by Don Brown
"I know it is frustrating, comrades. But we are professional officers of the Russian Air Force. And let us focus on our goal. We are not seeking a fight with the Americans. Our goal is to drop our ordnance so that that a nuclear bomb is not built by the radical Islamic forces in Chechnya."
The colonel's comments resonated. "Be prepared. Be ready. Be vigilant. Go now and do your duties." The colonel nodded at the sergeant.
"Attention!"
Alexander and the other pilots rose from their chairs.
"You are dismissed."
The USS Honolulu The Sea of Marmara
Other than the hum of the freighter's engines overhead, eerie silence pervaded every sector of the submarine.
Honolulu had shut her engines to avoid any possible sonar detection, and the sub was being carried through the water in the giant O-rings under the Volga River's hull.
Other than coordinates on the control panel, the control room lighting was subdued.
The GPS showed them at 41.10 degrees north latitude and 29.10 degrees east longitude. Speed indicator showed the sub moving under the water at five knots. They were headed on a course of three-five-six degrees, just slightly to the west of due north.
Pete had served aboard United States submarines all over the world. The Pacific. The Atlantic. The Med. The Indian Ocean. But 41.10 degrees north latitude and 29.10 degrees east longitude was a location under the seas that he had never sailed.
Pete eyed the amber screen showing the electronic map of the shoreline above their location. Two land masses were split into by a long, narrow waterway. His executive officer, Frank Pippen, stood at his side. Their eyes met, and there was a silent look of amazement. All around the control room, men looked up in bewildered silence.
Their position – 41.10 degrees north latitude and 29.10 degrees east longitude – was the entrance to the Bosphorus Strait. Honolulu's crew could do nothing, except depend on the the Volga River to carry them through these dangerous waters. If the Volga River could stay in the middle of the channel where the water was deep enough, if the Turks did not stop her, if the sub didn't scrape the rocks in the treacherous channel, if they could make it just another nineteen miles…
"Ever watch Star Trek, Mr. Pippen?" Pete asked his executive officer.
"Watched all the reruns, Skipper."
"Remember the beginning of the show when the Enterprise would swoosh through the stars with the theme song and Captain Kirk's voice came on with that line about 'Space… the final frontier'?"
"Gives me goosebumps just thinking about it."
"Know what other line I'm thinking about if we can hang on about three more hours and make it through to the Black Sea?"
Frank smiled. "Let's see if I can remember it. Hmm. 'These are the voyages of the Starship Enterprise'?"
Pete's eyes stayed on the black and amber GPS monitor. The monitor now showed the submarine and the ship in the southern channel of the Bosphorus Straits, headed north, toward the first bridge spanning the European and Asian sectors of Istanbul. All around them, millions of Turks were undoubtedly carrying on their affairs in the daily bustle of one of the world's most historic and exciting cities, oblivious that a United States nuclear submarine was at this moment transiting the waters just a stone's throw from their work and play.
"Good guess, but not exactly."
Master Chief Sideman wore a sly grin on his face.
"Anybody else? Chief of the Boat? You've got that cheese-eating grin on your face."
"Would the skipper be referring to Captain Kirk's immortal and timeless declaration that the Starship Enterprise would 'boldly go where no man has gone before'?"
Pete felt himself smiling. "Gentlemen, your chief of the boat is a learned and articulate man of the world, having embarrassed your distinguished executive officer by reciting such valuable information – information that is of vital importance to the United States Navy and to the security of the United States of America."
That brought a roar of laughter from the control room crew, and a "thank you, sir, " from the COB, as the electronic image of the ship and sub could be seen on the monitor turning to the northeast in the middle of the channel, and making a slow approach toward the First Bosphorus Bridge.
The laughter subsided.
"Enjoy this moment, gentlemen, " Pete said. "No matter what happens from this moment on – whether we live or die – at this moment you are doing something that no submariner in the world has ever done before. You are transiting the Bosphorus underwater. And if we make it another seventeen miles or so, you will be the first American submarine crew ever to go on a combat mission in the Black Sea."
