Black Sea Affair

CHAPTER 23

The USS Honolulu

Black Sea depths

The images of the orphans burned his conscious as if emblazoned there by a nuclear flash.

The bleeding.

The crying.

The shaking.

The sight had driven him into his stateroom – and driven him to his knees, where before he could even beseech the Almighty, his thoughts turned to Hannah and Coley.

Something wasn't right about all this. All Masha Katovich's talk about meetings with the presidents of Ukraine and Russia sounded bizarre. Was she credible? She spoke of valuable cargo on board the ship. Plutonium would qualify as that. What if the plutonium had been transferred to an Egyptian freighter?

Ping.

Ping.

His orders were clear. "Do not surrender under any circumstances." Orders or not, as a sub commander he was inclined to stand fast and fight – to fight his way beyond the thicket of ships and mines just to his south.

Ping.

Ping.

But the odds of surviving that scenario were not good. Maybe twenty percent if he were lucky. And if the information were correct – that the plutonium had been transferred to another freighter – then Washington needed that information – and fast.

He could float a communications buoy and try to get a signal off, but that would make the sub a guaranteed bull's-eye for ASW torpedoes. The best way to get that information into the right hands would be to surface the sub, and then somehow, some way try to get that message back to Washington.

Ping.

Ping.

If he disobeyed his direct orders and surfaced, he faced a court-martial and could start a war with Russia. But what about the children he now had on board?

If he were to stay and fight, would they die a terrifying death with cold seawater pouring into their undersea compartment, rising to their ankles, then their knees, then their necks?

Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping…

Would they reach desperately for the last few inches of air near the ceiling before the sinking sub became a cold, watery grave? This was a death that he and his men were prepared to face. This was part of the bargain that all submariners understood may happen one day. The men on this mission especially understood.

Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping…

An explosion rocked through the water. From its sound, Captain Miranda estimated it to be a mile away.

Another explosion. This one was closer.

Depth charges.

He opened the Bible that he had brought with him and read two verses from the book of James.

"If any of you lacks wisdom, then ask God who gives to everyone liberally… and it will be given… But ask in faith, not wavering. For those who waver are like a wave of the sea, driven with the wind and tossed."

Pete closed the Bible and spoke aloud.

"Eternal Father, strong to save, whose arm hath bound the restless wave, bestow wisdom to thy servant, for thou are the captain of my soul and I am the captain of this ship. Now, my responsibility as captain is not only for these men, but for these children and this woman as well."

Another underwater explosion shook the submarine.

He opened the Bible once more to a passage in James. "Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress…"

The sub shook from a fourth explosion. They were getting closer.

Pete closed the book. His intercom sounded.

"Captain, sonar reports dozens of depth charges being dropped in the area. We're going to be in for quite a shaking, sir."

"Have the SEAL team leader report to the conn immediately."

"Aye, Captain."

"I'll be right there, Frank."

Ka-27 Chopper Number 3 Above the Black Sea

They crisscrossed the skies over the Black Sea like hovering dragonflies. They were Ka-27 helicopters from the 297th Russian helicopter squadron out of Sevastopol.

Junior Lieutenant Igor Pavalov, a chopper pilot just assigned to the 297th, looked out of his cockpit to the west, where other squadrons of Ka-27 and Ka-28 ASW helicopters buzzed over the water.

They flew over a two hundred mile line out west from Sevastopol. Long-range Bear bombers had already joined in the hunt, swarming the afternoon skies in a great aerial cage around the submarine's last reported position.

Pavalov had never participated in such a massive exercise. Nor had he released a live weapon in anger against a live target.

Hovering at fifty feet over the surface of the massive sea, he looked out in amazement at the sight before him. Thousands of parachutes filled the air, plopping sonobuoys into the water below.

Hundreds of depth charges were splashing into the water now.

Some would explode at one hundred to two hundred feet under the surface. Others would detonate at deeper depths. Eight hundred feet. One thousand feet.

If the depth charges did not destroy the enemy submarine, they would impose the ultimate weapon in psychological warfare.

And if the depth charges somehow missed the sub, the sonobuoys would find her and relay their signals to the dozens of Bear bombers circling the area with sonar-guided torpedoes ready to drop into the water.

A static-filled transmission burst into Pavalov's headset.

"Blue Light Leader to Blue Light Three."

"Blue Light Three."

"Release ordnance."

"Very well." Pavalov reached down to a simple switch in his cockpit and flipped it. "Releasing ordnance now."

The pilot looked down and saw a large metal canister splash down into the ocean and disappear under the water. This charge was designed to explode at a depth of one hundred feet.

Pavalov watched for a few moments.

A large, circular, white mushroom of water rose to the surface.

Whatever was down there stood no chance.

The USS Honolulu Black Sea depths

The captain has the conn!" Frank Pippen announced as Pete reentered the control room.

"All ahead stop."

"All ahead stop, aye, Captain."

The Honolulu's propeller disengaged, sending the sub in a forward drift. Disengaging the propeller eliminated the sound of churning water. The idea was to make the sub a harder target for passive sonar to detect.

