Black Sea Affair

CHAPTER 8

The Alexander Popovich

Forty miles east of Sochi, Russia

12:45 p.m. local time

Captain Batsakov peered out through his binoculars, pretending to scan the deep blue horizon of the Black Sea. The key now would be finding this freighter.

At his current speed of 15 knots, or 17.3 miles per hour, it would take at least thirty hours for Alexander Popovich to reach the rendezvous in the western sector of the Black Sea. That, of course, meant that they would arrive in the rendezvous sector as the sun was setting, complicating matters even more.

Locating civilian freighters on the open seas was problematic. Not even the great navies of the world were efficient at tracking freighter traffic. Trying to find the Egyptian freighter in the dark would be next to impossible. So they would probably have to steam in circles and wait for the sun to come up, and hope that the freighter was in the area.

Of course, sunlight was not a problem at the moment. This fact was apparent in his binocular-assisted view provided of the lovely Masha, who was currently waving her hands like a traffic policeman down on the deck. How was she able to stand there so calmly, smiling while keeping track of those twelve little devils who were running around on the deck like monkeys released from a zoo?

"Kapitan?"

"Yes, what is it, Petrov?" Batsakov did not put aside his binoculars.

"The galley, sir. They wish to know if you would like some food brought to the bridge."

"Dah, dah." Batsakov waived his hand. "Vodka and a sandwich would be fine."

"Right away."

After a moment, another voice materialized over the captain's shoulder. "Stunning, isn't she?"

Batsakov dropped the glasses and locked eyes with his first officer, Joseph Radin. "Are they prettier than in our day, Joseph? Or do our old minds play tricks on us?" He handed the binoculars to the first officer, who took a grinning turn. "Or perhaps our luck is getting better on this voyage."

"You know, Kapitan, sometimes our old minds can cloud our better judgment." Radin set the binoculars on a ledge as a steward brought a silver tray with a bottle of vodka, two clear glasses, and an assortment of finger sandwiches.

"Spaceeba." Batsakov took the vodka. "That will be all." He nodded at the young mess steward, dismissing him. Then, taking a sip, he lowered his voice. "Do I hear a cautionary tone in your last comment, Joseph?"

The first officer put his hand on Batsakov's shoulder, lowering his voice as well. "Kapitan, you and I have sailed together for a long time. Dah?"

"Dah."

Radin nodded his head once down toward their beautiful visitor. "What if she is FSB?"

The suggestion was like a wet blanket. Batsakov felt his eyes widen. "I asked her. She denied it and laughed."

"Of course she denied it. But can we take this risk?"

The first officer's point was well taken. Batsakov filled Joseph Radin's glass.

Radin continued. "Even if she is not FSB, can we afford to have her witness the transfer of our cargo to the Egyptian freighter? Suppose someone asks her? Suppose she is interrogated by FSB? Or worse, what if she is FSB?"

"What are you saying, Joseph?"

Their eyes locked. "We cannot afford a slipup, Kapitan. This mission is worth more money than either of us have ever made in our lives. We all know, unfortunately, that accidents sometimes happen at sea."

Captain Batsakov let his eyes wander down to the deck again. "Perhaps you are right, friend. But what a waste. Let's keep an eye on her before making a final decision on this."

Their glasses clanked and they drank.

She had been sitting for no more than five minutes when she heard their excited voices.

"Masha! Masha!"

Masha Katovich removed her sunglasses and looked up from her deck chair. Two skinny blonde boys, their ribcages visible as they panted excitedly, stood over her. They made excited gestures with their hands.

"Anatoly, Sasha, what is it? I'm trying to catch a nap."

"Masha! Masha!" Their voices ran together. They pointed to something out over the side of the ship. "Get up and come look!"

A gust of cool breeze refreshened her face. "Why not?"

She dropped her novel on the deck, then pushed herself up. The children stood near the side of the ship. "Get back away from the railing!" she shouted. They ignored her, and instead laughed and pointed out to the sea.

"Dolphins!" Ten-year-old Natalia smiled from ear to ear.

A hundred yards or so off to the side, fifteen or twenty bulb-nosed dolphins danced and played in the water. The chorus of laughter and chattering from the children warmed Masha's heart.

But the cold hand on her shoulder from behind startled her.

"Miss Katovich." A bearded deckhand, smiling with two missing front teeth, was standing so close to her that she could smell the liquor on his breath."You like dolphins?"

