Black Sea Affair

by Don Brown

  "Hmm." The president studied the face of his chief of staff. "And what of the circumstances surrounding the shooting down of our planes?"

  "I am suspicious of Popkov's accounting."

  "Why do you say this?"

  "First, it is unlikely that the Americans would fire into our airspace. Possible? Yes. Likely? No. It is also unlikely that our pilot would float by the wind from Russian territory to Georgian territory. Both these events are possible, of course. But with two unlikely events in the same story, combined with the fact that Giorgy Alexeevich feels that you are blaming him for the loss of plutonium…"

  "Do you feel he should remain as defense minister?"

  "That is your call alone, Comrade President."

  "You did not answer my question, Sergey Semyonovich. Do you feel he should remain as defense minister?"

  The chief of staff looked down at the floor, then looked back up at the president. "I believe that Giorgy Alexeevich has become unstable. That makes him dangerous, especially since he is in command of the most powerful army in the world."

  "No, I am in command of the most powerful army in the world."

  "Of course you are, Comrade President. But should Giorgy Alex-eevich become more deranged, how can we be assured that he will remember who is in charge? Unless they know that he is contradicting your orders, our generals will obey him." A pause. "What if he ordered execution of General Order 46?"

  Sergey Semyonovich's point was well-taken. "Are you willing to help me take care of the problem?"

  The chief of staff shot the president a suspicious look. "Take care of the problem, sir?"

  "Again I ask you, Sergey Semyonovich, are you willing to help me take care of the problem?"

  Their eyes locked. "Yes, my president, I will take care of the problem."

  The Alexander Popovich The Black Sea

  The next day

  Masha stood in the passageway leading out to the main deck of the ship. She looked around to see if anyone was watching. No one was in sight. She had decided to move the knife from her thigh to her back, thinking that repositioning it would give her quicker access when she needed it. But the sharp knife had slipped down a bit down her back, and she needed to position it higher under her bra strap.

  She would need to use the knife soon, she had resolved. She did not know when, or how.

  But soon.

  Donning her sunglasses, she stepped out into the bright afternoon sun on the main deck of Alexander Popovich.

  She glanced toward the center of the deck, where the Captain Bat-sakov's loyal sidekick, Aleksey Anatolyvich, had erected a net across the deck. The orphans were patting a ball back and forth across the net with their hands. They laughed and cackled as they played.

  Aleksey seemed good with children. She prayed that she would not have to hurt him, and that somehow, he would become her ally.

  "Dima, come over here!"

  The skinny little boy with the bug-eyed glasses bounded across the deck with a wide grin on his face. The brisk sea breeze blew through his blonde hair, disheveling it as he wrapped his arms around her. She held onto him for a bit longer than usual.

  "Are you having fun, Dima?"

  "Dah! Aleksey teach us how to play volleyball on ship!"

  "Yes, I see that!"

  She glanced at the children again. Aleksey's eyes caught hers, and he threw her a big wave. She waved back. He turned back to the other eleven. Good.

  "I have heard of this game, volleyball. They play it in America."

  "You play volleyball, Masha?"

  "No, I have never played."

  "You want to learn?"

  "No, not right now."

  "Why not, Masha?" Those long-lashed, pleading eyes melted her. These eyes would melt an iceberg in the Arctic Sea. What was she to tell the boy? That she could not play because if she walked out into the middle of the deck she might become a target for someone with a sniper rifle?

  "I cannot play because right now we need to put more lotion on your back so you do not burn, that is why."

  "Aw, Masha. Again?"

  "Yes, Dima. Again. Turn around."

  The boy complied.

  She squirted the white sunblock into her hands, then rubbed his rough, leathery shoulders. The boy recoiled from the coolness of the lotion. Her hands moved from his shoulders down to the awful skin grafting that covered his entire back.

  The skin, or what was left of it, was twisted and contorted and scarred hideously from the scalding water that was poured on him. To her fingers, his skin in the center of his back felt like a miniature mountain range.

  She thanked God that he felt no pain from it anymore. She also thanked God that Dima was oblivious to it all, even though strangers who saw his back for the first time often grimaced.

  "Okay, Dima, that's good. Go back out and play now."

  "You come too, Masha?" He tugged at her hand and flashed those puppy dog eyes again.

  "Maybe next time, Dima." She shooed him back out to the center of the deck and prayed that there would be a next time. Masha considered her predicament. There was no real possibility for escape. She couldn't swim to safety. They were planning to kill her, and if they did, what would become of the children? The question now was whether she should kill first or wait to be killed.

  God, give me wisdom.

  She remembered the words of the Allisons, that God would help her in all things. God, please get me and my children off this ship alive. Amen.

