Black Sea Affair

CHAPTER 3

The Caucasus Mountains

The Russian Republic of North Ossetia

Hidden in the shadows under the crevices of the rocks, their positions were revealed by the red glow of their cigarettes. They had waited for an hour already.

Listening.

Their feet and legs ached. They knew, from surveying this position dozens of times in the daylight, that the mountain steeped down at a forty-five-degree angle. One slip of a boot would plunge them hundreds of feet into a dark abyss.

Sergei checked his watch.

Five minutes till midnight. The time – the nearness to the hour -ignited his heartbeat.

He sucked on his cigarette, flicked it down, and watched the burning tip vanish in the darkness below.

Sergeant Natasha Asimova downshifted, again, and pressed the accelerator to the floor. The engine whined and strained, but kept pulling the KAMAZ 4310 military truck up the incline.

"Are we going to make it, Sergeant?" one of the two guards yelled from the back.

"Dah, dah, " she said. "My truck has never failed me on this run." She pressed her boot against the clutch, then downshifted once more.

"Once we make it around the last curve, we will be at the top of the mountain, and then it is all downhill from there."

"Arkady has never made this run before." The other guard laughed. "He's a mamma's boy from the coast at Arkangel. He's afraid of heights!"

"Shut up, Boris Andropovich!" the first guard shot back.

"Comrades! Silence!" Natasha snapped. "I must concentrate, or we will run off the cliff."

"Sorry, Sergeant."

The moon crested over the jagged peaks above their heads, bathing them in a pale radiance, illuminating the shadowy outlines of his comrades, who were also crouched down along the rocky incline below the winding, mountainous road.

Sergei drew the cool, thin Transcaucus air into his lungs. The engine from the distant truck whined and shifted gears, straining to pull its cargo up the incline of the road.

A brief, shrill whistle pierced the chilly night.

Sergei looked to his left. Mikhail, the team leader, signaled thumbs-up.

This is it.

He worked the action on his AK-47. The clank of chinking metal from the other platoon of assault rifles followed, echoing off the rocks and down the steep mountain.

The sound of the truck grew louder… louder…

And then, headlight beams flashed over the crest of the road above their heads.

"Seachess!" Mikhail barked in Russian. "Now!"

Sergei and eight other members of the team leaped over the ledge and onto the road.

Dual headlights came out of the night up the hill. The military truck, its engine struggling to make the top of the hill, was slowing under the strain of the climb.

"Stop the truck!" Mikhail shouted.

The truck slowed even more.

Good.

Perhaps this would be easier than anticipated, Mikhail thought, as the freedom fighters approached the truck.

Then the engine revved. Gears shifted. The truck lunged forward. The driver was making a run for it.

"Shoot the tires!"

Multiple gunshots echoed off the canyon walls. The front of the truck thumped down onto the concrete.

"Don't shoot!" The driver, a blonde woman wearing a Russian military uniform, squinted at the high-beam flashlight in her face, then whipped out a pistol.

"Take cover!"

Three sharp bursts rang from the woman's pistol. Sergei immediately fired back in the direction of the driver. "Perimeter positions!" Mikhail ordered. "Out of the truck!"

Sergei and another commando took positions around the rear, training their rifles on the closed doors. The twin back doors flew open. Two silhouettes emerged from the cargo bay.

"Fire!"

The crack of rifle fire, like the sound of a volley fired by an execution squad, echoed against the mountain walls. The two guards who had rushed out the back doors lay bleeding on the road from Sergei's weapon. The driver's head hung out the window, her eyes frozen open in the moonlight. Blood trickled from her gaping mouth.

"Get the cargo, " Mikhail ordered. "Now! Move!"

The Alexander Popovich Sochi, Russia

The telephone rang and Captain Yuri Mikalvich Batsakov pushed up from his rack and rubbed his eyes.

A flip of the lamp switch on the table beside his bed reminded him that he was not alone in the captain's stateroom. The pretty blonde woman – he couldn't remember her name at the moment, perhaps either Elena or Tatiana – grunted and rolled over. Too much vodka was bad for the memory. Not that her name mattered at this time of morning. The clock on the bulkhead showed 3:00 a.m. But still…

The phone rang again.