The voice. The twisted smile. His presence seemed sinister. She felt the urge to pray. "Yes, they are beautiful, are they not? The children are enjoying them so much."

"How you like to swim with dolphins?"

"Well, I don't swim all that well."

He reached forward.

She stepped back.

"What's the matter? You no like sailors?"

"No. That's not it. You…"

"Come with me, miss. The kapitan wants to see you."

She looked down. Her orphans, all twelve of them, stood around her in a semicircle. Their concerned eyes were as wide as the full moon. She flashed a reassuring smile at them. "It is all right, children. I will return to you in just a few minutes."

Captain Batsakov sat behind his desk in his stateroom, pouring the clear liquid from the bottle with the red, white, and yellow sticker wrapped around it.

Stolichnaya, the famous Russian brand, was Batsakov's vodka of choice. His lips caressed the glass. Alcohol seeped down his throat, warming the internal cavities of his body.

Vodka was the drink of angels, and Stolichnaya was the vodka of God.

Only the weak believed in God.

No matter. Stolichnaya numbed his soul. That mattered.

Besides. The soul did not exist. The soul was a fairy tale. Just like these beliefs in Allah and God and Jesus or whomever.

Only the here and now mattered. Only the money that he was about to make mattered.

He reached into the drawer and extracted the black Makarov PM 9 millimeter pistol. He brought the gun to his nose and sniffed the smell of burned powder from the last time he had shot at sea lions off the port side of the Alexander Popovich.

Three knocks came at the door.

"Dah!"

"Kapitan!" Aleksey Anatolyvich called from outside in the passageway.

"What is it, Aleksey?"

"Miss Katovich is with me."

Batsakov disengaged the safety of the pistol, worked the slide, loading a live round into the chamber. The silencer was in place. Good.

What a waste this would be. Would he shoot her in the cabin now? He could keep the body in the closet and dump it overboard at dark. Or perhaps he would simply use the gun to scare her into keeping the children in line. The problem with that tactic was that she might tell someone. He took another swig of vodka.

"Send her in."

Batsakov placed the pistol in his lap. The door opened. The beautiful brunette stood in the entryway of his cabin.

Aleksey pushed her in the back of her shoulder. She stepped forward into the cabin, almost stumbling.

The door slammed closed. The sight before him caught him unexpectedly off guard. The white sweater drew attention to her sun-kissed complexion and seemed to accentuate the radiance of her blue eyes.

Obviously, Aleksey had escorted her to her stateroom to change before her important meeting with the captain. He imagined her fussing about her appearance and her wardrobe, as women often do, and insisting that she be allowed to change and freshen up before being brought into his presence.

That thought brought him a smile.

His eyes drank in the sight of her long legs, her trim waistline, and her curly brunette locks. At that point, Batsakov realized that he was staring like a salivating dog.

"Please be seated, Miss Katovich." He hid the pistol in his lap and out of her view.

"Thank you, Kapitan." Her eyes danced nervously around the cabin. She sat upright in the aluminum chair just in front of his desk. She crossed her legs, exhibiting a perfect, statuesque posture.

"Are you enjoying your cruise?"

"I enjoy seeing all my children so happy. We were watching the dolphins just before you called me up here."

"Hmm." His eyes fixed on hers. "Care for vodka?"

"No. Thank you, Kapitan."

Captain Batsakov knew what he had to do. Just bring the pistol above the desk and shoot her between the eyes. He took another sip. Just get it over with, Yuri Mikalvich. He refilled his glass with another round of Stolichnaya. Think of the security risks. Think of the riches that will await upon success of this mission… No, we will not kill her yet.

"Why would a beautiful, intelligent young woman like you be doing work with orphans? The pay must be pathetic. Why not work for the government?"

She mustered an uneasy smile. "I was an orphan, Kapitan. God took care of me, and he called me to give my life to take care of the fatherless."

"Hah." Batsakov nearly choked on his vodka. "You believe in God, do you?" Her face seemed to change from a nervous contortedness to a confident peacefulness. What was it about these God-believers that triggered this sort of idiotic trance whenever they talked about their religion?

She folded her hands across her perfectly crossed legs and leaned forward, her nervous smile now looking something less than nervous. "Yes, Kapitan. I believe in God. And I believe in the living Son of God."

