Black Sea Affair

CHAPTER 12

The National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency Fort Belvoir, Virginia

The black-and-white photographs were shot several days ago by a KH-12 "keyhole" satellite whose orbit had been altered to two hundred miles directly over the Russian port city of Sochi.

How fortuitous, Kent Pendleton thought.

Kent extracted the photos from the large manila photograph and studied them.

The pictures could be of any freighter in the world docked alongside a pier, Kent thought. To his eyes, they all looked alike. But like a man's fingerprints, no two ships were exactly alike.

And though many were very similar in outward appearance, there was no other ship in the world exactly like the Alexander Popovich. Studying the satellite photo shot over the port of Sochi, Russia, Kent could not tell one freighter from the next. But the supercomputers stored on the two White Cloud ocean surveillance satellites just launched atop the Delta rockets from Vandenberg could tell the difference. At least, if the satellites got a clear shot of the ship again, they could.

At an orbit of two hundred miles, the birds would circle the earth every ninety minutes. Their orbit was staggered so that every forty-five minutes, one or the other would pass over the sea lanes in the Black Sea leading to the Ukrainian port of Odessa.

If the Popovich happened to pass under one of the birds, and if the cloud cover cooperated, and if the Honolulu made it through the Bos-phorus and happened to be in the vicinity, then maybe, just maybe…

Finding a freighter on the open seas was like looking for a needle in a haystack.

It would all depend on a lucky shot.

The Alexander Popovich The Black Sea

Captain Batsakov sat at his desk in his stateroom, studying the navigational charts of the Black Sea. Alexander Popovich was still more than two hundred miles from the rendezvous point.

He took a drag from his cigarette and cursed. He'd wasted two hours by pulling alongside that Egyptian freighter. Hopefully, by this time tomorrow his ship would be near the rendezvous point. Tossing his reading glasses on the table, he pushed back from the desk and stood up.

A knock came on the cabin door.

"Who is it?"

"It is Aleksey."

"Enter."

The stateroom door opened. Aleksey stood in the entranceway. "Captain, I have Miss Katovich here with me."

With all the commotion about the false alarm, Yuri had nearly forgotten about his beautiful but soon-to-be-dead passenger.

"Bring her back in, Aleksey."

"Yes, Kapitan." Aleksey motioned. She stepped in.

Yuri's chest thumped.

She wore a black sleeveless dress, cropped just above the knees. A string of elegant pearls were draped around her perfect neck. What a terrible waste this would be.

"Beautiful dress, Miss Katovich."

"I bought it in Sochi when I found out we would meet the president." Her blue eyes sparkled at him. "It cost me a month's wages, and some help from other sources too. Do you think it was worth it?"

He inhaled. "Every ruble was well spent, my dear."

She flashed a flirtatious smile. "I'm told that the kapitan often dines alone." She nodded at Aleksey. Her eyes twinkled. "What a shame."

"Yes, well…"

"My children wish to meet you, Kapitan. You are a busy and important man as a ship's master, but perhaps you could spare a few short moments to come meet them?"

"Well…"

"They have many questions of such a great man of the sea."

"Well, I suppose…"

"And afterwards, Kapitan, not to be intrusive or presumptuous, but I was thinking…"

"Perhaps dinner, Miss Katovich? In my stateroom?"

"I would be honored, Kapitan. And afterwards, I would be equally honored by a personal tour of your ship."

Batsakov felt himself smiling. But why do all this if he was going to kill her? Was he looking for a reason to change his mind? Then again, what was the harm? They were hours from the rendezvous point. His crew could drive the ship. Perhaps this would be a nice respite and a bit of fun. Even condemned prisoners got sumptuous last meals.

"With pleasure, Miss Katovich. My chef will prepare a dinner in the galley fit for a king." He extended his arm. "Lead me to these poor little orphans of yours."

Erebuni Air Base

Outside Yerevan, Republic of Armenia

Captain Alexander Giorsky, Air Force of the Russian Republic, sat at the small desk in the briefing room and gazed out the window, across the runway, and into the distance. The purple, snow-capped mountain just across the border to the south majestically dominated the horizon in a powerful, almost godlike manner.

The mountain was in another nation now, in enemy territory. On it were two radar and monitoring stations for tracking the flight patterns of Russian warplanes, including his own sophisticated and powerful MiG-29.

