Black Sea Affair

CHAPTER 4

The Alexander Popovich

Sochi, Russia

As the sun rose above the deep sparkling waters of the Black Sea, Captain Yuri Mikalvich Batsakov huddled on the bridge of Alexander Popovich with the four officers immediately subordinate to him.

Batsakov was still, at heart, a ship's master – although an increasingly wealthy ship's master. And the sea, for all his love of it, was a jealous mistress, capable of swallowing even the greatest of vessels. He must never forget, no matter how many American dollars were funneled into his bank account, that the sea could not be taken for granted – that he was ultimately responsible for evaluating the readiness status of his vessel.

Getting a freighter seaborne was not as simple as cranking an automobile and taking a drive down Moscow's main street, Tverskaya.

A series of performance checks between the bridge and the engine room needed to be performed, and certain actions would need to be logged before Alexander Popovich would be declared seaworthy for her return voyage into Chourney Mara – the Russian phrase for "Black Sea."

Batsakov instructed the four officers to expedite their respective reports, so that with any luck, Alexander Popovich and her twenty-eight crew members would be underway by sunset.

He was about to adjourn the predeparture meeting when a deckhand entered the bridge.

"Excuse me, Kapitan. You have two visitors at the quarterdeck, sir."

"Visitors?" Batsakov sipped a glass of vodka. "We are beginning our predeparture checklists, Aleksey. I am busy."

"They are with the Russian government, Kapitan."

Batsakov cursed.

If the government suspected what was in the belly of his ship, these men no doubt were FSB officers. Since the old KGB disbanded in 1991 with the fall of the Soviet Union, its domestic successor organization, the FSB, had proven just as ruthless. One of the many things he enjoyed most about being at sea was that the FSB was nowhere to be found.

What would he do if they wanted to search the bowels of the Alexander Popovich?

Remain calm.

The ship's manifest showed the cargo to be several cases of Georgian wine. Perhaps that would deter them. If not, he would deny knowledge. Always deny. This would be a truthful response. After all, he did not know with certainty what Abramakov had brought on his ship. He would blame the whole affair on Abramakov and his men.

"Escort them to my stateroom, Aleksey. I will meet them there shortly."

"Yes, Kapitan." He left immediately.

Batsakov crossed to a hidden compartment, where he retrieved his GSh-18 semiautomatic pistol. He worked the bolt action of the pistol, stuck it in the holster in the back of his pants, and left the bridge.

Five minutes later, Batsakov arrived at the stateroom. The young deckhand who had approached him on the bridge was standing in the passageway outside the closed door. The captain motioned for the deckhand to step closer and spoke in low tones.

"Are they inside, Aleksey?"

"Dah, Kapitan, " the young deckhand said.

"Shhh." The captain brought his forefinger across his lips. He patted the young man's shoulder. "Aleksey Anatolyvich, ever since you left the orphanage in St. Petersburg, I have given you a job and treated you as a son, dah?"

"Dah, Kapitan."

"And I have given you a home, here on the Alexander Popovich, dah? And you trust me no matter what instruction I give to you?"

"Of course, Kapitan. I have seen you in command on the bridge of our ship when she was rolling in twenty-foot swells. I trust you completely. You are the only father I ever knew."

"That's my boy." Batsakov allowed himself a smile. "Listen, Aleksey. Go down to the weapons locker room and get a sidearm. Load it. Thencome back and post yourself here outside my stateroom door. Let no one in without my permission. Understand?"

"Of course, Kapitan."

National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency Fort Belvoir, Virginia

Kent Pendleton, a twenty-year veteran intelligence agent, loved working the midnight shift at the National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency's satellite interpretation center.

For one, the traffic wasn't so bad around the Capital Beltway at midnight. And since NGA had moved its headquarters from suburban Bethesda, Maryland, to Fort Belvoir, he could make the trip in less than an hour. The commute time would double during the day. Of course driving back to his home at eight in the morning was another story.

Download time. He typed in a few commands, ordering the computer to download the latest satellite feed from Volgograd. Then he got up from his desk and walked over to the kitchen. Another cup of steaming black coffee was what the doctor ordered to get the squints out of his eyes for seven more hours of staring at computer screens.

When he got back from coffee break, the last satellite photo of Volgo-grad was still frozen on the screen, and in the upper right of the screen, under the word Volgograd were the times the photo was snapped on the satellite's last pass approximately ninety minutes ago. 7:30 Local, 3:30 GMT/UTC, 23:30 EST.

The aerial photograph began scrambling in front of his eyes, and as the image scrambled, the word Transmitting appeared in the screen on red.

A moment later, Transmitting vaporized from the screen and was replaced with a new satellite photograph, taken one hundred miles above the area. Under Volgograd in the upper right corner, the new times were reflected showing that the image had just been taken and transmitted: 9:00 Local, 05:00 GMT/UTC, 01:00 EST.

