Black Sea Affair

CHAPTER 25

FSB Headquarters

Lubyanka Square, Moscow

The Russians had kept him in isolation for several hours, Pete assumed, first in a holding area onboard ship, and then at a holding facility in Odessa. But because they had taken his watch, and because he could not see outside, he could only estimate how much time had passed.

He saw sunlight again when they chained his arms and legs and led him out of an armored car across the tarmac to a plane at Odessa Airport. He was grateful for a few minutes of fresh air. He was also grateful that they had placed him in a seat by the window, which allowed him to at least enjoy the daylight, a welcome respite from the deadly silence of the armed guards accompanying him on the flight.

He had assumed they were taking him to Moscow, and his suspicions were confirmed when he spotted the spirals of the Kremlin through a break in the clouds.

A few minutes later, the plane touched down on a large, concrete runway.

At gunpoint, the guards rushed him to an armored jeep, and they sped away out of the airport with blaring sirens and whirling lights of police escorts both in front of and behind the armored jeep.

About thirty minutes later, the armored jeep sped down a large boulevard, heading straight up toward the multi-colored bulbed spirals towering into the overcast sky.

This world-famous sight looked more imposing in real life than it had in the pictures. But to be in an armed vehicle approaching St. Basil's Cathedral in the heart of Red Square, thousands of miles from home, Pete realized that he was about to be held accountable for his actions as commanding officer of the USS Honolulu.

A light rain fell as the jeep turned right just in front of the Kremlin. The driver swung around the perimeter of Red Square, turned right again, and headed into an underground parking deck of a large grey building with Stalinesque architecture.

Pete did not remember his geography of downtown Moscow all that well, but he assumed that this was Lubyanka Square, the former headquarters for the old KGB, and now its successor, the FSB.

The jeep stopped near an underground freight elevator shaft, where half a dozen armed Russian soldiers were waiting.

One of them opened the door. A younger man, wearing a dark suit, spoke in perfect English. "I am Special Agent Vasily Borvich. I am a translator working for the Russian government. Come with me and these men, please."

A soldier pushed a button and the elevator doors swung open. All six soldiers stepped in, surrounding Pete with their guns. The translator stepped in and closed the doors, then pushed the button. The elevator started rising.

"Where's my crew?"

"It is not for you to ask questions."

The elevator stopped. The doors swung open into a large corridor with fluorescent lights and antiseptic-smelling tile floors.

"Step out of the elevator and follow me."

They stepped across the hallway from the elevator, their boots clicking and echoing down the corridors. They walked through two ornate double doors.

The doors swung into a large, chandelier-filled courtroom. The courtroom was packed with people who turned and stared at Pete.

"Walk forward."

Pete stepped down the center aisle, through a wooden gate.

"Sit here." The translator pointed at a table to his left.

At the table to his right, a grim-faced Army officer stared him down with angry eyes.

Something was said in Russian. Three high-ranking military officers, one each from the Russian Army, Navy, and Air Force, stepped through the door behind the big benches in front of Pete. All three looked to be in their fifties. With a solemn face, the Army officer in the middle nodded at a clerk.

A clerk began reading in English.

"This Russian Military Tribunal, convened to hear the charges of war crimes against this officer for attacking a civilian Russian ship with a civilian crew, is now in session. Please be seated."

The Army officer in the middle, a general, grunted something, and the translator spoke.

"Are you Commander Peter Miranda of the United States Navy?"

Pete stood. The Geneva Convention required him to provide his name, rank, and serial number.

"I am."

"Commander Miranda, you are charged with the following crimes, for which if you are convicted, could result in your being executed by firing squad or being sentenced to life in prison."

There was a pause, as the English translation was followed by more Russian.

