Black Sea Affair

CHAPTER 5

United States Naval Support Activity

La Maddalena, Italy

A JAG officer will be right out, Commander. If you'd like to have a seat here in the lobby, sir, feel free."

"Very well." Commander Pete Miranda looked up at the legalman chief, who had just walked through the double doors leading from the back of the spartan offices that served as the Navy Legal Ser vice Office in La Maddalena.

An updated will was long overdue.

He should've done it when he and Sally divorced five years ago. But the kids were well taken care of back in Norfolk, and there was plenty of life insurance should something go wrong.

Plus, commanding a Los Angeles – class nuclear submarine provided no free time. His men, his boat, and the United States Navy were all-consuming.

But the dangerous, top-secret mission ordered by Sixth Fleet had caused him to rethink his will. Certain things should go to his twelve-year-old son, Coley, he had decided: his two Navy Commendation medals; his three Meritorious Service Medals, the bronze "dolphins" worn on his uniform signifying his elite status as a member of the silent service; and his "command" medallion, showing that he was the captain of the USS Chicago.

To his thirteen-year-old daughter, Hannah, he would leave his wedding band, which he had saved since the divorce, his watch, his family Bible that his grandparents gave him on his graduation from college, and his officer's sword, which he had carried when he and Sally were married all those years ago.

None of this meant much to the kids right now. But one day – if this mission went south – they just might come to appreciate what their daddy stood for.

Residence of the secretary of defense Arlington, Virginia

1:08 a.m.

The cacophonous buzz from the telephone on the nightstand brought the bed's only occupant to a stiff, upright position. Unlike the personal telephone on his other nightstand, which rang in softer, more pleasant tones, the tortuous noise from the phone on the left could be from only one of four sources – the White House, the NSA, the Pentagon, or the CIA – and the caller on the other end was calling to discuss an issue of immediate, pressing, national security.

"Secretary Lopez here."

"Mr. Secretary, this is G. B. Harrell, the action officer for Russian affairs at NSA. Sorry to bother you at this time of morning."

"I know you wouldn't call if it wasn't urgent. What's up?"

"Sir, we're picking up significant movement of Russian ground forces."

"Talk to me."

"Several dozen divisions so far. Mostly moving south out of Volgograd. Plus several divisions moving east out of North Ossetia. Most likely destination, Chechnya. But at the strength level we're seeing, at this point we have to be concerned about them moving farther south, sir."

"I'll call the president. Send your report to my office at the Pentagon. I'm headed over there right now."

"Yes, sir, Mr. Secretary."

The White House

9:20 a.m.

Before I order this attack, I need to know that our intelligence is solid."

President Mack Williams folded his arms and turned his back on the small cadre of high-powered advisors gathered around him in the Oval Office. He looked outside. Dew drops on several dozen rose bushes sparkled in the morning sunlight. Out on the South Lawn, lush grass sprawled like a glowing green carpet from the Oval Office, under the black iron gates to the Mall, out to the Washington Monument.

They had told him that the office would impose itself upon him. And in the five years since he had come to the Oval Office, the trim, fifty-five-year old Kansan had seen his hair transformed from pure brown to salt-and-pepper. More salt than otherwise.

Lines of worry had begun to subtly cross his tan forehead, which the First Lady had said gave him a more distinguished look. But Mack Williams knew better. And in a post-9/11 world where the traditional rules of war and peace had become a distant concept of the past, it was inevitable that the weight of the great office would be heavy upon any man.

Still, someone had to bear this weight. For the sake of freedom. For the sake of America. To defend the Constitution against all enemies, foreign and domestic. This was his time and place. He would bear this burden alone.

Mack turned away from the peaceful view of the South Lawn. He folded his arms and gazed at the members of his National Security Council.

"Where are we on all this Russian troop movement?"