Even so, ever since his prestigious assignment to the Erebuni Air Base in Armenia six months ago, Alexander had had a difficult time shaking his fascination with Mount Ararat. The world's most storied mountain remained a symbol of Armenian pride, even though it fell into Turkish hands in 1915. According to the Bible, Noah landed his ark there after the great flood of antiquity. Some even claimed to have seen the ark frozen up somewhere in the icecaps. Alexander often found himself squinting up at the icecaps, and had even studied the mountain with binoculars, as if perhaps he might even see the ancient boat himself!

Although the Republic of Armenia was the first nation to officially recognize Christian ity, and although the Russian Orthodox Church had officially replaced atheism as the religion of the motherland after the breakup of the USSR, Alexander knew that the whole story of the great flood and Noah's ark was a myth.

It had to be.

What man could have done such a thing so long ago? To have built an ark and put all those animals on it?

Still, why his obsessive fascination with the story? Was it all this Armenian folklore talk that Noah's great-great-grandson Haik had built the Tower of Babel at the foot of the mountain and became the father of all Armenians?

Alexander brought his binoculars to his eyes and scanned the base of the mountain, as if part of the tower – if there ever were such a tower – would still be there.

Get a grip of yourself, Giorsky! You are a fighter pilot in the Russian Air Force! You fly the most sophisticated fighter plane in the world. You have a job to do!

"Attention!" An Air Force sergeant stepped through the doorway of the briefing room just in front of Colonel Stratsovich, the wing commander, who clicked into the room holding a clipboard and a pointer. A pale-looking man wearing a black suit trailed the colonel and the sergeant.

"At ease, comrades!" the colonel said. "Be seated."

Alexander and the other pilots shuffled into their desks and focused their attention on the front of the room.

"Comrades, as you know, throughout the years, the base here at Erebuni has been a major force in our aerial bombardment of rebel operations in Chechnya. Recently, we have enjoyed a ceasefire from hostilities. But now Moscow calls upon us once again. But this time, the circumstances have changed. The stakes are altered. The danger is higher."

He turned to the pale-looking man. "Comrades, I present to you Special Agent Andrei Federov. Russian FSB."

The pale man, a typical-looking FSB bureaucrat who looked to be in his early thirties, stepped to the podium. His black eyes swept across the pilots. A cold arrogance exuded from his silent expressions – the typical look of aggrandized self-importance worn by many young FSB officers who bought into the agency's garbage about being the most elite intelligence force in the entire world.

"Pilots of the 426th Russian Air Force, I greet you in the name of the president of the Russian Republic, Vitaly Evtimov."

The pompous toad spoke as if he personally knew Evtimov, as if he had just come from a lunch at 4 Staraya Square. His bulging eyes surveyed the room, as if his claim to have come in the name of the president would impress a room full of seasoned MiG-29 pilots.

"After the breakup of the Soviet Union, and ever since the first bloody Chechen war in 1994, the 426th Air Force has heroically ruled the skies over the traitorous rebels in Chechnya. Were it not for your supremacy in the skies, it is possible that this conflict would have been lost already and that a radical Muslim nation would have been set up on the soft underbelly of Mother Russia."

Tell us something we do not know.

"This time, you are being called upon again for your bravery."

What a political suck-up.

"But this time, the stakes are higher." He paused. "This time, Chechen rebels have stolen plutonium, and they have brought it to Chechnya. We believe they are about to build a bomb that could vaporize all of Moscow!"

The FSB bureaucrat had succeeded in riveting the pilots' attention. "I am no pilot, so I cannot tell you how to do your jobs. The colonel here will do that for you." Federov nodded at Colonel Stratsovich, who nodded back. "I can tell you this, however. By order of the president, we will bomb Chechnya into submission, and we shall keep bombing until the rebel leaders return our plutonium!" That brought cheers and whistling from the action-hungry pilots. "They shall return the plutonium or they will all die!"

More cheers and applause. Perhaps this Federov bureaucrat had a political future.

"Our mission is complicated and more dangerous than ever. This time NATO planes – many of them armed – will be flying within a short missile's shot of the battleground."

The pilots looked at one another.