"You are being charged with twenty-five counts of crimes against humanity, to wit, in that you commanded the United States submarine USS Honolulu on an illegal and secret military mission into the Black Sea, wherein you subsequently ordered your vessel to attack a civilian freighter, to wit, the Russian freighter Alexander Popovich, and that your actions have caused the untimely deaths of at least twenty-five known innocent civilians on board that ship."

More Russian. A murmuring rose from the courtroom. Pete looked around and caught the eyes of a young brunette woman sitting in the front row just behind him to his right. His eyes lingered on her for a moment, and then he recognized her as Masha Katovich, the young lady he had rescued.

"You are also being charged with conspiracy to destroy and destruction of property of the Russian Republic, to wit, in that after having surrendered the said USS Honolulu to the Navy of the Russian Republic, thus transferring ownership of said vessel to the Russian Republic, you did conspire to, and did in fact instruct certain subordinates to destroy said property by the use of explosive devices, which led to the sinking of such vessel in the Black Sea in waters west of the Crimean Peninsula."

More translation.

More astonishment from the crowd.

Pete looked around again. Masha Katovich was gone. He felt strange disappointment at her absence.

He'd sensed a sympathetic look on her face. Or so he thought. Then again, he had nearly killed her precious orphans. Perhaps his imagination had shifted into overdrive. She was probably the prosecution's star witness.

"You are also charged with violation of international law pertaining to transit of the high seas in that you broke various provisions of the Montreux Convention and the United Nations Convention on the Law of the Seas, to wit, in that you illegally and without justification brought your submarine in a submerged state through that international strait known as the Bosphorus, in violation of all semblances of international law prohibiting such submerged transit.

"To these charges, how do you plead?"

"I will plead to nothing until I know that my crew is safe and that they will be released."

"Silence!" the general shouted. "It is not for you to be concerned of the fate of war criminals."

"And I will not participate in this kangaroo court until I know my men are safe!"

"That is enough!" The admiral, just to the left of the general, snarled. "Your crew's fate will be tied to yours. If you are convicted, they will be convicted. If you are executed, they will be executed. And if you are acquitted, then they will be set free."

"That is not acceptable."

"Silence!" A banging gavel rapped from the one in the middle. "Perhaps the innocent children and crewmen of the freighter you sunk would say that a submarine against an unarmed freighter is not acceptable!"

"That freighter was being used by terrorists!"

"Ha!" The air marshal sitting to the right spoke up. "Typical American response justifying the unchecked use of military power against civilians. Everything is tied to terrorists!"

The general in the center spoke again. "How do you plead to these charges?"

"I do not understand these charges. Do I now have a right to counsel?"

"Aah. The brave commander, who is so brave as to attack an unarmed freighter, now wishes to hide behind an attorney?"

Mocking laughter arose at the translation.

"Very well! This is a military tribunal, Commander. And under our rules, you may have one Russian military attorney and one military attorney of your choosing from your country, should your host country agree to provide one. You will not be allowed a civilian attorney. Is this your wish, Commander?"

"Yes, sir. I wish to exercise my right to counsel."

"Very well!" the army general announced. "You will be removed to your cell, where you will communicate your desire for counsel to your translator. This court will reconvene in forty-eight hours."

Three more gavel bangs rang out. The generals and the admiral exited the courtroom.

Armed guards clamped cuffs on Pete's hands. They hustled him back behind the bench area, through a small door, into a narrow corridor. A moment later, they slammed the iron doors behind him in the cold cell.

The ornate Russian Orthodox Church was nestled in a grove of trees across from the large, rectangular brick compound that surrounded the United States Embassy. She remembered visiting this place last summer, shortly after Carol and Eugene Allison had left Ukraine.

Then she had taken a stroll through the summer heat to find a peaceful courtyard just outside the chapel, and to try something that the Allisons had taught her to do. Pray.

Today's short walk from Red Square through the blustery wind to the church was for the same purpose. The leaves were gone now, and the church seemed colder and greyer.

She had tried telling her Russian interrogators about the cargo transfer. But they responded as if she were the criminal.

