Black Sea Affair

by Don Brown

  "Agreed, Mr. President, " the secretary of defense chimed in.

  Secretary Mauney grimaced.

  "Therefore, Secretary Mauney, I want you to open talks with the Russians on the release of that pilot, but as a condition, there must be some acknowledgment on their part that our pilots did not fire into their territory and that their pilots were over Georgian territory."

  "They won't like it, sir."

  "I don't care if they like it or not. Put some face-saving language in there if you want, but that's the way it's going to be."

  "Yes, sir, " the secretary of state said.

  "Now, Secretary Lopez."

  "Yes, Mr. President."

  "I have three directives I want to underscore. First, all activities in Turkey and Georgia will continue as previously directed, until otherwise ordered by me."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Second, I want you to organize a press conference at the Pentagon this afternoon to get the facts out about what happened in that dogfight over Georgia."

  "Will do, sir."

  "Finally, there is to be no change – repeat no change – in the operational orders for Operation Undercover. We've come this far. We've gotten our sub into the Black Sea. We're going to find that freighter, sink her, and keep that plutonium out of the hands of terrorists. We're going to do this because it's the right thing to do."

  Mack surveyed the room. Stone silence and electric tension dominated the atmosphere.

  "Any questions?"

  There were none.

  "Very well, let's all get to work. This meeting is adjourned."

  CHAPTER 17

  The USS Honolulu

  The Black Sea

  Commander Pete Miranda walked around the control room, sipping black coffee and checking his watch. Now they were in a waiting game.

  But submariners were good at that. Just waiting.

  All the training, all the drills, all the practices, the repetitions, the checklists, etc. It all came down to this.

  Running silent, running deep.

  Waiting.

  "What's our position, Chief of the Boat?"

  "Forty-five degrees north latitude; thirty degrees, thirty minutes east longitude. Depth one-five-zero. Hovering at ground zero, Skipper."

  "Very well, Mr. COB, thank you."

  "Aye, sir."

  To be a hunter. A predator. To kill from the depths of the sea and return silently back to ports unknown. This was the duty of the submariner.

  Even still, in the serene silence of it all, Pete hoped they would never have to launch a torpedo.

  Pete was unafraid of dying. Nor was he afraid of the naval dragnet that would sweep the area soon after the freighter's sinking.

  None of that drove this feeling. There was just a hope that somehow, some way, the crisis could resolve itself in another way.

  They'd already made history by entering the Black Sea. But beyond a tiny handful of Americans in the Navy and at the very upper echelons of the United States government, this moment would never be known.

  It would never exist in the history books. Not that Pete cared about making the history books. He did not.

  But his children, Hannah and Coley, the son and daughter he had not seen for a year, were weighing on his heart.

  All his life's regrets flashed through his mind. His marriage to the Navy. Christmases gone by when he was alone, without his children to open presents under the Christmas tree.

  He closed his eyes and saw thirteen-year-old Hannah. Her hair was wavy and black as coal. Her skin was fair and her eyes were a deep, haunting blue. She was his Snow White, a princess always in his heart.

  And her smile when she sat on his knee and put her arms around him made every part of his soul melt.

  Coley was born a year after Hannah. He too had inherited Sally's wavy, jet-black hair. While Hannah was sugar and spice and everything nice, Coley was all boy.

  The kid got into everything, and Pete thought he was going to burn the house down from one of the many "chemistry experiments" Coley conducted in his room. To keep Coley's mischievous streak in check, Pete insisted that the boy play sports. Coley experimented with baseball and basketball, before settling on soccer, in which he excelled as the fastest, most agile and lithe forward on the team.

  That thought brought a proud smile to the captain's face.

  The history books could fall off a cliff as far as Pete was concerned.

  Most of them were revisionist anyway. But his heart's desire was for Hannah and Coley to know what their ole pop sacrificed here, in the Black Sea, and to know that he had done it for America – that he had done it for them.

  If only some way they could know.