"I'll take that one, Mr. President, " Secretary of Defense Erwin Lopez spoke up. He extracted multiple copies of reports from his briefcase and handed them out. "Eight hours ago, NGA noticed satellite photos of the first movement of Russian ground forces. We've had four more satellite passes since then. At two-thirty a.m., four o'clock, five-thirty, seven, and eight-thirty. Photos from each of these passes are included in your packets."

Mack began thumbing through the satellite photos as the secretary of defense continued.

"We have massive troop movements from Volgograd, and also some troop and armored vehicle movement from North Ossetia. The divisions driving east from North Ossetia have stopped at the Chechen border.

"The divisions sweeping south from Volgograd are not there yet. At this point we think, sir, that Chechnya is their destination, although there's a danger that they could be headed farther south, into the Middle East. We've intercepted radio traffic which corroborates our theory that this is a massive move into Chechnya, and I'll defer to the director of Central Intelligence for that portion of the briefing."

"Very well." Mack turned to his CIA director, Mitch Winstead. "Mr. Director?"

"Thank you, Mr. President. I'm sorry to say that ground intelligence in the North Caucasus area in the last forty-eight hours has brought about more alarming news, sir."

"Talk to me, Mr. Director."

"Well, sir, from what we've heard on the streets, the Russians seem to have misplaced several pounds of weapons-grade plutonium."

"What?" Mack raised his voice slowly. "Repeat that, Mr. Director."

"Sir, the Russian government, like the Soviet government before it, is stone-faced and tight-lipped, but their subordinates on the street don't do a very good job of guarding state secrets."

Lord, please don't let this be true. "Mr. Director, I want to know exactly what you've been hearing."

"Approximately eighteen hours ago, around midnight Caucasus time, rebel forces, probably Chechen, ambushed a Russian military truck in the Russian Republic of North Ossetia. Our sources say the truck was under guard and carried weapons-grade plutonium 239. The driver and the two guards were killed. The plutonium is gone."

"How much is missing?"

The CIA director whipped out a handkerchief and patted his forehead. "Mr. President, bear in mind that we do not know the precise amount, but we believe that at least fifty pounds was taken."

"Fifty pounds?"

"Yes, sir."

"So how much firepower is that?"

The director cleared his throat. "That's more of a military question, Mr. President. I think I should defer that question to the secretary of defense."

The president glared at the secretary of defense. "Well, Mr. Secretary? How much firepower are we talking?"

Secretary Erwin Lopez met the president's eyes. "That's enough to build four or five small thermonuclear devices or…" SECDEF's voice trailed off.

"Out with it, Mr. Secretary."

"Or, Mr. President, they could package the fuel to build a small hydrogen bomb of approximately five megatons."

"So what would five megatons do, Mr. Secretary?"

The secretary of defense hesitated. His brows furrowed. His eyes shifted around the Oval Office.

"Out with it, Erwin, " the president said.

"Five megatons, if they were able to build such a device, would vaporize" – the secretary looked down – "any major city on the entire Eastern seaboard, and then some."

Shudders swept Mack's body. Only the ticks and tocks of the grandfather clock near the entrance of the Oval Office punctuated the respite of silence.

"Lord, help us, " the president said.

"We think the Russians believe that Chechen rebels smuggled the plutonium to Chechnya to build a nuclear device. But frankly, sir, we think the Russians are wrong."

"Go on."

"As you know, Mr. President, you directed the CIA and Department of Defense to develop contingency plans to sink the Russian freighter Alexander Popovich, the ship used in the kidnapping of Jeanette L'Enfant."

"Yes, I remember that directive. Go on."

"We've recently traced a five-million-dollar transfer from the radical Islamic organization the Council of Ishmael to the captain's Caribbean bank account. Mr. President, that had to be a payment for something – transportation of stolen plutonium would be worth that kind of money."

"Any other reason to suspect the Alexander Popovich?"

"Sir, we've maintained surveillance on Alexander Popovich. It's home-ported at Sochi, Russia, which is not that far from where we believe the nuclear fuel was heisted. About three o'clock in the morning, just three hours after the attack, a truck showed up with a delivery for Alexander Popovich."