He sneered. "And just who would that be? This so-called living Son of God of whom you speak?"

She leaned back, still smiling, obviously ready to talk some more about her religion. He used the opportunity to unobtrusively slip the pistol under his belt in the middle of his back. He would lead her from the outer office area of his cabin back into the bedroom, where he would do what needed to be done.

"That would be Jesus, Kapitan."

Batsakov snorted. "Well, just make sure that you and this Jesus of yours keep these children out of my way, and out of my crew's way, and that they wander nowhere other than the main deck and their cabins unless escorted by a crew member. Am I clear on this?"

"Perfectly clear, Kapitan."

"Kapitan Batsakov!" The excited voice of the first officer blared over the intercom.

"What is it?"

"Kapitan, we have found the Egyptian freighter."

"This soon? Impossible."

"We are not sure, sir. We need you on the bridge."

"Be right there." Batsakov looked at Miss Katovich. "Wait here. Help yourself to my vodka or anything else you would like. I will be back later. There is more that we must discuss. I wish to make sure that we have no misunderstandings concerning our expectations of you." He threw on his pea coat and stormed out of the cabin.

Office of the president of the Russian Republic Staraya Square, Moscow

President Evtimov paced across the red carpet just in front of the large executive desk.

"Read that communique again, Foreign Minister."

"Dah, of course, Mr. President." The Russian foreign minister cleared his throat and again read the short communique that was delivered only thirty minutes ago by the ambassador from the United States of America.

Dear Mr. President,

These are difficult times in which we live. We know that sometimes it becomes necessary for nations to employ military force by legitimate means for the purposes of self-preservation and the advancement of democracy.

Both of our great nations have been in recent years the victims of terrorism, and as a consequence, have often found it necessary to resort to military force to ensure peace and stability within our national boundaries.

While we recognize the right of the Russian government to act in this manner, we have concerns about the size and might of the Russian ground forces currently deploying in the Caucasus region.

Our allies in the region have expressed concern that armed conflict may spill over and beyond the southern borders of your great nation.

We hope and trust that your intentions do not go beyond the borders of your country. Part of our concern about the size of your force is that the firepower that you are mobilizing appears to be disproportionate to the strength of any rebel forces concentrated in Chechnya. The United States remains committed to human rights violations of innocent civilians caught up in military action. We support basic human rights of citizens all over the world, including the human rights of innocent citizens in Chechnya.

To the extent that you could provide words of reassurance that we may pass on to our allies, I would be most appreciative.

Very respectfully,

Mack Williams

President of the United States

"Prepare this response to the president of the United States, and deliver it to the American ambassador." President Evtimov looked at his foreign minister.

"Dear Mr. President,

"Thank you for your cable of this day in which you expressed your country's concern about human rights within the Russian Republic.

"Russian ground forces have been mobilized in what is a purely peacekeeping mission. Our forces are currently operating to foster a common goal of our two countries, namely to preserve democracy within the Russian Republic.

"To the extent that military action may be required in the preservation of our democratic goals, rest assured that our forces will not attack civilian targets. Thank you for your concern about the future of democracy and human rights in the Russian Republic.

"Very respectfully, Vitaly Evtimov, president of the Russian Republic."

The USS Honolulu

The Mediterranean sea depths

2040 local time

They sat around the small table in the middle of the galley. Their faded wash khaki uniforms took on an electric-looking hue under the fluorescent tube lights mounted just overhead. All bore faces of stone. This was the second officers' meeting called in the last ten hours.

They rose, all twelve of them, as the commanding officer of the USS Honolulu stepped through the hatch from the outside passageway.

"Attention on deck!"

"At ease." Commander Pete Miranda motioned the men back to their seats.

"Gentlemen, we're close to showtime, " Pete announced. He quickly studied their faces. Eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep. Some showed signs of fear. Pete felt fear himself. A little fear was a good thing. Beneath the fear, beneath the bloody veins, their eyes showed a steely determination like none he had ever seen in a submarine wardroom.

"Let's get down to business. I'll start by asking the XO to brief us on our current position." Pete looked at Frank Pippen, who was seated immediately to his right. "XO?"

"Cap'n." Frank stood, took one step back to a mounted easel board, and rolled down a navigational chart showing the waters around the Greek peninsula. "Gentlemen, as of our last sounding, we were here." He pointed to a spot in the Mediterranean south of the Peloponnisos Peninsula and northwest of the Island of Crete. "Our current position puts us approximately fifty miles southwest of the Greek Island of Kythira.