  But his death, should it come, would kill a last chance to hug his little girl or play catch with his boy. God forgive me for my poor choices.

  Forgive me for letting this time slip away.

  How surreal it all was. To be here, yet in the eyes of millions and the eyes of his children, to vanish into oblivion… never to be heard from again.

  The cacophonous static of the ship's communication speaker broke the serenity of the moment.

  "Conn. Radio! Receiving emergency action message!… Recommend alert one. Recommend alert one!"

  Pete barked at the officer of the deck. "Officer of the deck, on the 1MC, sound alert one!"

  "Aye, Skipper! Sounding alert one!" The OOD picked up the microphone and switched the frequency to the 1MC, broadcasting the alert all over the ship.

  "Alert one! Alert one! Incoming emergency action message! Alert one! Alert one! Incoming EAM!"

  Pete looked at Frank Pippen, who was now wearing his battle-ready game face. "XO, follow me."

  "Aye, Skipper."

  "Mr. McCaffity, you have the conn!"

  "Aye, Skipper, I have the conn, " replied Lieutenant Darwin McCaf-fity, the officer of the deck.

  In the midst of warning buzzers sounding off and on, like a buzzing alarm clock without the snooze button, Pete bounded down the steel, grated decks to the radio room, which was on the same deck as the control room. The radio officer, Lieutenant Walt Brown, had already printed a hard copy of the EAM and was holding it out for the captain.

  "Looks like we've got a target, Skipper, " the radio officer announced. Pete snatched the message from his hand. He spread the sheet on the charting table.

  EMERGENCY ACTION MESSAGE

  FROM: NATIONAL MILITARY COMMAND CENTER – WASHINGTON, D.C.

  TO: USS HONOLULU

  SUBJECT: ACTION MESSAGE REMARKS:

  Be advised U.S. reconnaissance satellites have spotted Russian freighter Alexander Popovich operating in vicinity of USS Honolulu current patrol area.

  Alexander Popovich last spotted 1030 hours Zulu time at 44 degrees north latitude, 33 degrees east longitude on course bearing 340 degrees.

  Carry out battle plan. Seek and destroy.

  Pete handed the message to Frank. "Lieutenant Brown, pass me the microphone."

  "Aye, Skipper." The radio officer complied.

  "On the 1MC."

  Lieutenant Brown punched a button. "You've got the 1MC now, sir."

  "Thank you, Lieutenant." Pete pressed the broadcast switch and spoke into the microphone. "All hands, now hear this. This is the captain." He paused for a moment as his voice echoed in all the passageways and compartments of the three-hundred-sixty-foot submarine. "We've just received an updated EAM from Washington. Alexander Popovich is in our area, and she's coming our way. When we find her, we're going to sink her.

  "Torpedo Room, be prepared. All departments and all personnel, be prepared. Be alert. Be ready to go to battle stations at a moment's notice.

  "When we sink her, I expect that within an hour, we will face a naval dragnet covering the entire western sector of the Black Sea from the Russian, the Ukrainian, the Romanian, and the Bulgarian navies." He looked at Frank Pippen, who slowly nodded his head. "This is dangerous business, people. But you know that. Stay on your toes.

&nbs
p; "Just remember, we do not carry out this mission for glory, nor for recognition, nor for the history books – for no one will ever remember, or even know that we were here.

  "We carry out this mission to save the lives of millions – to save the lives even of your loved ones" – images of Hannah and Coley rushed into his mind – "and of mine." He paused for a second. A crew should never sense that their captain is losing control of his emotions. "This is the captain. That is all."

  Pete handed the microphone back to the radio officer. He turned to Frank. "XO, where's Lieutenant Jamison?" He was referring to Lieutenant Phil Jamison, the ship's intelligence officer who had been requested to volunteer for this mission because of his proficiency in Russian.

  "In his stateroom, sir, " the XO said.

  "Summon him to the control room. It's time to put his skills to work."

  "Aye, Captain."