Mack mused on that. "Two questions, Mr. Director. First, how did we just happen to have someone in place to see this delivery, and second, how do we know that this mysterious truck that showed up in the middle of the night was carrying the plutonium?"

The CIA director and the secretary of defense exchanged glances, and then SECDEF spoke up. "I'll take that one, Mr. President. First, we've been watching Alexander Popovich as a result of your directive to devise a secret battle plan to sink it. Since we believe it is connected to terrorist activities, we've had agents on the ground there keeping a close contact on the ship's in-port activities.

"In addition to our CIA operatives on the ground in Sochi, NCIS special agents in Sochi report that Alexander Popovich is in port taking on supplies. That report is corroborated by satellite photos. She could be ready to sail in weeks or even days."

SECDEF continued, "Our agents personally watched all this last night from a remote point with binoculars."

Mitch Winstead, the CIA director, spoke up. "In other words, we've already tracked this ship to terrorist activities, and we believe that this ship is being retained for another mission."

Another brief moment of silence followed.

"And I suppose that mission is to take this weapons-grade plutonium that nobody has actually seen, then sail off with it so that some terrorist group can blow up the United States?" This was the voice of Secretary of State Robert Mauney, who sat cross-armed to the president's left.

"Mr. Secretary, " Winstead shot back, "in the intelligence world, we can never be one hundred percent sure about anything. What you have said is true. Nobody – at least nobody that we have in our intelligence camp – actually saw what was in that crate hauled on the ship. But mathematically speaking, given the intelligence data we currently have, I'd say that odds favor that, sir."

"Then why are the Russians sending their forces to Chechnya? Do they know something we don't know?" Mauney wrung his hands. "Doesn't that tell us where the plutonium is?"

"With all due respect, Mr. Secretary, " Director Winstead replied in deliberate tones, "this is more likely a matter of us knowing something that the Russians don't know."

"Elaborate, Mr. Director, " the president said.

"The financial trail, Mr. President." Director Winstead leaned forward. "It goes back to the deal that Commander Brewer cut with Commander Quasay when we prosecuted those Islamic fighter pilots. Quasay gave us information in exchange for our not seeking the death penalty. That information led us to financial accounts which have allowed us to track cash flow from radical Council of Ishmael accounts to accounts controlled by this Russian captain – Batsakov."

"You don't think the Russians know about this ship's activities?"

"They may have some notion that the skipper is lavishing around in a lot of cash, but I doubt they know about this five-million-dollar infusion of cash into his Caribbean account, or that he even has such an account."

"Mr. President." The secretary of defense fidgeted with his cufflinks.

"Yes, Secretary Lopez."

"Sir, this underscores the need to sink that freighter. We know it has been used by terrorist organizations, that it will be used again by terrorist organizations. It is now most likely carrying enough plutonium to blow up New York City, Los Angeles, or Washington, D.C. The Russians either condone it or have turned a blind eye to it."

"With all due respect, Mr. Secretary, " the secretary of state responded, "that idea is too risky." Robert Mauney looked at Mack. "Please, Mr. President, I strongly urge you to give diplomacy a chance."

"Diplomacy?" Secretary of Defense Lopez spoke up. "Our diplomatic relations with the Russians are as low now as they have been since the Cuban Missile crisis. What are we supposed to do? Just say to the Russians, 'Excuse me, but you've got it all wrong on Chechnya, and one of your freighters is carrying the nuclear material you're looking for.'

"Mr. President." Secretary Lopez turned his gaze from the secretary of state and looked at Mack. "The Russians don't know that we're aware of this missing plutonium. If we let them know, that compromises our intelligence on the ground there, and if we let them know that we suspect this freighter of terrorist activities, that ends our opportunity to sink it surreptitiously. If we sink it after we tell the Russians we think it's a terrorist ship" – he shifted his gaze back to the secretary of state – "you've really got a diplomatic challenge, Mr. Secretary."