"The president of Georgia has requested that NATO warplanes patrol Georgian skies, to ensure that no Russian planes enter their airspace. And the president of Turkey has requested NATO ground support. The elite American 82nd Airborne Division is at this hour arriving at the NATO Air Base in Incirlik."

"Bring them on!" one of the pilots shouted.

"We are ready!" shouted another.

"Comrades." Federov held his palms down to calm the pilots. "President Evtimov does not want a war with the Americans or NATO. But the president views these actions as provocative by the Americans, whose aim is world domination, and he is most displeased about NATO's flirtation with Georgia, which as you know was a longstanding Socialist Republic of the former Soviet Union."

"Send us through the skies of Georgia, and we shall teach the Americans a lesson!" Alexander shouted.

"Yes, that would be nice, " Special Agent Federov said. "But unfortunately – or fortunately, depending on your perspective – those are not the president's orders." He paused. "The President's orders are to fly to Chechnya through Azerbaijan, to avoid Georgia if at all possible, but to defend yourselves if fired on."

"We will defend ourselves!"

"I am sure you will, " the FSB agent said. "This concludes the political portion of this briefing. I return the podium to Colonel Stratsovich, who will brief you on the military aspects of this operation."

The tall, lean, and weather-worn Russian Air Force colonel stepped back to the podium. "Comrade Federov has stated our objective – to bomb Chechnya into submission while avoiding the airspace of Georgia."

The colonel's strong eyes swept the room. "I realize that many of you, comrades, wish to tangle with the United States Air Force, to show the world that the Persian Gulf wars were not a real representation of what would happen if the Americans were to fight with our best pilots and our best planes."

"Dah! Dah!"

"But these are not our orders. So here is how we shall accomplish our mission." The colonel nodded. The sergeant unfurled an aerial map of Armenia and the surrounding countryside. The colonel's pointer tapped the center of the map. "Here, comrades, is our current position at the Erebuni Air Base.

"The Georgian border is sixty-five miles to our north, and the most direct route to Chechnya would be to fly due north, through Georgia, just to the west of the capital city of Tbilisi and directly into Chechnya, which is one-hundred-sixty miles from where I am standing.

"In the old days, when Georgia was a Soviet state, we would fly this route." The colonel winced and shook his head. "Now, to avoid Georgia, we will take off and fly to the northeast, across Lake Sevan to the Kura River in Azerbaijan. Fortunately, Azerbaijan is still our ally. That is a distance of one hundred nautical miles. From there we turn southeast for sixty miles to avoid the easternmost section of Georgia, then due north into Dagestan, and then we turn to the northwest, where we will deliver our munitions on targets of opportunity in Chechnya, and in particular, around the capital city of Grozny. We will return by the same route." The colonel stopped and eyed them all. "Any questions?"

Alexander raised his hand.

"Yes, Kapitan Giorsky."

"Colonel, as I understand our flight pattern, in order to avoid Georgian airspace, as the Americans say, we are essentially going around our elbows to get to our thumb?"

That brought a few chuckles.

"I know it is frustrating, comrades. But we are professional officers of the Russian Air Force. And let us focus on our goal. We are not seeking a fight with the Americans. Our goal is to drop our ordnance so that that a nuclear bomb is not built by the radical Islamic forces in Chechnya."

The colonel's comments resonated. "Be prepared. Be ready. Be vigilant. Go now and do your duties." The colonel nodded at the sergeant.

"Attention!"

Alexander and the other pilots rose from their chairs.

"You are dismissed."

The USS Honolulu The Sea of Marmara

Other than the hum of the freighter's engines overhead, eerie silence pervaded every sector of the submarine.

Honolulu had shut her engines to avoid any possible sonar detection, and the sub was being carried through the water in the giant O-rings under the Volga River's hull.

Other than coordinates on the control panel, the control room lighting was subdued.

The GPS showed them at 41.10 degrees north latitude and 29.10 degrees east longitude. Speed indicator showed the sub moving under the water at five knots. They were headed on a course of three-five-six degrees, just slightly to the west of due north.

Pete had served aboard United States submarines all over the world. The Pacific. The Atlantic. The Med. The Indian Ocean. But 41.10 degrees north latitude and 29.10 degrees east longitude was a location under the seas that he had never sailed.