  CHAPTER 18

  The USS Honolulu

  The Black Sea

  Commander Pete Miranda stepped back into the control room of the USS Honolulu.

  "I have the conn, " Pete said.

  "The captain has the conn." Lieutenant McCaffity stepped aside for his commanding officer.

  Pete took his position in the center of the room. His XO, Lieutenant Commander Frank Pippen, who had followed him back into the control room, stood at his side.

  "Mr. COB, any sign of Lieutenant Jamison?"

  "Not yet, Captain. I'm sure Mr. Jamison will be right here, " the chief of the boat said.

  Pete checked his watch. At that moment, Lieutenant Phil Jamison, the ship's intelligence officer, walked into the control room.

  "You called, Captain?"

  "Ah, Mr. Jamison. How nice of you to join us."

  "My apologies, Captain. I was in the head, sir."

  "Ah, " Pete said. "The proverbial call of nature."

  "Yes, sir. No excuses, sir."

  Snickering arose around the control room.

  "No time for that, " Pete said. "As you know, Lieutenant, satellites have spotted our target in the area."

  "I heard the broadcast on the 1MC."

  "That ship could pop up any minute on our sonar."

  "Yes, sir."

  "If and when it shows, we are going to sink it. And at that point, we will float our antenna to the surface, and will be monitoring local radio traffic, probably from Russian ships. We won't have time for EAMS. I will need you here, immediately translating any Russian radio traffic that we might intercept."

  "I can do that, sir."

  "Until further notice, your duty station is here in the control room, with me and the XO."

  "Aye, Captain. With pleasure."

  The Alexander Popovich The Black Sea

  Captain Batsakov thought about assigning the task to Joseph Radin. After all, the first officer was the leading proponent of killing her. Perhaps Joseph could find some satisfaction in it all.

  If not Joseph, the other option was Aleksey Anatolyvich.

  Aleksey could lead her to an isolated spot on the ship, shoot her in the head, and then toss her to the sharks after sundown. Nobody would notice. Aleksey would do whatever he was told. But then again, perhaps Aleksey did not have the stomach for the job.

  Regardless of who did the job, Masha Katovich's death would be on the head of the bloodthirsty Russian government for forcing this idotic babysitting mission upon the Alexander Popo
vich.

  The telephone rang in the captain's stateroom.

  Batsakov picked up the receiver. "Dah."

  "Kapitan, this is the first officer on the bridge."

  "What is it, Joseph?"

  "Sir, we have been trying to raise you on the ship's intercom system. Did you not hear us?"

  "I haven't heard a thing."

  "My apologies, Kapitan, but we have tried a dozen times or so. Would you like for me to send an electrician to your stateroom to see if it needs repairing?"

  "Hold on, Joseph. Let me have a look at it before you do that."

  Batsakov laid the phone down on a table and walked over to the intercom. Something looked odd. The volume knob! It was turned all the way over to the off position.

  This was odd. In all the years he had been the skipper of Alexander Popovich, he had never touched that volume control, not even when he had women in the cabin, because the crew knew not to bother him unless it was an emergency.

  Who did this? Perhaps Aleksey? That made no sense. The boy had never touched it in all these years.

  What about one of the porters? Again, never in the ten years that he had commanded Alexander Popovich had anyone ever touched that knob that he could remember. Why would they? His crew members understood that their own safety could depend on the captain's ability to communicate with the bridge in times of emergency.

  Batsakov scratched his head.

  He thought back.

  He had left Masha in the stateroom alone during the false alarm with the first Egyptian freighter. Perhaps in the frenzy of the moment, the bridge had neglected to turn off the microphone. What if she had heard something when he left her alone and did not want him to know that she heard it? What if she had overheard all the talk on the bridge about the Egyptian freighter and their precious cargo?

  He turned the volume back up and returned to the telephone.

  "Joseph, I think I have solved the problem, " Batsakov reached into his desk drawer and extracted the GSh-18 semiautomatic pistol. "Try the intercom now."

  "Can you hear me, Kapitan?" Joseph's voice boomed over the intercom.

  "Dah, I hear you clearly."

  "Kapitan, I am sorry to interrupt, but we received a radio transmission from the Russian consulate in Sevastopol."

  "What do they want?" Batsakov worked the bolt action on the pistol, then turned off the safety lock.

  "They are requesting that all crewmen of Alexander Popovich wear dress uniforms upon arrival in Odessa. They also want to make sure all orphans are dressed in their best clothes."

  "How far are we from Odessa?"

  "Stand by, Kapitan."

  If he had any doubts about Joseph Radin's recommendation to kill Masha Katovich, this little knob incident had erased those doubts.

  "Kapitan, we are maintaining a course of three-four-zero degrees and are now approximately one hundred fifty nautical miles from Odessa."