"All right. All right." Batsakov cursed as his feet met the cold deck. He reached for the shipboard telephone.

"Dah."

"Kapitan Batsakov?"

"Dah."

"This is the guard at the end of Pier Three."

"What is it?"

"Sorry to interrupt, Kapitan, but there is a truck here at the end of the pier. They claim to have cargo for your ship. The driver says his name is Mikhail Abramakov. His papers match that, Kapitan."

"Oh, dah! Dah!" Amazing how the prospect of American dollars could cure even a vodka-induced amnesia. "We're expecting that shipment. Wave Abramakov through the checkpoint and send a few stevedores down to the pier. I'll be right down."

"Of course, Kapitan."

Batsakov hung up, then picked up the phone again and called the bridge. "Dmitri, this is the captain. Round up three deckhands and meet me at the quarterdeck in five minutes. Yes, of course I know what time it is." He swigged the lukewarm vodka in the clear glass beside the bed. "Get them out of the racks and get them moving! Now!"

He hung up the phone and slapped the now-empty vodka glass back on the table.

"What time is it, Yuri?" The blonde was sitting up, rubbing her eyes and squinting at him.

"Look, Elena, darling, it has been much fun, but something important has come up. I have work to do, " he said, putting his arms into a black pea coat. "Go back to sleep. I will send my steward up to help with your things in the morning."

He opened the cabin door and started to step out.

"Tatiana, " the blonde snapped.

He looked back in and saw the perturbed-looking blonde helping herself to the bottle of vodka on the side table.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm Tatiana!" Her blue eyes blazed fury as her lips met the opening of the glass bottle. "You called me Elena!" she said, after an angry swig.

"Yes, my apologies. You are so beautiful – that plus the vodka – forgive me – I was not thinking straight. I will call you when I am back in port."

He slammed the door closed just in time to block the airborne vodka bottle. He walked away to the sounds of shattering glass and the fading strains of "call Elena next time you're in port, you fat pig."

Five minutes later, Batsakov approached the quarterdeck of his freighter. The lights along the pier cast an eerie, pinkish glow on the concrete below.

A black panel truck was rolling up the pier. It stopped at the end of the catwalk and switched off its headlights. The doors opened, and four men, dressed in black, stepped into the night. They opened the back of the panel truck and removed a large wooden crate, which took all of them to handle.

As a fifth man started bounding up the catwalk to the ship, Batsakov motioned for his deckhands to head down to the pier to assist in getting the wooden crate out of the truck.

The trio of deckhands passed the figure coming up the catwalk, and less than a minute later, the fifth man reached the quarterdeck. "Permission to come aboard, Kapitan?" the man asked.

"You must be Abramakov."

"My papers, Kapitan." The black-haired, scruffy-bearded stranger handed a manila envelope to Batsakov. "Mind if I borrow a cigarette while you check me out?"

"No problem." Batsakov glanced at the papers under the quarterdeck lights while holding the cigarette pack in the direction of the stranger. "Looks in order." Batsakov returned the identification papers.

"And my colleagues asked me to give you this." Abramakov handed the captain a second envelope.

"For the love of Lenin!" Batsakov's eyes widened at the envelope full of hundred-dollar bills.

"This is nothing compared to what has been wired to your Bahamian account, Kapitan, or what you will receive upon completion of your mission. This is but a small departure bonus of ten thousand dollars cash as a token of our appreciation." Abramakov sucked in on his cigarette and blew his smoke off to the side. "There is one other thing, " Abramakov said. "Read this." He handed yet another envelope to Batsa-kov, who studied the paper.

Dear Kapitan Batsakov,

The cargo that you will be carrying is important to the future of the world. You will take it on board at Sochi, and then you will proceed under normal circumstances to set sail in the Black Sea. You will sail to a rendezvous point located at 30 degrees east longitude and 43 degrees north latitude, where you will rendezvous with another civilian vessel of Egyptian registry, whose name is withheld for security reasons.

When you reach the rendezvous point, the cargo will be transferred to the Egyptian ship. Codename for the transfer is "Peter the Great." You will be hailed on international frequencies by the approaching Egyptian vessel, and you will accept transfer instructions from the Egyptian captain.