Pendleton clicked each sector of the photograph, giving him enlarged images for closer inspection.

On his fourth click, along the main road leading south out of the city along the Volga River, he spotted something. He rubbed his eyes and squinted again. Was he seeing what he thought he was? He stared at the screen in disbelief. Yes. His eyes were not playing tricks on him.

Armored vehicles.

Hundreds of them.

Tanks.

Personnel carriers.

A massive convoy of the Russian Army was on the move.

"Hey, get a load of this!" The excited voice came from two cubicles over where another intelligence analyst and one of Kent's subordinates, Tommy DiNardo, was reviewing satellite photos shot over the Russian republic of North Ossetia. "I've got military movement – army – headed due east!"

Kent got up and rushed over to Tommy's cubicle. "Will ya look at that?"

"If those aren't armored columns, I don't know what is." Tommy spoke with excitement in his voice.

"I've got the same thing on my screen, " Kent said. "The Russian Army's on the move."

"The question is where, " Tommy mused.

"Good question, " Kent said, glaring at Tommy's screen. "My guess is Chechnya, if we're lucky."

"Why do you say that?"

"The main column from Volgograd is moving down the Caspian Depression, which is very low land between the Caucasus Mountains and the Caspian Sea. We've got to hope they stop at Chechnya, because if they don't, they can easily slip along the Caspian coast into Azerbaijan, and from there, Iran. And from there, it's a straight shot due south to Iranian, Iraqi, and Kuwaiti oil fields." That thought sent a fearful shiver through Kent's body. "And if the Russian Army invades the Middle East, the balloon goes up."

"You mean kaboom, " Tommy said.

"I mean kaboom, " Kent said.

"Should we wake the president?" Tommy asked. "I can get the codes for the White House hotline."

"Not our call, " Kent said. "But we've gotta move fast."

He reached over and punched in the line to the secretary. "Get G. B. Harrell over at the National Security Agency on the secure line. Yes, now." He replaced the phone.

"Tommy, come see my pics."

They both jogged over to Kent's workstation. Tommy's eyes bulged at the sight before him. "This force looks three times the size of the one on my screen."

"Volgograd is one of the biggest military districts in Russia, " Kent told the younger man. "The city was once called Stalingrad. The bloodiest battle in human history took place here in 1942. Over a million people died. This is hallowed ground to the Russian people. They feel that they whipped the Nazis right here, two years before the Normandy invasion. And they well may be right." He set down his coffee cup. "Strategic U.S. doctrine says any major Russian ground invasion of the Middle East would muster in Volgograd and follow this route to the south… the same route that these forces are following."

"You think this may be it?"

Kent hesitated. "I pray not. We'll know more at our next satellite pass around two-thirty."

The phone rang. "Kent, Mr. Harrell from NSA is on the secure line, " the secretary said.

"Thanks." Kent waited for the connection. G. B. Harrell was Kent's counterpart at the National Security Agency at Fort Meade, the duty supervisor for monitoring Northern Caucasus activity. The NSA was the U.S. government agency tasked with intercepting communication signals of potential enemies worldwide.

Harrell's voice came on the line. "Kent, what's up?"

"Our one-thirty satellite pass shows Russian ground forces on the move, south out of Volgograd and east out of North Ossetia."

"What size?"

"Too early to tell, G. B. Maybe two, three divisions. We'll know more when our bird passes over them again."

"Hmm." Harrell paused. "We'd been picking up traffic from that region in the last few hours indicating that a movement of forces was getting underway. But the usual questions – from where to where, and when – have been a puzzle. This helps fill part of the puzzle. Are our birds showing other Russian force movements anywhere in the world?"

"Negative, G. B. Not yet. I'll be meeting with our other Russian action officers here in just a few and I'll call you if that changes. But as of now, Moscow, St. Petersburg, Vladivostok… all seem quiet."

"Okay, " Harrell said. "I'm calling this an urgent matter for top-secret classification that needs immediate attention up the chain-of-command. The national security director and the secretary of defense will need to be roused. They can decide whether to wake the president."

"I concur, " Kent said. "I'll notify the NGA director. You can handle NSA and the secretary of defense. I'm sending these photos over now. Let's touch base in thirty to get these reports meshed together. Sounds like we're going to have a busy one."

"Concur."

"Talk to you soon."

The secure line went dead.

The Alexander Popovich Sochi, Russia

9:05 a.m. local time

Captain Batsakov waited just long enough for Aleksey to return with a loaded pistol before entering his stateroom.

Two men, both appearing to be in their mid to late thirties, sat at his dining table. The men rose as Batsakov closed the door. "Ah, Kapitan!" The man on the left spoke in the smug tone of a know-it-all bureaucrat. "I am Agent Fedorov. This is Agent Sidorov." Their identification badges featured the light blue globe surrounded by a gold ring, sitting on a gold pedestal, and back-dropped by the familiar sprawling five-pointed star rising above wreaths of wheat – the terrifying symbol of the FSB.