"Do you realize that Kapitan Batsakov was a hero of the Soviet navy?" asked the scruffy one, with a burning cigarette dangling from his mouth. "And you seek to impugn his name?" He blew a cloud of stifling smoke. "The entire world is watching this, and impugning the reputation of a Soviet naval hero gives propaganda to the Americans."

The second interrogator, the fat, balding one, had been more accusatory. "I hope you are not attempting to blackmail the kapitan's estate or the Russian government for money, Miss Katovich. Do you know that blackmail is a felony under Russian law?"

She had to get the truth out.

The Russians had threatened to prosecute her if she talked, and they wanted to cover the matter for propaganda purposes. She had only one option.

The Americans.

The Allisons had claimed that prayer was talking to God.

Softly, she spoke into the biting wind. "God, show me what to do and let it be right. In Jesus' name."

She looked around. No one was there. At least she saw no one in the immediate vicinity. Only the wispy wind blew leaves in a circle.

The Russians had told her to be back at the courthouse in forty-eight hours. She was to report in every two hours. The bells in the church steeple chimed eleven times. She had one hour. Once she did not report, they would search for her – if they were not already looking for her.

She glanced across the wide boulevard, past the zooming cars at the opening in the tall brick wall.

Behind that wall was America. Through the Internet and through the Allisons, she in many ways felt that she knew America already. But could the Americans be trusted with this information? After all, she nearly died because of their attack. Dima nearly died. Oh, Dima!

On the other hand, if the Americans had not attacked, Batsakov and his crew would have murdered her. And the Americans did not let her children die. The Americans rescued them.

But what if they did not believe her? Suppose they did not give her a chance to talk, but kicked her back on the cold streets of Moscow? Would she be interrogated for going to the Americans first?

If her request for asylum was denied, then what?

"Help me, Jesus."

She pressed the walk button just in front of the embassy, bringing traffic to a halt. Quickly she stepped out onto the boulevard, walking across from the church to the compound. Better not to look around, she thought, so as to appear inconspicuous.

Her better judgment waned as she approached the middle of the boulevard. She looked back over her shoulder. Two stone-faced young men in black suits stepped rapidly into the crosswalk. They had to be Russian FSB.

She quickened her pace. The light changed as she reached the side of the road just in front of the U.S. embassy. Brakes squealed. A loud horn. The men were running for her in front of ongoing traffic!

She dashed toward the embassy, where several U.S. Marines were standing guard.

"Asylum! Please! I request asylum!"

The Marines grabbed her, twisting her arm behind her back. "Please, asylum."

"Sergeant, Corporal. Take her inside. Notify the political officer."

Masha looked over her shoulders as the Marines rushed her toward a guard shack.

The two young men in black suits were at the entrance to the compound. Other U.S. Marine guards stood at the entrance, blocking their way.

The White House

This is a travesty!" The president of the United States stood, pacing again. His Security Council had rushed into the Oval Office for yet another emergency session, and they were agape at images beamed from Moscow.

These were the images of an American submarine commander standing before a Russian military tribunal, then being hustled out of a Russian courtroom.

"They're calling it an attack against civilians, Mr. President, " the secretary of state said. "They have no idea still that the freighter had plutonium on it. They still think the plutonium is somewhere in Chechnya."

Mack picked up the Washington Post, whose headlines read, "Russians Capture U.S. Sub Crew – War Fever Hot Among Superpowers. " "This is just great." He tossed the paper back down on his desk.

"Why don't we approach the Russians about a prisoner swap?" the secretary of defense said. "We release the MiG pilot shot down over Georgia, and they release our crew."

"I don't think it'll work, " the secretary of state said. "They've got the grand prize, and they want to make hay out of it with the international community."

"Why not try?" Secretary Lopez retorted. "In 1960 when the Soviets shot down our U-2 spy plane, they swapped the pilot, Gary Powers, for a KGB colonel, as I recall."