Pete let that thought seep in.
"In the next few days, I expect things to get hot for us. But no matter what, gentlemen, always remember that you were here. Now." He looked at every one of them, fighting back tears. "And always remember, I am very proud of you – each and every one of you."
"We're proud of you, Skipper, " one of them said. "We're in this together."
The control room fell silent again, except for the faint hum of the freighter's engines above. That seemed appropriate, given the gravity of the moment. All eyes went back to the black and amber screen. They were now passing under the First Bosphorus Bridge.
Pete contemplated it all.
If the Turks were going to stop them, they probably would have by now. His sub was making history. But this history would never be recorded in the books or studied at the Naval War College.
They passed under the First Bosphorus Bridge, beginning a slight turn to the left, now on a course due north and headed toward the second bridge.
If this would be his last mission, if he would soon die, if he would sacrifice all for country and was about to lead his men to their watery graves with him, why not let his mind linger a little longer on the eternal memories he had left behind. Coley crossing home base after his first home run. Hannah beaming from getting superior scores at "Miss Michelle's" dance competitions. The children's first communion. Making sandcastles and sandsharks during summer vacations at Hilton Head. Their giddy laughter when playing "tickle monster." Their first steps. He was there for it all before the divorce.
In the silence of the moment, he envisioned the last time he saw them. For in three hours, God willing, there would be no time for daydreaming. Twenty miles into the Black Sea, Volga River would retract her giant O-rings, and Honolulu would be set free to become again what she was meant to be: a deadly hunter-killer of the depths.
He would find and destroy the Alexander Popovich.
The rest would be in God's hands.
CHAPTER 13
Erebuni Air Base
Outside Yerevan, Armenia
Captain Alexander Giorsky sat in the cockpit of his MiG-29 Fulcrum at the end of the runway at Erebuni Air Base. The Fulcrum was armed with the latest laser-guided air-to-surface missiles, soon to be delivered courtesy of the Russian Air Force to targets around Grozny.
But Giorsky wasn't concerned about the ground munitions at the moment. Rather, his focus was on the R-73 Archer air-to-air missiles that he would fire at an American fighter.
The MiG-29 had defeated the American-built F-16 on many occasions in war games conducted by the German Luftwaffe. But the F-15 Eagle was another question. The twin-engined Eagle was not as good as the U.S. Navy's now-retired F-14 Tomcat, nor was it as nimble as the smaller F-16 Falcon. But the Eagle was much faster than the Falcon, carried more Sidewinder missiles, and had a better long-range attack capability. Still, the Eagle would have its hands full againt the MiG.
The final check on the R-73 Archers showed them ready to go. The R-27 Alamo medium-range air-to-air missiles were mounted and ready.
Giorsky signalled thumbs-up to his wing man, Junior Lieutenant Staas Budarin, who sat in the cockpit of the Fulcrum at the end of the runway just behind him.
Captain Alexander Giorsky could not suppress his adrenalin at the prospect of tangling with an American F-15 Eagle.
If so, he would show the Americans that the MiG-29 Fulcrum was the best jet fighter in the world, and that Russian pilots were the best in the history of air warfare.
The Alexander Popovich
The Black Sea
She weaved her hand through his outstretched elbow, plastering a smile on her face. When his bloodshot eyes and lecherous grin turned her way, she brought her other hand to his elbow also, for added spice. They stepped onto the main deck of the freighter. Cool breezes from the blue waters of the Black Sea chilled her all over.
The children were playing and laughing over in the center of the main deck. One of them spotted her, followed by shouts of "Masha! Masha!" They charged her with arms outstretched – all twelve of them – like a stampede of wild horses.
She released the man who would have her dead and kneeled down, holding her arms wide open. Little Dima was the first to embrace her. Blonde and scrawny, his slightly crossed blue eyes radiated like the full moon through the thick glasses that the Allisons had bought for him.