Pete eyed the amber screen showing the electronic map of the shoreline above their location. Two land masses were split into by a long, narrow waterway. His executive officer, Frank Pippen, stood at his side. Their eyes met, and there was a silent look of amazement. All around the control room, men looked up in bewildered silence.

Their position – 41.10 degrees north latitude and 29.10 degrees east longitude – was the entrance to the Bosphorus Strait. Honolulu's crew could do nothing, except depend on the the Volga River to carry them through these dangerous waters. If the Volga River could stay in the middle of the channel where the water was deep enough, if the Turks did not stop her, if the sub didn't scrape the rocks in the treacherous channel, if they could make it just another nineteen miles…

"Ever watch Star Trek, Mr. Pippen?" Pete asked his executive officer.

"Watched all the reruns, Skipper."

"Remember the beginning of the show when the Enterprise would swoosh through the stars with the theme song and Captain Kirk's voice came on with that line about 'Space… the final frontier'?"

"Gives me goosebumps just thinking about it."

"Know what other line I'm thinking about if we can hang on about three more hours and make it through to the Black Sea?"

Frank smiled. "Let's see if I can remember it. Hmm. 'These are the voyages of the Starship Enterprise'?"

Pete's eyes stayed on the black and amber GPS monitor. The monitor now showed the submarine and the ship in the southern channel of the Bosphorus Straits, headed north, toward the first bridge spanning the European and Asian sectors of Istanbul. All around them, millions of Turks were undoubtedly carrying on their affairs in the daily bustle of one of the world's most historic and exciting cities, oblivious that a United States nuclear submarine was at this moment transiting the waters just a stone's throw from their work and play.

"Good guess, but not exactly."

Master Chief Sideman wore a sly grin on his face.

"Anybody else? Chief of the Boat? You've got that cheese-eating grin on your face."

"Would the skipper be referring to Captain Kirk's immortal and timeless declaration that the Starship Enterprise would 'boldly go where no man has gone before'?"

Pete felt himself smiling. "Gentlemen, your chief of the boat is a learned and articulate man of the world, having embarrassed your distinguished executive officer by reciting such valuable information – information that is of vital importance to the United States Navy and to the security of the United States of America."

That brought a roar of laughter from the control room crew, and a "thank you, sir, " from the COB, as the electronic image of the ship and sub could be seen on the monitor turning to the northeast in the middle of the channel, and making a slow approach toward the First Bosphorus Bridge.

The laughter subsided.

"Enjoy this moment, gentlemen, " Pete said. "No matter what happens from this moment on – whether we live or die – at this moment you are doing something that no submariner in the world has ever done before. You are transiting the Bosphorus underwater. And if we make it another seventeen miles or so, you will be the first American submarine crew ever to go on a combat mission in the Black Sea."

Pete let that thought seep in.

"In the next few days, I expect things to get hot for us. But no matter what, gentlemen, always remember that you were here. Now." He looked at every one of them, fighting back tears. "And always remember, I am very proud of you – each and every one of you."

"We're proud of you, Skipper, " one of them said. "We're in this together."

The control room fell silent again, except for the faint hum of the freighter's engines above. That seemed appropriate, given the gravity of the moment. All eyes went back to the black and amber screen. They were now passing under the First Bosphorus Bridge.

Pete contemplated it all.

If the Turks were going to stop them, they probably would have by now. His sub was making history. But this history would never be recorded in the books or studied at the Naval War College.

They passed under the First Bosphorus Bridge, beginning a slight turn to the left, now on a course due north and headed toward the second bridge.

If this would be his last mission, if he would soon die, if he would sacrifice all for country and was about to lead his men to their watery graves with him, why not let his mind linger a little longer on the eternal memories he had left behind. Coley crossing home base after his first home run. Hannah beaming from getting superior scores at "Miss Michelle's" dance competitions. The children's first communion. Making sandcastles and sandsharks during summer vacations at Hilton Head. Their giddy laughter when playing "tickle monster." Their first steps. He was there for it all before the divorce.

In the silence of the moment, he envisioned the last time he saw them. For in three hours, God willing, there would be no time for daydreaming. Twenty miles into the Black Sea, Volga River would retract her giant O-rings, and Honolulu would be set free to become again what she was meant to be: a deadly hunter-killer of the depths.

He would find and destroy the Alexander Popovich.

The rest would be in God's hands.