Upon the safe transfer of the cargo at the coordinates as set forth herein, the remaining half of your fee shall be transferred to the account you have designated, and your duties for this mission shall be discharged.

Thank you for the opportunity to do business with you.

For security reasons, the author of this directive must remain anonymous.

"Well, well." Batsakov folded the directive and stuck it on the inside of his pea coat. "An intervessel transfer on the high seas." A drag from his cigarette. "Brings back fond memories of my days in the Soviet navy."

"We hoped you would view these orders with fondness, comrade." Abramakov flicked his cigarette. "Now then, Kapitan, there is this matter of bringing the cargo aboard your vessel."

"Would you like a crane to lift it aboard?"

"No." Abramakov lit another cigarette. "That would cause too much attention. My men can bring it up the catwalk. We will store it below decks wherever you direct us, but we will need a dry compartment."

Batsakov studied Abramakov's beady eyes. Abramakov looked Slavic, unlike the crazy-looking Middle Easterner who worked for the organization that had hired him to transport a woman prisoner from France to Sochi.

This fellow had Russian roots. Perhaps he could strike a rapport here – a rapport that could lead to repeated business. "I suppose, my friend, it does me no good to ask what you are bringing aboard my ship?"

Abramakov laughed. "Think of it as gold, Kapitan. The contents of this crate have made you a rich man. Beyond that, there is no need for you to know. Understood?"

Batsakov smiled. Abramakov was right; already the money transferred to his Bahamian bank account had made him rich beyond his wildest dreams. If he could keep dealing with these people – whoever they were – soon he could afford to buy his own fleet of ships.

"Understood, my friend. I will assign somone to find a suitable place for the cargo."

"Spaceeba, Kapitan." Abramakov turned, stepped to the side of the ship, and motioned at the men still standing by the van down below.

Four men dressed in black, like pall bearers carrying an oversized casket, lugged a large, rectangular plywood box across the transom and onto the deck of the Alexander Popovich. Captain Batsakov gave a few signals to his deckhands, and the wooden crate disappeared below deck.

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

What do you mean it just disappeared?" The president of the Russian Republic stood, slamming his fist on the large wooden desk. Russia had come so far under his leadership. With America's falling stature around the globe as a result of her military intervention in Iraq, Afghanistan, and other hotspots, the world had become hungry for leadership from another superpower.

And this had been his dream: to restore Russia to her days of unparalleled glory, to the days when she stood as a great world superpower in the wake of the Great War, when she commanded the republics of the great Soviet Union, when her name commanded fear and respect in every corner of the globe. President Vitaly Evtimov was the man for this glorious task. He was the youngest Russian president since Putin. The Western press had called him charismatic, and some had referred to him even as "the Russian JFK."

And now he was at the right place in the right time. Until this. This. The inability to track and contain weapons-grade nuclear fuel could prove to be the type of international embarrassment that would derail his noble and grandiose plans for the motherland.

"Weapons-grade plutonium does not just disappear into the Caucasus mountains!"

Evtimov flung a stack of memoranda out towards the members of the Russian National Security counsel who were present at this hastily called emergency meeting. "I have three dead members of the Russian Federal Army, and more than enough nuclear fuel missing to vaporize the entire city of Moscow!"

"Please, Comrade President, " pleaded the minister of defense, a balding, stout man with a ruddy nose. "Please calm down."

"How dare you lecture me about calming down, Giorgy Alexeevich!" Evtimov glared at his defense minister. "How can I remain calm when the army over which I place you in charge cannot muster enough riflemen to guard a shipment of volatile nuclear fuel?"

"Comrade President." The president's chief of staff, Sergey Semyon-ovich Sobyanin, spoke in a calm voice. "With all due respect, sir, Giorgy Alexeevich's army took security precautions which exceed those often taken by the Americans."

"I do not follow you, Sergey Semyonovich."