But his smile! Oh, how his smile could light up a room. Or a house. Or a city block for that matter!
She would have never admitted it, but Dima was her favorite. She would adopt him if she were married and could afford it.
Her arms wrapped around him tightly, and her hands felt the leathery third-degree scars all over his back. Scalding water poured on him by an abusive parent had nearly killed him. When a relative called the police, they snatched him out of the hellhole where he was living and brought him to the orphanage.
"I love you, Masha!" He smiled and planted a huge kiss on her cheek.
She kissed his forehead. "I love you too, Dima."
Sasha, Katya, Svyetlana, Staas, and the others rushed her like little ducklings swarming their mother. They hugged and kissed and kissed and hugged. She let all twelve of them get into the act before she said anything.
"Children, this is Kapitan Batsikov. He is the captain of the Alexander Popovich. He came down to meet you! Would any of you like to ask questions to a real sea captain?"
"Kapitan! Kapitan! Can I drive the ship?"
"Kapitan! I want to see them making the food!"
"Dah! Me too."
"Children! One at a time!"
They hushed but kept raising their hands and standing on their tiptoes.
"Let me handle this!" Batsakov said in a grandfatherly voice. He went down on one knee. They surrounded him. Masha wanted to vomit.
The knife was tied to her thigh with a scarf. She considered driving it into the man's back.
She glanced down at Dima, whose eyes were glued on the captain. She would rather go to prison than let him die.
"Miss Katovich!" Masha realized that the captain was calling her name. "They want to know if they can go swim with the dolphins. What do you say?"
"Oh, I think the water is too deep and we are too far from shore!" she said.
"Besides, " Batsakov added with a sinister laugh, "you might get eaten by the sharks! Ha, ha, ha!"
"You mean there are really sharks out here?" Sasha's eyes were bug-eyed.
"Dah! Dah, " the captain said. "These waters are filled with sharks. If you ever fall overboard, better to let yourself drown, because soon the sharks will come and bite off your feet, and then bite off your legs, and then…"
"Really?"
"Dah! Dah!" the captain continued. "And then they will eat your arms and your head and save the rest of your body for the crabs! Ha! Ha!"
Their eyes widened. Masha wanted to plunge the knife in his back.
"And now, children, I must go. Miss Katovich and I have a dinner date. But do not fear, " the captain said. "My friend Aleksey here will take good care of you while we are gone. He is a real sailor and he will show you the ship. He will answer any more questions you have. And when the time comes, he will put you all to bed!" He turned to Masha, extending his elbow again. "Shall we?"
"Of course, Kapitan, with pleasure." She took his elbow. "Have fun with Aleksey, children!" Her eyes caught Dima's. He looked bewildered, probably because she was with a man. "I will see you all soon!"
They ascended a steel stairway leading back up toward the captain's stateroom. He turned to her. "What did you think of my child psychology?"
"Child psychology?"
"Telling them the sharks will eat them! Now they will not get too close to the side of the ship, and will not fall overboard! Ha! Ha! Ha!"
How will I make it through this? "Ah, you have talent as a child psychologist also."
"I have many talents, as you will see."
A moment later, they reached the captain's stateroom. He opened the door. They stepped inside. He closed the door behind them.
The USS Honolulu The Black Sea
Easy, gentlemen, we're almost home free, " Pete said.Volga River had cut her engines, just according to plan, at a point twenty nautical miles north of the Bosphorus. The giant retractable arms holding the O-rings that had cradled the submarine were inching their way apart in opposite directions. Soon, the sub would be free from the mother ship. It was showtime, and they all had their game faces on.
"Diving Officer."
"Aye, Captain."
"When those O-rings clear our bow and stern, on my command, initiate an emergency deep procedure."
"Aye, Captain, on your command."
"I want you to take her to six hundred feet and hold."
"Six hundred feet and hold, aye, sir."
"Officer of the Deck."
"Yes, Captain."
"When we level at six hundred, I want all ahead one-third, and then bring depth back to one-five-zero. Pass those commands along to the engine room and diving officer."