A stocky, muscular officer entered the control room. Lieutenant John L. Smith wore a rubber wetsuit and diving shoes.

"You wanted to see me, Captain?"

"Lieutenant Smith. Good work by you and your men in getting those kids onboard."

"Our pleasure, sir, " the sub's SEAL team leader said.

"What's your C-4 supply like?"

"We've got plenty of it, Skipper. A SEAL team without plastic explosives is like an airplane without wings."

"Good, " Pete said, then turned to his OOD. "Mr. McCaffity, what's our distance to Sevastopol?"

"Just a little over one hundred miles, sir."

Pete did the math in his head. Assuming, for the sake of argument, that his sub were on the surface, being towed by a cruiser or oceangoing barge, and assuming further that the towing vessel was making ten knots, and assuming that that process began two hours from now… he checked his watch.

"Lieutenant Smith. Listen to me very carefully. I want you and your men to rig explosives to every sensitive area of this ship. I want C-4 rigged in the internal compartments of fire control, launch computers, navigational computers, all ship's data entries, everything in the control room. If there's a computer in a system anywhere, rig explosives to blow it."

"Sir?" Smith said, as every eye in the control room locked onto Pete. Another distant explosion shook the ship.

"Just listen. I want you to send a couple of divers outside and I want C-4 rigged under the hull of the sub. I realize this will be a dangerous operation because of these depth charges they're dropping. But it's necessary."

"Aye, sir."

"I want you to rig all explosives to detonate simultaneously in five hours." Another explosion. "How fast can you have this done?"

The SEAL commander looked at his waterproof watch. "My men are fast. Give us thirty minutes and we're there, sir."

Pete was not sure that they had thirty minutes. But he had no choice. "Get to it. Now."

"Aye, sir." The SEAL commander left the control room.

"XO. On the 1MC."

"Aye, Captain." Frank Pippen handed the microphone to Pete.

"This is the captain speaking." He took a deep breath. "Gentlemen, you can all hear the depth charges exploding in the water around us. We all knew going into this mission the price that we may have to pay. We have several options at this point.

"We can make a run south, try to find the Volga River, and hook up with her. This submarine, gentlemen, is superior to anything the Russians have. You are the finest submarine crew ever assembled anywhere in the world."

He hesitated as another distant depth charge vibrated the ship.

"But this is not a matter of quality. It is a matter of quantity. It's a matter of overwhelming numbers against this ship. Right now, the Russians are dropping everything they have in the water above us and in a line south of us all the way across the northwest sector of the Black Sea.

"We could make it, but in my judgment the odds are heavily against our survival.

"If it were just us, we would plow into the Russian's defensive line, do our best to break through, and die if we did not make it.

"But, gentlemen, this is not just us. We now have twelve orphans and a woman on board.

"In some cultures, and in some nations, that fact would not matter.

Islamic terrorists have for years murdered and hidden behind children, using them as shields against bombs and killing them at random.

"But, gentlemen, this submarine, at this moment, is the sovereign territory of the United States of America.

"In America we do not kill women and children. We protect them. I cannot and will not take action that would cause these little ones to die.

"So here's what we're going to do. After our SEAL team completes a little assignment I have for them, we are going to initiate an emergency blow and we are going to surface the submarine."

That brought raised eyebrows in the control room.

"When we surface the boat, we are going to broadcast a surrender signal." The very sound of his words brought cramps to his stomach.

"My guess is that we will be captured by the Russians. As your captain, I will step forward and accept sole responsibility for whatever we face, and I will request that you all be released. I cannot guarantee, however, that my request will be granted.

"If you are interrogated, and especially if you are interrogated about the plutonium, remember that you are to answer only in accordance with the Geneva Convention parameters. Name. Rank. Military identification number. I will handle the issue of the plutonium personally."

Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping.

"As for the Russians, they will think they have captured a Los Angeles – class nuclear submarine." Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping.

"They are in for a surprise."

Defense Ministry of the Russian Republic Moscow, Russia

Olga Kominicha picked up the telephone on her desk and punched the button which would alert the man just inside the large oak officebehind her desk that a very important member of the Russian military or the Russian government wished to speak with him.

In this case, Giorgy Alexeevich Popkov was being telephoned by Admiral Petrov Voynavich, commander of the Black Sea fleet. "Hurry, " the admiral barked. "I have an urgent update for the defense minister from the Black Sea."

"Yes, Admiral. I buzzed him, but he did not answer." The defense minister was probably napping again from too large a spot of afternoon vodka. Or perhaps he was in his personal toilet accessible from inside the office. More likely sleeping off another vodka-induced buzz. "I will get him for you."

"Comrade Secretary." Still no answer on the intercom. The admiral's voice resonated with urgency. Olga had heard that the Navy was hunting an American submarine in the Black Sea. She was not supposed to know this, but rumors were impossible to contain sometimes within the Defense Ministry. Perhaps the call was related to this.

She stepped to the outside of her boss's closed door and knocked.

Nothing.

She opened the door.

Giorgy Alexeevich was sprawled out, lying back in the chair behind his desk. His eyes and mouth were frozen wide and open. Blood gushed from his mouth and the gash in his neck.