"All right." Mack waved his hands in the air. "That's enough." Mack let a moment of silence permeate the air. He looked at his secretary of state. "Secretary Mauney, the State Department feels that a military operation against this freighter is too risky?"

"Yes, sir, we do, Mr. President."

"Very well. I'd like you to address that, and after you've finished, Secretary Lopez may respond. Fair enough?" Mack glanced at Lopez, then back at Mauney.

"Yes, sir, " both secretaries said at the same time.

"Secretary Mauney, the floor is with the State Department."

"Thank you, Mr. President." The secretary of state rose from his chair, then walked around the conference table to a position just a few feet in front of the president.

"Now, Mr. President, as I understand the Navy's plan, which I have yet to see, by the way" – a halting glance at the secretary of defense, as if insulted that he had not been in on the military planning for the infiltration of the Black Sea – "this freighter would be sunk by a U.S. submarine in the Black Sea.

"Mr. President, the Black Sea is a dangerous place. The Russians consider it their territory. Even today, they protest the presence of warships there. The Russians claim that only the littoral nations surrounding the Black Sea – including Russia, Bulgaria, Ukraine, Georgia, Turkey, and Romania – have a right to have warships there.

"Now if we sink this freighter with a submarine, Mr. President, and sink it in the Black Sea, then the only way to get a sub in there is through the Bosphorus. And as you know, sir, the Bosphorus, which connects the Marmara to the Black Sea, is the narrowest international strait in the world." Mauney stood up. "If I may call on my aide to assist me for a moment, sir?"

"Of course, " Mack Williams replied.

Mauney motioned for his aide to approach, and the aide unveiled a large photograph, mounted on foamcore, and set it on an easel. All heads turned toward the photo.

"Mr. President, this is a satellite photograph of the Bosphorus taken from outer space."

"The waterway to the north is the Black Sea. To the south, the Sea of Marmara. Our submarine would have to approach from the south, sail through this narrow and crooked waterway, under the two bridges, and then into the Black Sea in the north. When our mission is complete, we would have to sail out – there's no other way – to reach the safe waters of the Mediterranean.

"This narrow waterway of international strategic importance has been fought over since the fifth century BC, when the Greek city-state Athens depended on grain shipments to be brought in from Scythia on the Black Sea.

"The Roman Emperor Constantine founded the city of Constantinople here. Today, the Turkish city of Istanbul straddles the straits. The entire strait is only about twenty miles long, it is heavily populated on both sides, and it is narrow and shallow. Not only that, Mr. President, but

two bridges cross it, which you can see in this map and satellite photo. The bridges connect the eastern and western sectors of Istanbul.

"If we send our sub in on the surface, we're suspect number one when we sink that freighter, which I would remind you, sir, sails under a Russian flag. If the sub transits the Bosphorus submerged, and if we get caught, we run the risk of alienating the Turks. Mr. President, the water in that small bottleneck is shallow. The average depth is about two hundred feet. In some places, I've been told that the water depth is as shallow as a hundred and sixty feet. Plus I've also been told that this waterway is as narrow as fifteen hundred feet through the heart of the city.

"The currents are treacherous. Our sub runs the risk of colliding with commercial shipping or running into rocks. Over fifty thousand ships transit this waterway each year, sir. That's fifty thousand. The danger for a collision if we're underwater is grave. A submerged sub run ning through there would be practically on the bottom, with no room for navigational error.

"We run a grave risk getting the sub in, and then even a greater risk getting it out. What happens if our sub crashes on the rocks and we end up blocking one of the most important waterways in the world?

"Besides, if we sink this ship, the Turks – and the Russians – will be on high alert for the presence of foreign subs passing back through here. I would remind you, sir, that the Turks, with their huge Muslim population, are still furious with us over the Dome of the Rock attack. They could pull out of NATO over this."

Mack mulled that over. He looked at the secretary of defense, Erwin Lopez.

