer them. One thing I’ve noticed about Laura over the years is that she never lets her journalistic duties interfere with her patriotism, and that’s the kind of interviewer the country needs right now.

  Chapter 9

  Petty Officer James Tubin knocked on our door.

  “General Vladimir Zhukov is here to see you, sir.”

  I couldn’t believe the treasonous bastard called me “sir.” I wondered how deep his involvement in the mutiny was. He must have been in pretty deep because he’s still alive. The number of American defectors on this sub is one of the many ongoing mysteries of this surreal event.

  A stockily built man, maybe 5’10”, with broad shoulders, walked into our room. He wore the uniform of a Russian general with a chest full of medals. Not just service bars, but full medals that jingled when he walked. I guess he wanted to impress us with his military prowess. I just thought he was an asshole.

  “Good morning, gentlemen, I am General Vladimir Zhukov of the Russian Army. I have been assigned to be your personal contact. You will notice that Admiral Yuschenko and I are of different personalities, and also of different beliefs when it comes to dealing with prisoners. He considered you our honored guests. I consider you our prisoners, and you will be treated accordingly.”

  Like Yuschenko, Zhukov spoke perfect English. Unlike Yuschenko, this prick had an attitude from hell.

  “If I may offer an observation, General,” I said, “we are not only your prisoners, we are your hostages. We’ve been kidnapped against all rules of international law and are being held against our will. This submarine, the USS Louisiana, is the property of the United States of America. You have committed an act of war, and you know it. Although I’m President of the United States, there is little I can do about your actions under the circumstances. I just hope that your new president knows what he’s doing, because he isn’t showing any evidence of it. The only positive outcome from this scenario is that you immediately return the Louisiana to the American government, along with the two of us and any other personnel that you’re holding as prisoners. The longer this insane plan goes on, the worse will be Russia’s position in the world.”

  Zhukov sat at the table, his medals rattling as he did. I think the schmuck sat down with a thud to make his medals jangle. He didn’t ask to be seated, he just sat, and let out a hearty laugh, not of mirth but of sarcasm.

  “I would expect that a man who has achieved such a high position as President of the United States would be more of a realist. Yes, you are our hostages as well as our prisoners. You may be thinking, given your typical American arrogance, that President Chernekov does not have an exact plan in mind. He does, and you fit into it. I realize that you can see no successful outcome for Russia, but you are wrong. We will succeed, you are our prisoners, escape is impossible, and that is all you need to know for now. I am removing the disc of American movies that Admiral Yuschenko supplied you. I believe your time is better spent reflecting on your situation. Good day, gentlemen.”

  Chapter 10

  Thank God the job of White House chief of staff is so busy. It keeps my mind from wandering into dark places.

  Matt and I have been married only six years, but it seems like we met yesterday. I was his client in a wrongful death lawsuit, which was the result of my husband Jim Spellman being killed in a car accident. Before I signed with Matt as an attorney, I went to one of his trials as an observer. Wow, he had me in the palm of his hands as he did the jury, and I think the judge. They awarded a multi-million dollar verdict—which, I later found out, was more than four times the amount of Matt’s pre-trial demand. I was mesmerized by the way he communicated with the jury. He’s tall, crazy handsome, and has a deep dramatic voice. I signed the legal retainer agreement right after that trial. No surprise, Matt achieved a gigantic settlement in my lawsuit. But the case was weird, not a simple sideswipe collision as we originally thought. Matt and his team discovered that Jim’s accident may not have been caused by negligence, a typical personal injury or wrongful death case, but may have been murder. The evidence led to a huge conspiracy that reached the highest levels of government. My late husband, Jim, was an investigative journalist. He was working on a series of articles on domestic terrorism that pointed in some embarrassing directions. I was Jim’s editor and knew everything about his files as well as he did. Somebody wanted Jim dead, and me as well. The case became known as the Sideswipe Conspiracy. As a result of all this, Matt and I wound up in the FBI Witness Protection Program, the purpose of which was to keep us from getting our brains blown out. It wasn’t an unpleasant experience by any stretch—Matt and I got married on our third day in the program at our secret undisclosed location in Lower Manhattan. You can’t make this shit up.

  After the criminal terror case closed, Matt and I moved back home to Chicago. The Windy City was, and still is, a crime infested place with horrible winters. But it was our home so we were happy to return, especially since we were no longer murder targets. I resumed my job as a professor of political science at Northwestern University, and Matt threw himself into the thriving negligence practice of Blake and Randolph. We kept growing closer, enjoying each other’s company as much as we enjoyed our jobs. I think of Matt not only as my lover and husband, but as my best friend. When we have some time on our hands, we play catch. That’s right, catch, with a ball and glove. At the White House we’d play catch in the hallway outside the Oval Office. It’s a great highlight to our relationship. Try it.