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

  The audacity of these Americans!" The Russian defense minister, Giorgy Alexeevich Popkov, paced to and fro in front of the president's desk, waving his hands in the air. "To claim that our planes violated Georgian airspace. Typical Yankee lies!"

  "This would not be the first time that the Americans have twisted things to their liking for propaganda purposes, " President Evitimov said, exchanging curious glances with his foreign minister.

  "We shall expose their lies!" Popkov flailed his hands in the air. "We shall produce our radar tapes and show the world direct evidence of their aggressive and belligerent behavior."

  "Sit down, Giorgy Alexeevich!"

  The defense minister complied.

  "I would rather expose our stolen plutonium!" Evtimov said.

  That comment brought a tension-filled silence. Popkov squirmed in his chair like a writhing snake.

  "Well, Comrade Defense Minister, what have you to say about this?"

  Popkov looked around the room, exchanging glances with his friend the chief of staff, as if Sergey Semyonovich Sobyanin would tell him what to say.

  But Sergey Semyonovich looked away from his old friend. Good. Sergey was smart enough to know where his loyalties should lie.

  "We shall find the plutonium, Comrade President, " Popkov stuttered. "We have reason to believe it is in Grozny."

  "We do, do we? Based on what?"

  "Based on our intelligence on the streets, which is highly reliable."

  "And if we do not have the plutonium yet, how do you propose that we go about getting it?"

  The weasel pulled himself up a bit. "By following the course that you have so boldly set forth when we began this operation, Comrade President. By pouring more forces in against the rebels. By pummeling them, and by sticking to our commitment to do so until Chechnya is a literal wasteland."

  "And what if all this does not work, Giorgy Alexeevich? What if that Chechen rebel Aslambek Kadyrov is at this moment building his bomb in some town other than Grozny, and we are bombing the wrong place?"

  Popkov crossed his right knee over his left, then switched back and crossed his left knee over his right. "Please, I remind us all" – his eyes swept the room again – "patience is in order. Only a few days have passed since we discovered all this. Besides" – he folded his arms and leaned back in his chair with a satisfied smile – "we always have the option of withdrawing our forces and executing General Order 46."

  That comment brought stunned silence. General Order 46, named such because the forty-sixth longitude ran just east of Grozny, was a highly classified plan thought of and presented by Popkov in his first act as defense minister two years ago. General Order 46 had created heated controversy in the upper levels of the Russian command.

  The plan called for the total withdrawal of all Russian forces in Chechnya, followed by the dropping of a neutron bomb over the Chechen capital city by Russian aircraft.

  Unlike a thermonuclear device, which would vaporize and obliterate everything within a multi-mile radius, a neutron device, at least in theory, would leave all structures intact. Buildings, bridges, and roads would all be left standing after the attack for subsequent repopulation by Slavic Russians.

  But the presence of lethal neutrons would destroy all human and animal life in the city and in the countryside for miles around.

  There were too many questions about the plan. How would they assure that deadly neutron radiation would not drift into Russia? What about the reaction of the international community? Was there a way to execute this without Russia's fingerprints being on it?

  President Evtimov had shelved the plan for the time being. Privately, Evtimov worried that Popkov may try something without his permission.

  "Let me make it perfectly clear, Giorgy Alexeevich, that General Order 46 is not an option at this time, and certainly will never be an option without my express approval. Are we clear on this point?"

  "Extremely clear, Comrade President."

  "You may continue our conventional buildup and pummel Grozny to the stones, but I want no mention of General Order 46 anymore unless I bring it up. Are there any questions?"

  The weasel slumped back into his chair. "No. There are no questions, Comrade President."

  Evtimov turned to his foreign minister. "I have been thinking, Alexander Alexeyvich, that in light of the worsening crisis in Chechnya, and because of the timing of our upcoming resolution in the United Nations condemning America, perhaps we should postpone my meeting with President Butrin?"

  The foreign minister leaned forward. "No sir, I do not believe it advisable to cancel that meeting."

  President Evtimov raised his eyebrow. "Really? Why do you say this, Alexander Alexeyvich?"

