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.