Black Sea Affair

CHAPTER 7

The USS Honolulu

Five miles east of La Maddalena

4:30 p.m. local time

A thick overcast hung over the aqua blue waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea, and the air was heavy with the smell of rain.

From the open bridge atop the sail of the USS Honolulu, Commander Pete Miranda surveyed the open waters through his binoculars. The horizon out toward the Mediterranean was open, except for the northeast-bound ferry that ran from Sardinia to the Italian port of Civitavecchia.

Lieutenant Commander Frank Pippen, Pete's executive officer, along with the officer of the deck and two lookouts joined Pete on the small open bridge area. All five men wore orange weather jackets and blue ball caps with USS Honolulu stenciled in gold.

Pete handed the binoculars to one of the lookouts standing behind him, then extracted two Montecristo cigars from his khaki shirt pocket under the weather jacket. He handed a cigar to his XO.

"Thank you, sir, " the XO said.

"My pleasure, Frank." Pete flicked a lighter and lit the end of Frank's cigar. Pete allowed himself a few drags, taking in the view for a few minutes without saying a word.

"Tell me about your family, Frank."

"Emily and I divorced several years ago. Never had kids."

"Anybody special since?"

"You know how it is. You meet women in bars." The XO took another puff, coughing as if he were choking on the smoke.

"You okay?"

"Yes, sir." Regaining his equilibrium, Frank continued. "Here today. Gone tomorrow. The Navy's a jealous mistress." Another puff on the Montecristo. More coughing. "How about you, sir?"

"How about me… what?"

"Family, sir?"

"I was born in Chile. My family immigrated to Texas. I met Sally at North Texas State." His voice cracked. A long puff helped him check his emotions. "She and I got married my senior year, and then I went off to OCS. I think they were hot on Latin American officers. I applied for subs, got picked up for the program."

He looked away from his XO. "Anyway, Sally and I divorced five years ago after having two kids. Haven't seen 'em in almost a year."

Three seagulls danced in the air in front of the submarine, just out over the partially submerged bow. The thought struck Pete that he may never see his ex-wife or two children again. Another lump swelled in his throat.

"Too bad, sir."

"My daughter Hannah is thirteen now. She's got the sweetest Cinderella face you'll ever see. She's kind of standoffish, though. Doesn't wanna be hugged. And my boy Coley." Another drag from his cigar. "Well, he's my boy."

"And your wife?"

"What about her?"

"She ever remarry?"

"Nope." Another puff. "I tried getting back together. She wanted none of that."

Honolulu rolled slightly through the swells on top of the water. Pete squinted and exhaled a cloud of blue smoke.

"Anybody special since?" The XO looked at him.

"Like you said, XO. The Navy's a jealous mistress."

"Yes, sir."

Cool wind whipped up from the east, from the direction of the Italian mainland. The great city of Rome lay 225 miles across the open water of the Tyrrhenian Sea – off to their left. Pete had taken submarines along this southeasterly course toward the Mediterranean many times, and always felt reverential awe for the great seas of biblical times. These ancient waters had been sailed by the Greek and Roman navies of antiquity.

Other than the sound of the sub's engines churning through the water, silence reigned. Pete wanted to savor these last moments of communion with the salt air and the sea breeze.

"Do you think he will do it, sir?"

"Do I think who will do what?"

"The president. Do you think he will order us in?"

"I hope and pray that he won't, Frank. But given our current relations with Russia and given the president's big push to curtail terrorist activities, I think he will. But we'll see."

Another pause.

"I'm praying too, Skipper, " Frank said. "I'll be honest with you. In all my years in the Navy, I've never felt like I've started a mission where death was a real possibility. Lately, the Navy has gone unchallenged by all the other navies of the world. But this is different."

Their eyes locked. "Yes, Frank, it is."

"I'm ready to go if I have to, Captain. I'm ready." The XO's voice was sure and steady.

Pete slapped Lieutenant Commander Frank Pippen on the shoulders.

He checked his watch. It was time.

"XO, take her down, " Pete ordered.

The XO picked up the microphone on the bridge. "Control bridge." A brief pause. "Sounding."

"Bridge. Control. Sounding one-two-zero fathoms."

"Lookouts, clear the bridge!" Frank ordered.

Three orange-jacketed lookouts scrambled down the aluminum ladder leading to the control room.

"Officer of the deck, prepare to dive!" the XO ordered.

Pete descended the ladder from the open-air bridge leading to the control room. A rumble on the aluminum ladders followed him. Pete hopped from the last step to the control room floor, then announced, "Captain is down."

"Captain is down!" the officer of the deck parroted.

Clanking and rumbling on the steel-grated floors echoed throughout the sub. Men jogged down metal ladders. Some slid down the handrails like batman descending the batpole. Red lights flashed on and off. Cacophonous sirens sounded.

"XO down." Frank hopped from the ladder to the deck of the control room.

"XO is down!" the officer of the deck parroted.

"Submerge the ship!" Pete ordered.

