“It’s good,” he said.
Christine nodded slowly, unable to conceal the disappointment in her eyes, then pushed herself to her feet.
“I appreciate you stopping by.”
Harrison also stood, and there was a long silence until she spoke again.
“I’ll be fine,” she said, then forced a smile.
“If you need anything,” Harrison said, “I’ll be there for you.”
“I know.”
After another long moment, Harrison bade farewell and stepped from the stateroom, closing the door behind him.
100
WASHINGTON, D.C. USS MICHIGAN
A light rain was falling from a gray, overcast sky as Naveen Chandra’s black limousine veered off Dupont Circle onto Connecticut Avenue for the short trip to the White House. As the American capital slid by rain-streaked windows, Chandra fidgeted with the brown leather satchel on his lap, pausing to straighten his tie unconsciously. It wasn’t often that the American president met directly with a country’s ambassador. The reason was obvious, although the outcome was unpredictable. The president had made a decision concerning India’s involvement in the Arabian Sea last week, and as Chandra’s thoughts churned through the various outcomes, a deepening uneasiness grew in his stomach. American-Indian relations were about to take a turn for the worse.
Relations between the two countries had come a long way since the Clinton administration tried to isolate India after its nuclear tests in 1998. Sanctions were eventually lifted, and the United States, searching for allies in the Pacific against the growing Chinese military, had adopted a policy of accommodation toward India. However, despite strengthening ties between the two countries over the last decade, the Indian government had sided with Russia during last week’s conflict in the Arabian Sea. President Madan’s administration had concluded Russia was reemerging as a global power, their influence in the region growing while America’s waned. However, Madan’s decision had proved shortsighted.
After turning onto West Executive Avenue, Chandra’s limousine stopped in front of black steel bars guarding the White House grounds. Following a search of the vehicle for explosives, the gate opened and the sedan pulled forward, coasting to a stop under the West Wing portico. Waiting to greet him was a young woman barely out of college, flanked by two marines in dress blues.
Chandra stepped from the sedan and one of the marines saluted as the young woman stepped forward, introducing herself as they shook hands. She was Sheree Hinton, a White House intern. Instead of being greeted by the president’s powerful chief of staff, as was customary, India’s ambassador had been greeted by the lowest White House staffer on the food chain. It was an ill omen. The young woman led him into the Roosevelt Room, where she instructed him to wait until the president was ready, then departed.
“No close contacts!”
Lieutenant Jane Stucker made the call as the eighteen-thousand-ton submarine leveled off at periscope depth. After verifying there were no contacts close enough to pose a collision threat, Stucker slowed her revolutions on the periscope, and Christine watched from the corner of the Control Room as the junior officer conducted a low-power scan of the horizon, searching for distant ships or military aircraft.
Stucker completed the search and reported to Captain Wilson, standing nearby on the Conn. “Sir, I have completed a low-power surface and air search. Hold no contacts.”
Wilson acknowledged and took the scope, and as he conducted a detailed search of his own, Christine’s thoughts turned to her pending departure. After Russia’s capitulation and withdrawal from Lithuania and Ukraine, Michigan had begun her journey home to Bangor, Washington, for an overdue maintenance period, passing through the Suez Canal into the Pacific Ocean again. Christine’s time aboard the guided missile submarine was drawing to a close; they’d soon be passing near Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean, where she’d be transferred ashore.
In the week since Michigan departed the Black Sea, Christine had slowly begun to feel like herself again, emerging from her shell as the memories of what she’d done, and had been done to her, on the shore of the Black Sea faded. Harrison stopped by frequently to check on her, and while she found his attention comforting, their interactions left an ache in her heart each time. She began to slowly reconcile her feelings for him; despite his obvious concern for her, he would never be more than a close friend. She’d blown both chances, declining his offer to marry her after high school and college.
Wilson stepped back, turning the scope over to Lieutenant Stucker as an announcement came from the Conn speakers. “Conn, ESM. Hold no threat radars.”
Stucker acknowledged ESM’s report as Wilson stepped toward the communications panel on the Conn, pulling the 1-MC microphone to his mouth.
“Man Battle Stations Missile.”
The Chief of the Watch, stationed at the Ballast Control Panel on the port side of Control, activated the General Alarm, and the loud gong-gong-gong reverberated throughout the ship. As the alarm faded, he picked up his 1-MC microphone, repeating the Captain’s order.
Crew members streamed into Control, taking their seats at dormant consoles, bringing them to life as they donned their sound-powered phone headsets. When Lieutenant Eaton arrived, Wilson stepped off the Conn, leaving the safety of the ship in the Navigator’s and Lieutenant Stucker’s capable hands. Christine followed Wilson down the ladder to Operations Compartment Second Level and into Missile Control Center.
Like the Navigation Center behind the Control Room, Missile Control Center was also transformed during the submarine’s conversion to SSGN. The refrigerator-sized computers were replaced with servers one-tenth their size, and a Tube Status Control Display was now mounted on the starboard bulkhead. The ballistic missile Launch Console on the aft bulkhead had been replaced with four consoles: the two workstations on the right were Mission Planning Consoles, the third was the Launch Control Console, and the fourth workstation displayed a map of Michigan’s operating area, which contained a small green hatched section.
Wilson stopped behind the Launch Control Console beside Lieutenant Mike Lawson, the submarine’s Weapons Officer, with both men looking over the shoulders of a second class petty officer manning the workstation. Glancing at the fourth console, Wilson verified Michigan was within the green hatched area — the submarine’s launch basket, where Michigan’s Tomahawk missiles were within target range.
Lieutenant Lawson reported to the Captain, “Five minutes to window. Request permission to launch salvo One.”
Wilson replied, “Permission granted. Launch salvo One.”
Following Wilson’s order, there was no flurry of activity. Lawson simply turned back toward the Launch Control Console, his eyes focused on the time as it counted down the remaining five minutes. At ten seconds before the scheduled launch, the launch button on the Launch Control Console display, which had been grayed out until this point, turned a vivid green.
The Launch Operator announced, “In the window, salvo One.”
Lieutenant Lawson replied, “Very well, Launch Operator. Continue.”
When the digital clock on the Launch Operator’s screen reached 00:00:00, the Launch Operator clicked the green button, and Michigan’s automatic Tomahawk Attack Weapon System took control.