"Mr. President, " Secretary Lopez spoke. "Our sub commanders are the world's finest. Not even the Brits hold a candle to us anymore. Besides, we've developed a plan to get our submarine in undetected. Secretary Mauney neglected to mention that. We can get in, perform our mission, and get out. Just say the word."

"Gentlemen!" Mack pivoted around and slammed his hand on the presidential desk. "One at a time!" The president chopped his hand in the air. "Tell me this. Forget about the missing plutonium for a moment. How solid is our intelligence that this ship was linked to the Council of Ishmael?"

"Rock solid, Mr. President, " Lopez declared. "When the French lawyer L'Enfant was kidnapped, we're certain she was held on the Alexander Popovich. In her briefing to us after our SEAL team rescued her, she talks about being hauled onto a ship, and passing through some sort of international canal which passed through the middle of a city, which we now believe was the Bosphorus.

"They sedated L'Enfant with drugs in one of the lower spaces for most of the voyage, sir. Then they crated her up in a wooden box and slung it through the air, in what we now know was a cargo crane in the Russian port city of Sochi. We have witnesses, Russians in fact, who saw the crate lowered from the ship, Mr. President, and saw them drive off.

"The ship that we're targeting is the Russian freighter Alexander Popovich, home-ported in Sochi, Russia, on the eastern coast of the Black Sea. Here's a photo of it." Lopez had an aide place a large black-and-white photo of a long, black ship on another easel. "I remind you, Mr. President, that this ship and its captain have made themselves available for hire as instruments of radical Islamic terrorists."

Mauney spoke up. "So we don't know for a fact that L'Enfant was on board, is that right?"

Winstead said, "L'Enfant described being loaded off a ship in a wooden crate."

"That's still too circumstantial, " Mauney said. "Anything could've been in that crate we observed. Eggs. Tools. Anything. Nobody actually saw L'Enfant. All the more reason to hold off on all this. We just don't have enough information."

"Yes, we do, " Lopez shot back. "The money trail condemns this captain, sir. We've now gone back and shown payments to this captain coinciding with the L'Enfant kidnapping, and now again, just as this plutonium is disappearing, millions show up in his account. Tell me this is coincidental. These people are enemies of the United States and enemies of the West. Now they've onloaded materials needed to make a nuclear bomb. The secretary of state knows this."

"Gentlemen!" Mack held his palm out like a traffic cop. "So, where is this ship headed, Mr. Director?" the president asked.

"We think Sevastopol, on the Crimean peninsula in Ukraine. Possibly Odessa. From there, who knows?"

"Please, Mr. President, " Mauney interjected, pleading with his hands, "if we must attack, and this is only if we absolutely must, why not wait until the freighter is out in the open sea?"

"But the Black Sea is the open sea, " Lopez interjected.

"No, I mean the Mediterranean, or better yet, the Atlantic, " Mauney said. "Why sneak one of our subs into what the Russians have considered their territory through the Bosphorus? This is the narrowest and most dangerous bottleneck in the world for a sub to pass through. Trying something like this is unheard of. Why not just have one of our subs tail it into the open ocean? That way it becomes difficult for the rest of the world to pin this on us."

Lopez stood, holding his palms upward. "It's much harder to track in the open ocean. Keeping track of freighters with ties to terrorist activities has become increasingly difficult. The ocean is a big space, and if this ship gets out on the high seas with nuclear materials on board, we could lose track of her. And if we lose track of her, and she gets this fuel into the wrong hands, then the blood of the victims is not on my hands!"

Lopez stopped, perhaps realizing how loud his voice had gotten. The secretary spoke again, this time in lower tones. "Look, Mr. President, timing is crucial here. We've vowed to hunt down terrorists expeditiously and anywhere in the world. This rogue Russian skipper and his crew were coconspirators with the Council of Ishmael, and they've proven ready to attack Western interests for hire. This guy may not even be skipper of this ship months from now, if we get a shot at his ship anywhere other than the Black Sea. Timing is crucial to the national interest here, sir."