"Diving officer submerge the ship!" the XO parroted. "Make your depth one-five-zero feet."

"Make my depth one-five-zero feet! Aye, sir!" the diving officer repeated, then said, "Chief of the watch. On the 1MC!" The diving officer's order opened up every loudspeaker on the sub for every crew member to hear the next commands.

"Dive!"

"Dive!"

"Dive!"

Over flashing lights and warning alarms, the words that electrified the soul of every submariner – dive, dive, dive – echoed throughout the ship.

"Make your depth one-five-zero feet, " the diving officer told the planesman, the petty officer in the blue jumpsuit who sat at the control of the submarine. "Five degrees down bubble."

Sweat beaded on the planesman's forehead. He pushed the steering wheel down ever so slightly.

Honolulu's nose angled down under the surface. Her ballasts began flooding with salt water. Geysers of water shot into the air from the forward section of the sub as rushing water gushed into the forward ballasts.

She continued angling down, down under the surface. Time was of the essence. Pete had to get Honolulu on station, in a position to perform this mission if President Williams ordered it.

"Approaching one-five-zero feet, " the diving officer said.

"Very well, " Pete said. "Set course for one-three-five degrees. All ahead two-thirds."

"One-three-five degrees, " the OOD parroted – Honolulu was on a course due southeast. "All ahead two-thirds."

"Maneuvering. Conn. All ahead two-thirds."

"Conn. Maneuvering. All ahead two-thirds."

Honolulu's engines revved. She sliced through the depths, a silent hunter-killer on a life-or-death mission.

The Alexander Popovich Sochi, Russia

9:00 a.m. local time

Captain Batsakov checked his watch. From the bridge of Alexander Popovich, he looked over at the concrete pier and cursed. The unexpected and unwelcome visitors from FSB had delayed his sailing for twenty-four hours. The holdup was that group of kids from the blasted orphanage.

Politicians.

They were all the same.

They all had their agendas, strutting about like proud peacocks with their chests puffed out and their thumbs hooked under their suspenders. These bloodsuckers would cost him millions if he did not untie his ship from the concrete pier and find that Egyptian freighter. Not to mention loss of possible future business. The blasted Islamic terrorists had more American money than the Americans themselves.

He was tempted to thumb his nose at the FSB and sail without the little terrors if they didn't show up soon. But if he did that, the authorities could send a Russian submarine to sink him, if they could find one in the Black Sea fleet that was still seaworthy. Even in the best-case scenario, he would never be able to sail into a Russian port again.

Batsakov cursed.

The problem, it seemed, was that the orphans had gone on a camping trip up in the Caucasus Mountains and had not returned in time to travel yesterday.

The phone rang on the bridge.

"For you, Kapitan, " one of the bridge hands said. "It is the pierside telephone."

Batsakov reached for the phone. "Dah!"

"Kapitan Batsakov?"

"Dah."

"This is Radimov at the pier shack."

"What is it, Radimov? I am busy."

"My apologies, Kapitan. It is the children. They are here."

Finally. Batsakov checked his watch again. If he could get them boarded in the next thirty minutes…

"You are sure they are all here, Radimov?"

"They rolled up in an old bus, Kapitan. They are all hanging out the windows like monkeys."

"I'll be right down." Batsakov cursed again, then slammed down the phone.

Quiet! Quiet children!" Twenty-five-year-old Masha Katovich stood at the front of the bus, barking instructions at the group of twelve orphans who were crawling all over themselves, giggling and talking and pointing at the object outside the right side of the dirty old bus.

That object was a large black ship, a freighter, to be precise. She understood their exhilaration. She too became excited when they told her that the group that she had been chaperoning here in Sochi would sail home to Ukraine on board a ship!

She had never even seen a ship. Neither had the children. And now they were here, exhilarated, and she had to get them under control.

"Children! Quiet!"

Nothing.

"Children. No quiet, no ship ride!" Their volume decreased. "No quiet, no ship ride!"

This tactic worked. She could hear herself think. Twenty-four sparkling eyes latched upon her.

"Stay here with the driver and remain quiet. I am going to meet the people from the ship, and then we will go on board!"

Cheering followed that announcement. Masha shook her head. "Don't let anyone out, " she ordered the driver, who nodded his head asshe stepped out of the bus.

Captain Batsakov's skull was about to explode.

He would get his ship off the pier, if he had to go horsewhip the little devils up onto the deck. And if the FSB tried to board, he would take them out to sea, shoot them in the back of the head, throw them to the sharks, and tell the authorities that they fell overboard when they had overdone it on vodka.

He checked his watch, snorted, and stormed across the deck to the gangway. From there, he looked down and saw the white bus that Radimov was talking about. In fact, he saw Radimov milling about down in front of the bus. Why wasn't he herding the blasted urchins out?

Batsakov bounded down the gangway. He reached the concrete pier, accepted and returned a sloppy salute from the half-drunk sailor at the bottom, and met eyes with Radimov, who still stood in front of the parked bus.