  The foreign minister leaned forward in his chair. "We have a unique opportunity to bring Ukraine back into the eastern camp. And there are several reasons for this."

  "What are your reasons?"

  "First" – the foreign minister brought the tips of his index fingers together – "cancelling the summit will signal to the world that we consider Chechnya to be a serious international crisis. The more we signal business as usual, the better."

  "Good point, " President Evtimov said.

  The foreign minister continued. "Also, I know Vlaclav Butrin well. He is bighearted. Orphans are his passion. I remind you, Comrade President, that the orphans aboard the Russian freighter live in the very same orphanage where President Butrin himself was raised. Trust me, Vitaly Sergeivich, your offer to spend millions of rubles on Ukrainian orphanages will strike close to his heart. Your presence there at the dock will be meaningful to him.

  "I suggest that the theme of your visit be on humanitarian cooperation, with Russia committing to become a major partner with Ukraine on the issue of orphans.

  "I can have our staff prepare a major speech for you, Comrade President, on Russia's determination to take care of displaced Ukrainian orphans who continue to suffer residual radiation as a result of the Chernobyl nuclear disaster."

  The president thought about that for a moment. "Ah, yes. Excellent points, Alexander Alexeyvich. Think of the photo opportunities for the Western media with all those orphans hugging me and Butrin!"

  The foreign minister nodded his head in agreement. "Not only that, Comrade President, but if your speech is good enough and we throw enough Siberian oil money behind this orphans project, you, my dear friend, might even win the Nobel Prize for Peace."

  "The Nobel Peace Prize?" Nods of agreement came from other cabinet ministers. "How about that?" The idea resonated in his head and grew more appealing. He let the words roll slowly off his tongue. "President Vitaly Sergeivich Evtimov. Winner of the Nobel Peace Prize for his work in helping the poor Ukrainian orphans!"

  "That sounds very nice, Comrade President." This was Sergey Semyonovich Sobyanin, the president's chief of staff.

  "Yes, indeed it does, Sergey. Thank you very much."

  "Dah. Dah, " the men of the cabinet were saying.

  "In fact it sounds so good, " the president conti
nued, "that I'll drink to that." That brought cackles and laughter from the cabinet members present.

  "Sergey!" the president said through laughter.

  "Yes, sir."

  "Have the waiter bring rounds of vodka for everyone. We shall celebrate my upcoming summit with President Butrin, and more importantly, my soon-to-be-awarded Nobel Prize for Peace."

  More nods of approval. A round of cheering from the members of the cabinet. Then, four uniformed waiters marched into the president's office with silver trays full of glasses, ice, vodka, caviar, cheese, and crackers.

  They drank and toasted and laughed and cackled about the Nobel Prize.

  After a few minutes of gaiety, Evtimov checked his watch. "Gentlemen, it has been a productive meeting, but we must get to work. You are all excused, except Sergey Semyonovich." He nodded at his chief of staff. "I need a few words with you."

  "Of course, Comrade President."

  The ministers filed out of the president's office, and when they did, only the president, the chief of staff, and three members of the president's personal security detail remained.

  The president nodded at one of his bodyguards to close the door.

  "Sit back down, Sergey Semyonovich."

  The chief of staff complied.

  "Tell me, Sergey, what do you think of our defense minister?"

  Sergey Semyonovich hesitated. "What do you mean, Comrade President?"

  "You and he are longtime friends, as I understand it?"

  "For years, we drank vodka, hunted deer in the forest, and went to banya together."

  "And now, Sergey, where do your loyalties lie?"

  The chief of staff spoke without hesitation. "My allegiance is with you, Vitaly Sergeivich. You are my president, and you are my friend. I have no other allegiances."

  "Then I can trust you, even in matters concerning the defense minister?"

  "Totally."

  "Then tell me. What do you think of the defense minister's… stability?"

  "I have my concerns."

  "Is this true?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "How so?"

  "I thought the reference to General Order 46 was, under these circumstances, wholly inappropriate."