"Welcome to the Alexander Popovich."

"Spaceeba, Kapitan, " Fedorov said. "May we sit?"

"Please." Batsakov motioned the two visitors to resume their places at the table. "Would you gentlemen care for something to drink?"

"Vodka, " Fedorov said.

"Vodka for me also, " Sidorov added.

Batsakov retrieved two glasses from the cabinet above the sink. "So, gentlemen, how may I be of service to the FSB?" Clear vodka flowed into the glasses. Batsakov handed one to each of the agents.

"Kapitan." Fedorov sipped the vodka. "Rumor has it that you have become, shall we say, a handsomely paid ship's master."

"And why is the FSB concerned about my compensation? I have always paid all of my taxes."

"Yes, of course, " Fedorov said. "Well, I suppose as your taxes support the motherland, and you do not use your ship in any way that would embarass the Russian Republic, your compensation would be a personal matter, no?"

Batsakov ignored the comment. "So, gentlemen, as I asked a moment ago, how may I be of ser vice to Mother Russia?"

"Hmm." Federov exchanged glances with his partner. "Perhaps, Kapitan, the more pertinent question is, how can your ship be of service to Mother Russia?"

Bataskov sipped his vodka and studied the piercing eyes of the two FSB agents. "Agent Federov, undoubtedly you reviewed my governmental file before boarding my ship. Therefore, you know that, despite my fondness for occasionally earning a few extra rubles, my loyalty to the motherland is unflinching."

"Yes, your file indicates, shall we say, a consistency in your line of work."

Talking in circles. Batsakov hated this about bureaucrats, and especially FSB bureaucrats. If they wanted to search his ship, why not just say so?

"Gentlemen. As you know we are preparing to get underway later today. I must return to the bridge to oversee all this."

"Why in such a hurry to sail, Kapitan? You have a date with some beautiful mermaid in the Black Sea?" Federov chuckled at himself.

His pal Sidorov sneered, then spoke up. "You do realize, do you not, Kapitan, that it is a privilege, and not a right, to sail your freighter under the registration of the Motherland, and that your ability to fly the flag of Mother Russia on the high seas affords you certain" – he hesitated and scratched his chin – "shall we say, privileges not ordinarily afforded to ships flying the ensigns of other nations?"

"Yes, of course I know it is a privilege not only to fly the flag of our country, but also to be a Russian citizen."

"Hmm." This was Fedorov again. "Then you would undoubtedly volunteer your ship for a diplomatic mission on behalf of the president of the Russian Federation?"

Where were they headed with all this? "Yes, of course. To the extent possible I would do everything I can for our president."

"Good." Federov downed his vodka. "Have some more of this stuff, Kapitan?"

"Dah, of course." Batsakov refilled the agent's glass to the brim.

"You are aware, are you not, that President Evtimov has been concerned about Western influences undermining stability in a number of the former republics of the former Soviet Union."

"I know what I read in Pravda."

"You are aware that over the past few years, beginning with the election of Victor Yushchenko, that Ukraine has drifted closer to the Americans' camp."

"I sail into Ukraine. I hear stories about this debate."

Federov sipped more vodka. "Yes, well, President Evtimov is none too happy about it. And since the Americans lost some of their popularity after the Dome of the Rock attacks, our president has been courting Ukraine very hard."

"Tell me, comrade. How can I help?"

"There is an orphanage near Chernobyl. In fact, the Ukrainian president – Butrin – spent time there as a boy. He visits there often, and holds the place dear to his heart."

"I've heard of it."

"A group of orphans spent summer holiday here in Sochi. President Evtimov has been on the phone with President Butrin of Ukraine. As a gesture of friendship, our president has offered to find a Russian ship sailing for Odessa for the children to ride back on. When the ship arrives in port, President Butrin will be waiting for the children at the docks along with President Evtimov, at which time Russia will offer significant money to Ukraine to upgrade its orphanage facilities. We see that your ship will be sailing for Odessa, and we want you to host these orphans on your voyage."

"How many children wish to ride on my ship?"

"Twelve. Plus their adult counselor. Plenty of room for you to accommodate, Kapitan."

"Are you crazy?" Batsakov threw his arms in the air. "What am I? A babysitter? My ship is a dangerous place for children. There is cargo sliding around and there is no one to watch them. They could easily fall overboard. Besides, why not just use a Russian navy vessel?"

"Because President Evtimov wants to deemphasize military ties and emphasize peaceful civilian cooperation. This will only delay your departure twenty-four hours."

Great. Another twenty-four hours for someone to discover the cargo for which I will be paid five million dollars for delivery. But what can I say? "Please tell President Evtimov that Alexander Popovich is pleased to be of ser vice to the motherland."