"But remember, Mr. Secretary, " the secretary of state said, "the Soviets agreed to the prisoner swap after they first tried Powers on international television, convicted him of spying, and sentenced him to three years in prison and seven years hard labor. The Eisenhower Administration could do nothing about it."

"Well, if they insist on trying our sub crew, maybe we should try their pilot, " the secretary of defense said.

"Mr. President, " the secretary of state said, "we've gotten a request for individual military council this morning from the Russian embassy. Commander Miranda has requested that a JAG officer represent him."

The secretary of defense said, "Why should we go along with this kangaroo court idea?"

"Because we have a ser viceman that needs help, " the vice president said.

"Plus the Russians have offered it, " the secretary of state added. "And taking them up on their offer shows at least we have some respect for their system, which might lead to meaningful negotiation out of this crisis. At least it's more than they offered in the Gary Powers spy trial back in 1960."

"Admiral Ayers, have you spoken with the judge advocate general about all this, and if so, does he have a recommendation?"

"Yes, Mr. President. Admiral Stumbaugh, the Navy JAG, highly recommends Lieutenant Commander Brewer for the job. He's the best we've got."

"Hmm." Mack let that thought resonate for a moment. He knew Zack Brewer personally. Zack had prosecuted three of the most famous courts-martial in U.S. Navy history. In perhaps the most famous, he prosecuted three Islamic U.S. Navy chaplains for treason, securing the death penalty against internationally acclaimed defense attorney Wellington Levinson in what the press called "the court-martial of the century."

"Okay, stay on it, " the president said. "Personally I like the idea of Brewer too. I have total confidence in him in any international crisis. He's a proven commodity."

"Yes, sir, Mr. President."

"Okay." Mack eyed the secretary of state. "What's this about an asylum request?"

Secretary Mauney spoke up. "From a young woman claiming to be on board the Alexander Popovich when she sunk. The woman was the chaperone for these orphans. Claims she overheard a conversation between the captain and crew about transferring some illegal cargo at sea to an Egyptian freighter. Claims that there was actually a transfer of some small crates just a few hours before the sinking. Makes me wonder if it was the plutonium."

"I can't believe I'm hearing this!" The president stood and slammed his fist on the desk. "Don't tell me we've sunk a freighter full of orphans and lost the plutonium to boot!"

"We're checking it, sir, " the CIA director said. "We've asked the Turks for a roster of Egyptian freighters going into and out of the Bosphorus the last couple of days. One freighter, the Al Alamein, never made it to any ports that we know of, and sailed back out of the Bosphorus within eighteen hours of entering."

"So where's this freighter now?"

"We think in the Mediterranean somewhere, Mr. President, " the secretary of defense answered. "The Med's a big place. We're watching Gibraltar and the Suez Canal, which are the only ways out of there. Plus we've alerted the Brits, and they've agreed to let us know if they see anything pass by Gibraltar. Even if we find her, the plutonium may not be on board. I mean, we don't know how credible this lady is."

"All right, ladies and gentlemen, " the president said. "I want the State Department to follow up with this Russian offer to have military counsel present for Commander Miranda. Meantime, the Statement Department will offer a prisoner exchange of their pilot for our crew. I don't think it'll work, but at least it's still talking. We will also propose a partial cease-fire, whereby Russians will pull back all divisions but one from Chechnya and we would pull out everybody except the 82nd from Turkey."

"The Turks won't like that, Mr. President, " Lopez said.

"That's tough, " Mack said. "The Turks aren't president. I am. Right now, we've got American and Russian nuclear forces on high alert. That's hair-trigger danger. Besides, we will maintain the overflights of Georgian airspace. That'll keep both the Georgians and the Turks happy.

"Meanwhile, Secretary Mauney, Admiral Ayers" – the president looked at his defense secretary and Joint Chiefs chairman – "find that Egyptian freighter. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir, Mr. President, " the responses came in unison.