"Timing?" Mauney threw his hands in the air. "The American public doesn't even know that this freighter was used to aid and abet terrorism. What's the point?"

"The point, Mr. Secretary, " Lopez retorted, "is that the terrorists know full well that it was used. They've paid him again for something. This time for something that could lead to the destruction of an entire American city. And our message must go straight to them, like a clenched fist smashed straight in their mouths."

"Gentlemen!" the president snapped. "I appreciate your passion, but this isn't the back bench of the British parliament." Mack turned to the secretary of defense. "Mr. Secretary, does the Navy have a plan to sneak this sub through the Bosphorus undetected?"

Lopez looked around the room, exchanging sly grins and nods with the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. "We do have a plan, Mr. President. We call it Operation Undercover."

"Interesting code name, " the president mused. "So how does it work?"

"Let me put it this way, Mr. President. The terrorists aren't the only ones who can play games with seagoing freighters."

"Explain, Mr. Secretary."

"With pleasure, sir." The secretary stood and motioned for two naval officers, both lieutenant commanders, to approach with an over sized attache case.

"Mr. President, my friend the secretary of state is right about one thing. Getting a submarine through the Bosphorus is a challenge. Part of the problem is the shallow depth. With an average depth of a hundred-sixty feet, if our sub goes in too deep, she risks grounding or colliding with rocks along the bottom. If she comes up to periscope depth, she risks being spotted from the air.

"Mr. President, here's a photo of one of our Los Angeles – class boats, the USS Chicago at periscope depth just off the coast of Malaysia. In this photo Chicago is under sixty feet of water, yet in the daytime, she's clearly visible from any aircraft passing over, and there are hundreds of aircraft over Istanbul.

"Our challenge, clearly, is finding a way to block the sub from view from the air. We took the problem to Newport News Shipbuilding. They mulled it over, and the solution they came up with is this. Commander?"

The lieutenant commander assisting the secretary of defense removed the photo of the Chicago and replaced it with a schematic diagram that looked like a blueprint.

"This, " Secretary Lopez said, "is the blueprint for Operation Undercover, which is the code name for the portion of the mission to get our sub in the Black Sea.

"As you know, Mr. President, " Secretary Lopez began, "six months ago you authorized the Defense Department to come up with a plan for submarine infiltration of the Bosphorus and other strategic waterways to deal with rogue freighters like the Alexander Popovich and for other strategic reasons."

The president nodded his head.

"We've carried out your orders, sir. And the concept here, " the secretary said, pointing at the diagram, "is brilliant. Under this plan, which we have been working on for months, naval engineers cut a watertight compartment in the bottom of an existing freighter.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this has already been accomplished. Naval engineers at Newport News cut a compartment into the lower hull of the Russian freighter Volga River, which has been in port at Norfolk."

"What happened to her crew?" the vice president asked.

"Let's just say that her crew is enjoying an unexpected but extended visit to the United States."

"I don't even want to hear it, " the president said.

That comment brought chuckles from the group.

"Anyway, " the secretary of defense continued, "the ship is being manned by a U.S. Navy crew, posing as civilians. They all speak Russian. The Volga River is now in the Mediterranean, awaiting orders to rendezvous with the U.S. submarine.

"A Los Angeles – class submarine, the USS Honolulu, manned by a volunteer crew of submarine veterans, is on standby in La Maddalena, Italy, awaiting your orders, Mr. President. That crew understands that if they are called upon to carry out this mission, they may never return."

Silence again, except for the grandfather clock ticking and tocking. The secretaries of state and defense seemed to have run out of gas. All eyes returned to the president.

"Okay, here's what I'm ordering, " the president declared. "Deploy the Honolulu out of La Maddalena. Send her out to the rendezvous point to link up with the Volga River. I've not made a final decision on this attack. Not yet anyway. But I want our sub ready to go if and when I give the order."

"Yes, sir, Mr. President."

"We are adjourned."