  As time went by I started to notice something about Matt. I began to realize that he wasn’t just a great guy, with his good looks and sense of humor. It gradually dawned on me that I had married a great man. On the recommendation of a few people in government who knew him, Matt was appointed Deputy Secretary of Homeland Security. After only a few months on the job, he made a speech before congress to fill in for his suddenly ill superior. Matt was well known in Chicago for his prowess in front of jury. The Chicago Tribune once called him a “lion of the courtroom.” The speech before Congress put him on the national map. Anyone who saw his speech on TV, as well as most network anchor people, asked the same question: “Who is this guy?”

  I’ll never forget t
he day that I suggested he run for President of the United States. We had both gotten home at the same time and sat down to chat over coffee. At first he thought I was kidding. He kept saying, “Me?” Then I explained to him that he was a war hero, with a chest full of decorations as a Marine captain. I also pointed out that he was a famous trial lawyer, and made a reputation as a magical communicator with his speech before Congress. He resisted—a lot. He pointed out that he had a checkered past as a heroin addict and alcoholic. But I told him that because he successfully shook the habits, it made him a heroic figure. I’m a former drunk druggie myself, so my words rang true with Matt. We both agreed that our ongoing battles with our mutual demons helped make us stronger—and closer. I think I clinched the decision when I told him that he’s the kind of man that children should read about in history books.

  So Matt tossed his hat in the ring, and ran for president against an egomaniacal scumbag named Bartholomew Martin, who ran on a ticket of preventing terror. Problem was, the campaign platform was bullshit because Martin and his group of thugs were terrorists themselves. Two weeks before the election a mysterious group (a group that everybody later suspected were Martin’s henchmen) blew up a bunch of children’s amusement parks, along with hundreds of children. The Martin campaign followed up with non-stop TV commercials warning of the dangers of terrorism. I remember the ads to this day: “Are you safe? Are your children safe? Our country needs Bartholomew Martin.” The national panic swayed the vote in Martin’s anti-terror direction. Matt lost.

  The Martin administration became what people feared it would be, the beginning of the first American dictatorship. Every day another liberty disappeared. Matt and I saw our assets placed under seizure—for no stated reason. Our guns (which were totally legal) were confiscated, and our apartment was bugged. We feared the weekly “knock on the door.” It seemed like we lived in a different country, one that became different overnight.

  We weren’t the only ones afraid of the loss of American liberty. A large group of people, myself included, convinced Matt to give the White House another shot in the next election cycle. With Matt’s engaging oratory and tireless campaigning, the country looked to him as the man to save us from a totalitarian prick. I was with him every step of the way, flying around the country making endless campaign stops. It was tiring but fun at the same time. So Matt gave the presidency another shot—and won in a landslide.

  The election was six months ago and Matt has been in office for four months. In his brief time as president he drastically changed the policies of Bartholomew Martin, the budding dictator, and almost single handedly returned America to the country we love.

  Then Matt was kidnapped, and here I am. FLOTUS without a POTUS.

  Chapter 11

  President Boris Chernekov sat at the head of the table. He had convened a “meeting of ministers,” which meant that he assembled a few people from whom he wanted information. Five men sat around the table facing the president, the Ministers of Commerce, Agriculture, Defense, Economy, and Education. Chernekov sat, cracking walnuts into a bowl and popping them into his mouth. He didn’t offer any to the others.

  “Mr. President,” said Sergei Yakov, Minister of Commerce, “can you give us any details on the abduction of the American submarine and the President of the United States? We have been hearing constant rumors about this event.”

  “My dear Sergei,” Chernekov said, his eyes squinting under his bushy eyebrows. “Why do you want to tie up valuable meeting time with talk of rumors? Are there not more important matters to discuss?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I hear constant chatter about this event,” Yakov said. “Perhaps, as your ministers, if we had more information we could help to handle the matter. I believe the Americans call it ‘spin control.’ It would seem that the hijacking of an American nuclear submarine, not to mention the kidnapping of the American President, are all-pervasive issues, and the majority of Western press outlets thinks that Russia is complicit. I’m concerned about commercial relations between Russia and America. When I first heard of the event, I thought it must be fantasy. Never would we carry out such actions, I thought.”

  The other ministers present stared at the table in front of them. One fumbled through a file. Another checked his email. After Yakov stopped speaking, the room was silent. Chernekov, staring at Yakov, allowed the silence to linger. He put down his nut cracker and cracked his knuckles.

  “Minister Yakov, perhaps you did not hear me correctly,” Chernekov said. “There are some matters of which we speak, and others of which we remain silent. I don’t know about these rumors you mention, and I have no comment on them. Does anyone else have something to say about the matter?”