Olga screamed at the top of her lungs, then felt the room begin to spin. She hit the floor with a thud. And then, darkness.

The USS Honolulu Black Sea depths

The depth charges shook like a jackhammer. Pings rang thorough the submarine every thirty seconds or so.

The Russian Navy was playing a giant game of Russian roulette. Pulling the trigger.

Firing blanks.

Thank God no live round had struck them. Yet. And despite all the pinging, there was no evidence yet that any of the sonobuoys had transmitted a contact to any of the Bear bombers overhead. At least no more torpedoes had been dropped into the water, nor had that Kilo-class sub come back around.

All that would change, Pete knew, if he tried running past the naval blockade that the Russians were stringing just south of him across the Black Sea.

All they could do at this point was sit in the water, and wait and pray.

Pete checked his watch. Twenty-five minutes had passed since he sent the SEALs into the water for the dangerous mission of attaching plastic explosives on the submarine's hull. Time was of the essence. There was little room for error. Any second, a depth charge could strike too close or a wave of torpedoes could close in on his isolated submarine.

Lieutenant Phil Jamison stepped into the control room.

"How are they, Phil?"

"Trembling and crying every time they hear a ping or the slightest shake from a depth charge."

"What did you tell 'em?"

"I told them not to worry, that we'd be safe soon. Didn't seem to do much good, sir."

"What about the woman?"

"Frankly, she seems to have nerves of steel. Said she was relieved to be aboard."

"Skipper, " the OOD said. "The SEALs are finished. They're back in the sub now."

"Very well, Mr. McCaffity. Prepare for emergency surface maneuver."

"Aye, aye, sir."

Ka-27 Chopper Number 3 Above the Black Sea

Junior Lieutenant Igor Pavalov dropped his last depth charge into the sea, then waited several minutes for a visual confirmation that the bomb had exploded. Unlike his last two charges, which exploded at one hundred fifty feet, this baby would sink twice as deep, to three hundred feet, before sending a wave of explosive concussions and sound waves through the water.

Pavalov waited another minute or two. Another white mushroom rose to the surface of the water. Perhaps this one had struck the target. Perhaps he would get credit for sinking the American submarine. He would stand in Red Square before President Evtimov and receive the highest award bestowed on a Russian citizen.

He would be declared a "Hero of the Russian Federation." The honor had been bestowed to several military members fighting in Chechnya. So why not bestow it upon the Navy helicopter pilot who sunk an enemy submarine – an American submarine – which had somehow infiltrated the Black Sea?

He lingered a bit longer over the surface of the water, hoping to see debris from a submarine floating to the surface.

Nothing.

But he had expended ordnance and he was rapidly losing fuel. He would need to start heading back within the next fifteen minutes or be prepared for a long swim.

Pavalov rotated the chopper on a stationary, midair axis, pointing the nose on a course of ninety degrees – due east – then called his squadron leader and announced that he would be flying back to Sevastopol for refueling and reloading.

A large cylindrical nose burst through the sea like a whale leaping through the surface. The long, dark object shot above the water and then splashed down onto the surface.

This was no whale.

This was a submarine!

A Los Angeles – class submarine! It had broken the water perhaps a quarter of a mile just east of his position. And his depth charges had forced her to the surface!

If only he had a torpedo or more depth charges… he would go in for the kill right now.

"Light Blue Three to Light Blue Leader!"

"Go ahead, Light Blue Three."

"I have got it!"

"Got what?"

"The American submarine! My depth charges have forced her to surface!"

"What is your position?"

Pavalov gave the latitudinal and longitudinal coordinates.

"Maintain visual for as long as your fuel will allow. Your relief is on the way."

"Very well, " Stavinskiy replied, fuming that someone else could get credit for the kill that he was responsible for.

"Maintaining visual, " Pavalov said again over the radio. "Please allow the record to reflect that the submarine surfaced as a result of my depth charge."

He waited for an answer. No response. Pavalov inched the chopper forward, closing to within a hundred yards or so in front of the American submarine. He brought the chopper's altitude down to one hundred feet, so low that the prop blast was blowing a round circle on the water's surface.

The pilot brought his binoculars to his eyes for a better look. He studied the conning tower. Could the sub have surfaced to fire a missile? Of course not. It could have fired a missile from under the water. It had surfaced for one reason and one only.

The hatch on top of the sub swung open. Men stepped up onto the open bridge. They brought up an American flag. The murderous pigs. He thought for a moment of directing machine-gun fire at the men standing on the bridge.

But what glory was there in that? Shooting men standing on the top of a submarine would not make him a hero of the Russian Federation. The president wanted the sub sunk. This was his path to glory.

The men waved at him, like he was their best friend. How odd, these Americans. And then someone brought another flag to the bridge.

This was not an American flag.

This was a white flag! They waved it back and forth through the air! The Americans were surrendering!

His depth charges had forced the Americans to surrender! After he became a hero of the Russian Federation, there would be speeches and parades and parties in his honor.

Igor picked up the microphone again.

"Light Blue Three to Light Blue Leader! The American submarine is surrendering to me right now! Repeat, the American submarine is surrendering to me!"