"Aye, sir."
"From there, I will give my coordinates for setting a new course."
"Aye, Captain."
The Alexander Popovich
Thank you, Boris. Unless Miss Katovich would like something else, that will be all."
Yuri Batsakov looked at his guest sitting across the table. She nodded at the ship's chief chef, who wore a white chef's apron and hat. "Thank you, Boris, " she said. "It is all so lovely, and smells so delicious."
She even spoke with grace, unlike the bimbos that he was accustomed to. Perhaps she could be trained to make a good pirate's wife, he thought, and then dismissed that thought when he remembered the money that was at stake for completing this mission.
"If you need anything, Kapitan, I will be waiting in the mess galley for your ring, " Boris said.
"I will call you if we need you."
The ship's chief chef nodded and stepped out of the captain's stateroom, leaving the captain alone with his guest.
Finally.
It was about time.
"Tell me, my dear, do you like wine?"
"I love it." She seemed uncomfortable. Probably their age difference.
"And what is your preference, white or red?"
She smiled. "Red, please."
"Ahh! You are in luck." He stood and walked to the cabinet in the small galley in the captain's suite. "I have saved this for a special occasion. This pinot noir is over twenty-five years old. From the finest vineyard in Georgia!"
"I love Georgian red wine." Her tone relaxed. "It is a shame it has gotten so expensive."
He grunted. "Yes. Things are different with Georgia from my early days in the Soviet Navy, when Russians and Georgians served proudly alongside one another." He filled her glass with the dark red liquid, then did the same with his. "Perhaps we should propose a toast?"
She displayed a grin that again seemed forced. A sip or ten was definitely in order. "I am not a very good toaster or even a very good public speaker. I should consider it a privilege if you would do the honors. After all, it is your ship, Kapitan."
He reached across the table and touched her hand. She did not recoil. This was a good sign. "Very well, then I shall do the honors. And I would like to propose a toast" – what words would make her most relaxed and at ease in enjoying the
evening? – "to your children, the twelve delightful and adorable orphans hand-selected to meet the president of Ukraine!"
That brought about a smile. She raised her glass and touched his.
"And do not forget, " she said. "It is rumored that the president of Russia will be at the dockside as well. And I believe that to be true. After all, why else would Russian FSB agents help me with money for a dress for a special occasion?" She brought her lips to the glass and he followed her lead.
"Perhaps" – he took another sip – "because they are red-blooded Russian males, whose blood, at the sight of you, turns darker and redder than the wine from which you sip."
She smiled and looked down. "Oh, Kapitan, you make me blush."
"That is my objective."
The telephone rang from the bridge. This had better be good or someone would walk the plank.
"Excuse me for a moment, my dear." He stood and walked over and picked up the telephone receiver. "Kapitan here. What is it?"
The voice on the line was his first officer, Joseph Radin. "Sorry to disturb you, Kapitan, but it is urgent."
"What is urgent at the dinner hour?"
"It is the Egyptian freighter. It has made contact with us."
"I am busy, Joseph. We are not even in the sector yet. You told me before that we had found the freighter and we wasted half a day."
"But, Kapitan, this is no false alarm. The freighter is eight miles off our bow, and it is broadcasting the signal."
"Do you mean to tell me that we have an Egyptian freighter off our bow, but this one is specifically broadcasting the signal Peter the Great?"
"Dah, Kapitan. The freighter has broadcast this signal five times already."
Batsakov looked over at Masha. She was sipping her wine.
"Very well, Joseph, " Batsakov said. "I will be up to the bridge in just a few minutes." He hung up the phone and walked back to the table. "Miss Katovich, it seems that each time you are a guest in my cabin, I am being called to the bridge by my crew. They always seem to have something urgent at hand, which more often than not, turns out not to be so urgent. The matter for which I am now being called, unfortunately, may take several hours, during which time, unfortunately, the delicious meal that Boris has prepared for us may become too cold to enjoy."