  No one spoke. Each man just shook his head.

  Chernekov continued the meeting with reports about crop yields, armament procurement, a new school building program, and the status of the Russian and world economy. After he was done, Chernekov turned to Yakov.

  “Minister Yakov, I notice that you don’t have any reports on our commercial relations with other countries.”

  “Sir, ever since the rumors about the submarine and President Blake started,” Yakov said, “nobody returns my calls. One person, from the Canadian Commerce Department, said that there could be no discussions of commerce until the mystery of the submarine and the American president is cleared up.”

  “Thank you, Sergei, for your persistent, if somewhat annoying, insistence on addressing your issue. Gentlemen, the meeting is over.”

  As the room emptied, Yakov turned to Chernekov and said, “Mr. President, may I have a word with you.”

  “Sergei, if your words aren’t worth sharing with the others, they aren’t worth sharing with me.”

  Yakov, who rated a car and driver because of his position as minister, climbed into the back seat of his renovated GAZ Chaika. He told the driver to take him to the eastern part of Moscow where he would attend a meeting with the Eurozone Manufacturing Consortium. Ten miles away from the Kremlin, where Yakov had just met with President Chernekov, the driver pulled into a vacant lot. The man got out of the car, opened the rear door, and fired three rounds into the head of Sergei Yakov from his Makarov pistol. Another car pulled alongside, and the driver of Yakov’s vehicle climbed into the front passenger seat.

  The world press reported that Yakov had been shot in a holdup.

  Chapter 12

  “Have a seat, Captain,” I said. “How about a cup of coffee.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Blake, I’d enjoy that. I’m not used to meetings starting at 7 a.m.”

  “Get used to it, Captain,” I said. “Until we solve this crisis, think of 7 a.m. as noon.”

  I was sitting in my office with Captain Wallace Keaton, the head of the Office of Naval Intelligence (ONI). The United States boasts (boasts?) 17 separate intelligence agencies, ONI being one of them. Keaton has spent his entire career—18 years so far—with ONI. Pundits constantly shake their heads about the duplication of intelligence information in the US. Are there turf wars? Yes. Do agencies overstep their bounds? Yes. Does the right hand occasionally forget what the left hand’s doing? Yes. But one good thing about all of these spies running around is that if the president wants an answer to a question, he just has to make a couple of phone calls. Personally, I have no problem with all the duplication. Better too much information than not enough.

  “Captain,” I said, “you’re going to see a lot of me in the near future. Today, there’s one major issue I want to discuss: Captain Joseph Campbell, commanding officer of the USS Louisiana. He was in command when the sub went missing. What do we know about this guy?”

  “His service record is clean as a whistle, ma’am. After he graduated from Annapolis, he was assigned to the nuclear power program. He rose through the ranks, having served on eight different submarines in his 18 year career to date. He’s never had a negative comment in his service record.”

  “His service record?” I said, a bit too loudly. “You head
up the Office of Naval Intelligence and all you can tell me is that his service record is clean? There are only two possibilities, Captain. Either Campbell’s been killed or captured, or he’s complicit in a mutiny. We need to know a lot more about this guy. Have you checked his financial records?”

  “No, ma’am, but we probably should. It will take a while to get a warrant to check his financial accounts.”

  I picked up the phone and dialed the office of Sarah Watson, Director of the FBI. I put it on speaker so Captain Keaton could hear.

  “This is Chief of Staff Blake. Please put me through to the director.”

  Sarah Watson was in a meeting, but interrupted it to take my call.

  “Sarah, I need a warrant, ASAP. We need to check the financial records of Captain Joseph Campbell, the CO of the Louisiana. We need it NOW, and I need to cut short the process.”

  “We’re ahead of you, Dee. I got the warrant two days ago and we’re checking his records as we speak.”

  Watson’s assistant waved his hands to get her attention, and pointed to a folder he had just placed on her desk.

  “I just received an update, Dee, and it’s in front of me right now.”

  “Please check it while we’re on the phone, Sarah.”

  I realized that I was being a total pain in the ass, making demands that Sarah Watson seldom hears. But she’s used to dealing with the White House. Now she’ll have to get used to me.

  “Holy shit,” said Watson. “I’m reading the briefing now. Last month the tidy sum of 10 million dollars was deposited into one of Campbell’s accounts—an American bank account. The Navy must have raised its pay rates.”

  “Have you been able to track the source of the funds, Sarah?”

  “Not yet, Dee. I don’t expect to find a hot trail. Whoever paid him this money was clumsy enough to deposit the funds in a domestic bank account, and I doubt that they’d be so stupid as to leave fingerprints on the source. We’re also checking the financial records of every sailor and officer on the Louisiana.”