Black Sea Affair

by Don Brown

  "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."

  CHAPTER 6

  United States Nuclear Submarine Base La Maddalena, Italy

  3 p.m. local time

  The Alfa Romeo coupe jolted along the narrow cobblestone streets, headed to the main gate of the U.S. submarine base.

  From the passenger's seat of the sports car, Commander Pete Miranda took in the vibrant colors of the picturesque Mediterranean-style buildings in the center of town. A few minutes later, the car cleared the last small building, opening a spacious view of the blue waters of the Straits of Bonifacio. Sparkling wavelets glistened in the afternoon sun, creating the illusion of a crystal-blue carpet separating the Italian island of La Maddalena from the French island of Corsica, just a few miles to the north.

  The pristine beauty of the sight masked the reality that these were some of the rockiest and thus most dangerous waters anywhere in the world for navigating a submarine in close quarters around a sub base.

  La Maddalena had been home to a small U.S. nuclear submarine base since 1973. Pete had grown to love this, his favorite Mediterranean port-of-call. Unfortunately, the Sardinians and the Greenpeace activists had carped about the presence of U.S. nuclear boats at La Maddalena ever since USS Hartford scraped bottom and ran aground in 2003.

  As a result of all that, the gorgeous base at the northern tip of this tiny island would soon be closed. How fitting that one of the last missions launched from this place would be the most dangerous, and most significant to the defense of the America he so loved.

  Stogie clamped between his molars, Pete exchanged salutes with the petty officer at the main gate of the U.S. submarine base.

  Change was happening all too fast, Pete Miranda thought, as the car rolled through the gate and onto the base. There was the unwelcome change in his personal life – separation and divorce, alienation from his family. And in the wider world, the years following the end of the Cold War had brought closure to many of the great U.S. naval bases around the world: Charleston, Long Beach, Treasure Island, Subic Bay.

  And now… this.

  The closing of these great ports-of-call was disturbing to him. Was the Navy losing its significance around the world? Which begged the question, was he losing his own? After all, the Navy was in him, wasn't it?

  That thought led him often to the thought of retirement. But his love of the Navy, his love of the sea, his love for submarines would not let him retire. Not yet, anyway. Not voluntarily.

  Somewhere, it was still out there. He knew it in his gut. The mission that would define his significance as a naval officer. This was why he couldn't retire. Not yet. The mission that would define his legacy might cost him his life. So be it. He would face the mission bravely, and perform it to the best of his abilities.

  Pete looked over to his left. The chief petty officer in the driver's seat pulled the Alfa Romeo into a parking space. Across the street a Los Angeles – class submarine was moored alongside the pier. A group of naval officers and enlisted men milled about on the pier.

  "Let me check on things, Skipper, " the chief said. "I'll come get you just as soon as the crew is ready."

  "Sure thing, Chief." Pete puffed his stogie as the chief got out of the car.

  The chief returned from across the street and opened the passenger door of the Alfa Romeo.

  "Ready, Chief?"

  "Aye, aye, Skipper."

  "Very well, " Pete said. "Let's do it."

  Pete stepped out of the car, crossed the street to the end of the pier where the submarine was moored to his right. A crew of one hundred officers and enlisted men were lined on the pier in four rows to his left.

  "Attention on deck!" a lieutenant commander called from atop the aluminum platform erected just in front of the four rows of men.

  The crew came to sharp attention as Pete, followed by the chief, stepped up four aluminum steps and joined the lieutenant commander on the platform. He dropped the stogie on the platform and stamped it out.

  "Afternoon, Frank, " Pete said to the lieutenant commander, accepting and returning the salute of h
is new executive officer.

  "Afternoon, sir." The executive officer sharply held his salute. "Sir, I present to you the officers and crew of the USS Honolulu."

  "Very well." Pete dropped his salute, and the XO crisply followed. Pete stepped to the podium, turned, and faced the brand-new crew.

  "Gentlemen, at ease!"

  Pete looked out and saw one hundred of the Navy's finest kick from strict attention to parade rest. Beyond them in the background, the adjoining concrete piers were empty of ships and empty of men. Other than circling seagulls, not another soul, beyond Pete and these men, was anywhere within earshot. The Navy had cordoned off a five-hundred-yard guarded perimeter around the ship to maintain secrecy.

  "Good afternoon, gentlemen. I'm Commander Pete Miranda. Up until one hour ago, I was commanding officer of the USS Chicago.

  "Some of you I know. Many of you I don't. Here's what I know about all of you. You have been in the Navy at least twenty years. You're all within one year of retirement or have retired within the last year.

  "You've all volunteered for this mission. And although a hundred others also volunteered, you were screened, selected, and flown here because your records as submariners are exemplary. And you've all been apprised of the danger in what we may be called on to do.

  "I want you to take this moment to look at the man on each side of you."

  Men looked to their left and their right.

  "If the president of the United States gives the order that is being contemplated in Washington even as we speak, there's a better than even chance, that thirty days from now, either you, or the man next to you, or both of you… will be dead."

  Pete's words reverberated off the concrete pier.

  Wind whipped off the water, and the chorus of wheeling gulls provided the only background to the moment of icy silence.