"Very well. This meeting is adjourned. Be back in twelve hours."

The Al Alamein

Mediterranean Sea

There, Kapitan, that should keep you safe." Salman Dudayev snapped the last few buttons on the radioactive protection suit that would allow the commanding officer of the Al Alamein to inspect the top-secret engineering marvel that was being built in the bowels of his ship.

"We are working with raw, exposed plutonium which could expose us to lethal doses of radiation. There are a number of sharp objects in the lab. So we must be careful not to puncture our suits."

Captain Sadir nodded his head, and the men stepped into the sterile laboratory, lit by hanging fluorescent lights, where three other scientists in protective suits were working.

The bomb was being constructed on a long table, twenty feet in length. Metal cylinders were stretched out in a line along the table.

"Shall I explain the mechanics of all this, Kapitan?"

"Please, " the captain said.

"Now that we have obtained the materials that we need, the mechanics of a hydrogen bomb are relatively simple. At the heart of a successful hydrogen bomb is a successful atomic bomb. Or actually several atomic bombs.

"You see these five metal cylinders on this table, Kapitan?"

"They look like large aluminum salad bowls welded together. These are bombs?"

"Yes. Actually each of these is a thermonuclear device. Within each cylinder are two half-spheres of the plutonium 239 taken from the Russian ship. We carefully molded the half-cylinders in each cylinder and left a small space between each half-cylinder. Dynamite will be placed outside each cylinder and detonated from a remote detonation switch.

"The dynamite ignites, slamming the half-cylinders of plutonium together, creating an atomic chain reaction!" Excitement overcame Salman as he thought of what would happen next. "This chain reaction ignites a hydrogen-fusion reaction, and in one great flash the Al Alamein becomes the most glorious ship in history!" Laughter poured from his mouth at the thought of all of it.

"More famous than the Titanic?"

"Oh, Kapitan, in one swoop we shall eclipse the single destructive power of the Pacific tsunamis, of Mount St. Helens, and of the greatest earthquakes ever to strike the earth." Hot and cold flashes shot through his body.

"What are all these strange-looking glass jars that I am seeing on the table?" the captain asked.

"Ah. Good question. Fusion is at the heart of the H-bomb process. Several A-bombs are detonated at the same time to create the extremely high temperatures necessary to fuse a substance called lithium deu-teride into helium.

"In our case, Kapitan, we will be using five small atomic bombs, all laid out here on the table before you, which will create a massive temperature of one hundred million degrees Celsius. We will instantly become the sun floating upon the water. Such an extreme thermonuclear temperature is necessary to fuse lithium deuteride into helium.

"The glass jars that you see on the table will be filled with the lithium deuteride and will surround the five A-bombs in their casings. When the fusion begins in the A-bombs, and when one hundred million degrees is reached, then the lithium nucleus slams into the deuteride nucleus, and voila. This begins our hydrogen bomb detonation."

More hot and cold chills shot through Salman's body. An incomparably powerful weapon of mass destruction was now nearly complete. Aside from a few select weapons in the arsenals of the American and Russia militaries, this was the most powerful device in the entire world.

The captain asked a question. But Salman did not hear it. His mind was on the sublime. Allah had made him feel like a god. In a way, with such awesome destructive power at his fingertips, he was a god!

"My apologies, Kapitan. What was your question?"

"I asked, Salman, where is the detonation switch?"

"Ah, but perhaps this is the best news of all. I am rigging the detonation switch to the bridge. You and I, with your permission of course, will be topside, looking through the windows, out at the target. In fact, Kapitan, because you are the highest-ranking man on this great ship, I feel that is only appropriate that you yourself do the honors. I believe Allah would be pleased."

The captain paused, looking at the hydrogen bomb in the bowels of his ship. He looked at Salman. "We will throw the switch together, my boy. And together, we will watch Allah's glorious work from paradise."