"Within the next couple of hours, we will cross into the next time zone, UTC plus 2, and soon after that, we reach the entrance of the Aegean Sea. From there, we turn northeast and move under the waters surrounding the Cyclades Islands. We will clear the islands approximately one-hundred-fifty miles east of Athens, and from there we head due north to the waters just off the Island of Limnos. That's where we dock with the freighter and proceed through the Dardanelles.

"We'll piggyback under the freighter through the Sea of Marmara to the entrance of the Bosphorus. If we slip though, they cut us loose about twenty miles into the Black Sea, and we go hunting." Frank looked at Pete. "Skipper?"

Pete rose as Frank returned to his seat. "Gentlemen, we have several complicating factors. First, we're in a race against time. Alexander Popovich could get out of the Black Sea before we get in. Now one advantage we have is speed. We're three times faster than the freighter.

"Also, intel now believes that this freighter is scheduled to make a port visit to Odessa in Ukraine before leaving the Black Sea. If that's true, that could be our lucky break. This means that if we clear the Bosphorus, we'll sail due north and set our patrol area off the Ukrainian coast, in the waters off Odessa. Hopefully, we'll spot her and sink her before she ever makes that port visit.

"Now if we miss her, then the USS Charlotte is on submerged patrol in the northeastern sector of the Aegean Sea. Charlotte is Honolulu's backup, just in case. If she gets that plutonium past both subs, we've lost this game."

A new round of concerned glances.

"Any questions?"

There were none.

"Be ready. Be on your toes. And pray that God's will be done. I'll be in my stateroom for about thirty minutes. Until then, the XO has the conn."

Vandenberg Air Force Base Near Lompoc, California

Kent Pendleton brought the binoculars to his eyes and adjusted the focus into full view. The vertical tower sitting atop the launch pad was two miles downrange from the observation platform, but the powerful binoculars brought the sight into full focus.

White steam spewed from the base and sides of the illuminated Delta II rocket, as the countdown echoed from loudspeakers blaring in the observation area and flight control rooms.

"Ten… nine… eight… seven… six… Ignition sequence started…"

The rocket shook on the pad under the igniting combustion of its boosters.

"… four… three… two… one… We have ignition!"

Orange fire and white smoke mushroomed from the base of the launch tower.

"We have liftoff!"

The Delta II lifted into the sky… first slowly, as if a giant, invisible hand was gently raising it off the ground, and then rapidly gaining speed, shooting through the sky like a blazing rock shot from a slingshot.

Streaking a ghastly white mark across the heavenly twilight, it turned on a trajectory headed into the southern sky, growing smaller, smaller, and finally disappearing behind its wispy jet stream.

Five minutes later, a second Delta II burst into the sky, blazing across the heavens to the south, seemingly in pursuit of its predecessor.

Kent checked his watch. Good. Ahead of schedule.

His job here was done. Sure, it was a long shot, but a long shot was better than no shot. Barring computer or mechanical malfunctions, Redwoods I and II, the satellites sitting atop the Delta rockets, would reach their destinations before he got back to Washington. Now, if the cameras on board those satellites could just get a lucky shot at the Alexander Popovich.

The USS Honolulu The Aegean Sea

The captain's stateroom on board a Los Angeles – class nuclear submarine was not much larger than a walk-in closet. Even so, considering the sardine-can berthing arrangements available to the rest of the crew, the captain's quarters was a haven of luxury.

Once the Honolulu rendezvoused with the freighter Volga River, there would be no time for sleep. From that point on, the skipper would need to be as well rested as possible.

In drill after drill throughout the years, Pete had learned the importance of sleeping when one could. Clarity of thinking would be required for dozens of decisions with dangerous implications that could mean the difference between success and failure or life and death. Of course, in the Cold War and the uneasy peace that followed, Pete's naval career was a series of drills and high-stakes war games.

But this mission was no game. Torpedoes would be fired in defense from a larger threat. Real people would die. His boat would become the most hunted warship in the world.

For the benefit of his crew, to insure that their captain was fresh, Pete Miranda positioned the pillow under his head, flipped off the small lamp, and lay faceup on his rack.

Darkness was never complete on a submarine. Light streamed under the hatch separating his stateroom from the passageway. Sounds of sailors passing by outside, though muffled, constantly reminded him of his surroundings.