"Radimov! Get these… these…" He held his hands in the air, searching for something more diplomatic to call them than devils. "These young individuals off the bus!"

A young woman stepped around the front of the bus. Her black curly hair bounced on her shoulders. Her slim waistline complemented casual jeans and an unkempt green shirt. She smiled.

"These young individuals, as you call them, are mine." Her blue eyes blinked at him. "And who, may I ask, are you?"

He was about to announce "I am the captain of this ship" when a sporty-looking black Volga 3111 automobile pulled toward them. Bat-sakov winced at the faces of the two FSB agents who had invited themselves on board his ship less than forty-eight hours ago and announced that he would be forced to host a floating kindergarten.

The two FSB agents, in black suits and black sunglasses, stepped out.

"Ah, Kapitan, " said the first one, whose name Batsakov remembered as Federov. "I see you and Miss Katovich are becoming acquainted." The agents walked toward the captain and the woman.

"We were getting off to a good start." The young woman locked her eyes on Batsakov again. "I'm Masha Katovich. I work for the relief organization that sponsors summer trips for these orphans." She extended her hand, as if expecting him to kiss it.

He obliged. "You aren't FSB like your friends here?" That brought laughter from her, but no reaction from the stone-faced agents.

She flicked her head toward them. "I envy their salaries and their car. I am but a mere social worker, Kapitan."

"I wouldn't describe you as a mere anything, my dear." She had mollified his anger about the late sailing, he realized. "I shall gladly transport your orphans to wherever you wish to sail."

"Kapitan, " spoke the second one, whose name he had forgotten in the immediate glow of Masha Katovich. "Unfortunately, my colleague and I cannot sail with you. Developments in Chechnya have us occupied. You will be met by other FSB agents at the pier in Odessa. They will come onboard and bring the children off. There will be no need for you to disembark. If you choose to disembark, wait until after the ceremonies at the dockside. Meantime, Miss Katovich will assist you during the course of your journey."

"Miss Katovich is coming with us?"

"If that is okay with you, Kapitan." She smiled at him.

"But of course. My ship is your ship."

"Then with your permission, I will round up my young individuals and get them on board. I am sure you are anxious to set sail, and apologize if we have held your ship up in any way."

"Please, bring your children aboard. And no apologies are necessary, Miss Katovich. Radimov here will assist you in finding your berthing spaces."

She smiled, nodded, stepped into the bus, then barked a command. A minute later, they emerged, like baby geese following their mother goose. One by one, in single file, holding a single linen bag with whatever possessions they owned, they marched up the gangplank and onto the deck.

Batsakov followed them up to the deck and ordered the gangplank removed.

It was time to sail.

The USS Honolulu The Straits of Sicily

10:40 a.m. local time

Pete and Frank had just finished their inspection of Torpedo One when the 1MC began blaring. "Alert one! Alert one! Incoming emergency action message! Alert one! Alert one! Incoming EAM!"

"Weps, report to your duty station!" Pete ordered the weapons officer. "XO? Come with me!"

"Aye, Captain."

They rushed back through the narrow passageways. Sailors wearing dark blue ball caps stepped back and shouted, "Make way! Make way for the captain!"

Pete stepped into the radio room. "Attention on deck!" the radio officer called.

"At ease, " Pete barked. "Where is it?"

"Here, sir."

Pete ripped the message from the radio officer's hands and spread it out on the table. Frank looked over Pete's shoulder.

EMERGENCY ACTION MESSAGE

FROM: NATIONAL MILITARY COMMAND CENTER – WASHINGTON, D.C.

TO: THE USS HONOLULU, THE USS CHARLOTTE

SUBJECT: ACTION MESSAGE REMARKS:

Russian weapons-grade nuclear fuel confirmed missing.

Russian freighter Alexander Popovich reportedly underway from Sochi 0700 hours Zulu time this day.

Russian high command apparently unaware of presence of fuel on board Alexander Popovich.

Russian forces amassing on Chechen border.

The USS Honolulu rendezvous with Russian freighter Volga River for execution of Operation Undercover.

Proceed through Bosphorus, then seek out and destroy Alexander Popovich in Black Sea.

The USS Charlotte establish patrol area Sea of Marmara. Stand by for updated coordinates and orders.

Set DEFCON 4 by order of National Command Authority.

Pete looked at Frank. "XO, All department heads report to the galley in thirty minutes for an officers meeting at" – he glanced at his watch – "ten hundred hours Zulu time."

"Aye, Captain." Frank picked up the microphone, switching to the 1MC. "Now hear this. This is the XO." Frank's voice echoed throughout the passageways of the submarine. "All officers report to the galley at ten hundred hours Zulu time. This is the XO."

"Give me that." Pete reached for the microphone. He flipped a switch opening a direct line to the control room. "Radio. Conn. This is the captain. Notify engineering. I need full power. Now! That is all." Pete slammed the microphone back in its holster. "May God protect our souls."