"The Americans and the British transport nuclear materials all the time, often on civilian trucks down their interstates or in boxcars on their trains. Often, Comrade President, these materials are not even guarded. In fact, their own Department of Energy has admitted that the Americans sometimes haul not just nuclear fuel, but nuclear weapons in eighteen-wheel trucks up and down their interstates! These weapons are usually accompanied only by specially trained federal agents. At least in this instance our Army had three armed guards."

The president's rage calmed slightly. Vitaly sat down and took a sip of water.

"I should fire the defense minister over this. But for now, we must find this missing plutonium." He studied the faces of the men who formed the most powerful group of men in the Eastern Bloc. "We need to find it before it blows some city off the face of the earth." He eyed the members of the Security Council. There was no response. "Well, don't just sit there. I need answers!"

"Comrade President?" This was the minister of internal affairs.

"Yes, Comrade Minister?"

"Just like the Americans, we depend on anonymity in the transport of these materials, which justifies a light security force. I agree with the chief of staff that a capable security force was traveling with the material. This attack had to have been coordinated by someone who was familiar with our occasional transport of this type of fuel between our nuclear facility in Beslan in North Ossetia and our storage facility in Prokhladnyy in Kabardino-Balkariya."

"Show me where this attack took place, " the president said.

"Very well, Comrade President." The internal affairs minister pulled out a map of the region and placed it on an easel.

"As you can see, Comrade President, our truck began its journey at our nuclear facility in Beslan, in the Russian Republic of North Ossetia. That is shown at point one on the map. They were headed to our storage facility at Prokhladnyy, in the Russian Republic of Kabardino-Balkariya, shown here at point three.

"Remember that this area is mountainous. The highest peak in Europe, Mount Elbrus, is located in this republic.

"The ambush occurred at an area along the road at point two. Our vehicle at that time was still in North Ossetia, and after the rebels murdered our driver and two military guards, they rolled our truck down the side of the mountain.

"Point four is the Chechen capital city of Grozny, which as you can see is due east of the ambush point. Considering the proximity of the attack to Grozny, we believe that Chechen rebels are responsible." Mutterings followed nods of heads around the table. "In fact, Comrade President, the ambush point is less than seventy-five miles from Grozny. Witnesses report a military truck going at a high rate of speed in that direction."

"I agree, " the minister of civil defense said. "I believe, sir, that the material was transported to the east, toward Grozny, the Chechen capital."

The defense minister spoke up again. "Imagine, Comrade President, if Aslambek Kadyrov and his traitorous separatists in Grozny developed a nuclear weapon with our materials."

"We should've taken out Kadyrov long ago, " one of them said.

"It is not too late for that, " replied another. Vitaly Sergeivich Evtimov rotated in his chair and gazed out the window at the bustling sea of humanity on Staraya Square. He folded his arms. What a public relations disaster this would create for Russia if the Western press caught wind.

"Excuse me, Comrade President, " the foreign affairs minister said.

"Dah, " Vitaly said.

"Should we notify the Americans?"

Vitaly faced the foreign affairs minister. "Notify them of what? That we are the first nation to lose track of weapons-grade nuclear fuel to terrorists? We have just started rebuilding our credibility as an alternative superpower to the Americans. If this gets out, we lose face in the international community. We must find this material and punish the thieves before there is mass hysteria."

Vitaly eyed the faces of the most powerful men on the Eurasian continent. They would all obey his commands without hesitation and on a moment's notice. He had selected them all because they had shown unflinching loyalty to him. He would need their loyalty in the midst of this crisis.

This would be a defining moment by which history would judge him.

He would act with sure-fisted power. "You know, " he said, "this may present the perfect opportunity for a final solution of the Chechen problem."

That statement brought intense stares.

"What did you have in mind, Vitaly Sergeivich?" Alexander Alex-eyvich Kotenkov, the Russian foreign minister, was the only member of the Russian Security Council close enough to the president to refer to him by his patronymic name.

Vitaly declared, "We shall mobilize the Russian Army. We shall descend upon Chechnya from our Volga-Ural and North Caucasian military districts. We shall punish them for stealing this material. We shall crush this opposition once and for all!" He pounded his fist on the desk. "And we must find this fuel before some Chechen lunatic builds a bomb that could vaporize Moscow." He swigged water. "Even if we have to destroy every square inch of Grozny."