Pete flipped the lamp back on, then reached down into the locker under his rack and felt the blue photo album that he always kept there. Other than his U.S. Navy uniforms, the album was about the only thing he'd gotten to keep following the divorce.

His daughter Hannah had taken gold, glittery paint and written the word Memories on the outside. Inside, she had arranged a panorama of photographs that told the colorful story of his life with Sally and the kids in the years before the divorce.

The first photo, an eight-by-ten image of Pete as a slim, young lieutenant j.g., in his summer dress whites, showed him holding Hannah in his arms in front of the pink and green bougainvillea vine in their front yard at their home in California. She first came home from the hospital that day, and the photo taken on that August morning revealed the head of black hair.

The commander drank in the sight of his baby girl. She was the most beautiful little baby ever born. And she was his little girl.

Until the divorce.

The blare of the 1MC shocked him out of his daydream.

"Alert one! Alert one! Incoming emergency action message! Alert one! Alert one! Incoming EAM!"

Pete dropped the album on the rack and swung his feet onto the deck.

"Captain Miranda, report to the conn, please!"

Pete picked up the phone line connecting to the control room. "CO here. On my way."

He scrambled out the hatch, turned right, and sprinted along the steel grated floors. Sailors stood back, clearing a pathway for their commander.

Pete stomped up a short aluminum stairway to the second deck, and then stormed into the control room, where Frank Pippen stood in the middle of the room, under the periscope mount. He was holding a white sheet of paper and barking orders to the officers and enlisted men.

"Attention on deck!" the chief of the boat shouted.

"At ease! I have the conn!" Pete said. "What is it, Frank?"

"New EAM, Captain." The XO handed the message to Pete. "Looks like Turkey's heating up, sir."

Pete whipped his reading glasses out of his front shirt pocket, then looked down.

EMERGENCY ACTION MESSAGE

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

TO: ALL U.S. SHIPS AT SEA AND U.S. NAVAL SHORE FACILITIES

SUBJECT: ACTION MESSAGE – TURKISH – GEORGIAN MILITARY

SITUATION

REMARKS:

President of Turkish Republic has requested NATO ground and air forces reinforcement in NW Turkey in response to massive Russian military buildup in Caucasus region.

President of Republic of Georgia has requested NATO military aircraft overflights in response to same.

U.S. National Command Authority has endorsed Turkish and Georgian request to NATO Secretary General under codename Operation Fortify.

British government has concurred in endorsement.

Elements of 82nd and 101st Airborne Divs ordered deployed effective immediately to NW Turkey.

Set DEFCON 3 by order of National Command Authority.

Pete crumbled the message in his hands. "Great. Just great."

"What do you make of it, Skipper?"

Pete held his hand out, signifying later. "Mr. COB, " he said to the chief of the boat. "On the 1MC."

"The 1MC, aye, Captain." The COB flipped a switch on an overhead control panel and passed the microphone to Pete.

"This is the captain speaking." Pete's words echoed into every section of the submarine. "We've just received another emergency action message from Washington. Due to the Russian military buildup in the Caucasus region, the Turkish and the Georgian governments have requested NATO support.

"Turkey, gentlemen, is a member of NATO. Georgia is a former Soviet republic with strained ties to Russia. Georgia has applied for NATO membership. Our government has endorsed that application, and the Russians don't like it because they want to keep Georgia in their sphere of influence.

"Our commander-in-chief has also endorsed the request for NATO buildup in northwestern Turkey and for military flights over Georgia. The 82nd and 101st Airbornes are on their way to Turkey.

"Gentlemen, United States military forces have been elevated to DEFCON 3."

Pete paused and looked around the control room. The eyes of every man were glued on him.

"The last time U.S. forces were at DEFCON 3 was during the Cuban Missile Crisis in 1962.

"Needless to say, all this complicates our mission. Not only is this dangerous enough, but now we may be sailing into a war zone. There's a powderkeg burning in the region, gentlemen. And they've called on us to go there. One slipup and NATO's in a shooting war with Russia. None of this makes our job any easier. With Turkey on eggshells, you can bet they'll be watching everything moving through the Bosphorus with an eagle eye.

"Be on your toes. The safety of your shipmates and the security of the free world depends on us.

"Be alert. Be professional. You are Americans. That is all."