  At that distance and speed, they would sail into port in the morning, just about eight hundred hours.

  "Very well, Mr. Radin. Radio Sevastopol. Tell them we will all be dressed nice and spiffy. Tell them I will pass the request about the children along to Miss Katovich."

  Batsakov jammed the pistol under his belt. He donned a windbreaker to conceal the gun from her view. He knew what had to be done.

  The USS Honolulu The Black Sea

  They called him "the Bloodhound." At least that was his nickname in the Navy's elite sonar community. But it wasn't his nose that had earned him the reputation.

  It was his ears.

  The legend started when they gave him those hearing tests right after he enlisted. He remembered them vividly even thirty years later – those blasted diminishing beep audio tests that so many recruits wound up going batty on.

  They claimed he scored the highest ever on the initial screen. He was penciled in for the sonar school immediately. And when he had twice tried getting out of the Navy, the recruiters pulled some strings to double his enlistment bonus.

  The money was too good.

  He stayed.

  Still, the Bloodhound understood perhaps better than anyone in the Navy that sound carried for miles under water. That was the whole idea behind passive sonar – to simply listen, carefully and intently, to the sounds of the deep.

  The problem for the average ear, however, was to distinguish the natural sounds of the sea – the sounds of fish and mammals and currents and underwater volcanic activity – from manmade sounds. This was challenging when the manmade sounds were off at a great distance, perhaps at a distance of several miles.

  Master Chief King discovered long ago that the best way to listen to the sea was like listening to classical music. To sit back, close one's eyes, and drink in the washing harmony of notes and block out all else.

  In the back of his mind, he knew that a Russian freighter was somewhere in the area. But to hear it, he would have to meditate on the symphonic orchestration of sounds that God had created for the largest kingdom on planet earth – the kingdom under the sea.

  He closed his eyes and slumped back, ever so slightly, making himself forget even the important fact that he was on board a United States nuclear submarine.

  A faint gurgling in the water came from a distance.

  The wake of propellers or natural whirlpools? Now the gurgling was gone. A minute later, the gurgling was back.

  Master Chief King opened his eyes, and then closed them again. A faint whine came through the water. The whine was gone.

  Perhaps whales mating.

  Perhaps not. The gurgling got louder; then louder.

  The Bloodhound opened his eyes again. The faint whine returned over the sound of the gurgling. The whine got louder. And then louder!

  This was no whale. This was the screw of a ship!

  "Soup!" the Bloodhound called out the name colloquially used for the sonar supervisor. "Check this out!"

  Master Chief King gave headphones to Lieutenant Daniel Boers, the Honolulu's sonar officer.

  "Hear that?"

  The sonar officer strapped on the headsets.

  The other sonar tech blurted out, "I've got broadband contact!

  Bearing three-four-zero. Citing tracker sierra and ATF!"

  King and Boers looked over the sonar tech's shoulder at the broadband screen, on the spherical array, known as a waterfall. The waterfall showed streaks of long, green fluorescent rain falling down across the black screen. But at the number 347, a bright white streak was flowing down.

  Lieutenant Boers picked up the mike.

  The sonar officer's voice boomed into the tension-filled control room. "Conn! Sonar! We have a possible freighter, single screw. Bearing three-four-zero. Speed ten knots. Designate contact master two-eight!"

  Pete looked at his XO, then took the microphone.

  "Sonar. Conn. Aye! On the 1MC. Man battle stations!"

  "Man battle stations! Aye, " the OOD said, then picked up the 1MC. "General quarters! General quarters! Man battle stations! Man battle stations!"

  All over the ship, men in blue jump suits ran to their positions as the general quarters alarm sounded throughout the submarine. "Battle stations! Battle stations! Man battle stations!"

  "Mr. McCaffity. Report."

  "One moment, Captain, " the officer of the deck said. "Departments still reporting in, sir." Five seconds passed. "Captain, all departments have reported in. All personnel are at battle stations awaiting your orders, sir."

  "Very well, " Pete said. "Torpoedo room! Rig for ultra quiet! Rig tubes one and four, fully ready."

  "Rig tubes one and four, fully ready. Aye, sir, " the officer of the deck parroted.

  "Conn! Sonar! Contact maintaining course three-four-zero degrees. Range two thousand yards."

  "Captain, torpedo room reporting tubes one and four are rigged and fully ready."

  "Very well. Let's have a look at the target. Diving officer, take us to periscope depth."

  "Aye, Captain, take us to periscope
depth."

  The depth meter, a black screen with a red light, showed 150. As the diving officer blew compressed air into the hull, the number got progressively smaller. 140, 130, 120.

  The numbers began slowing in their descent. 90, 80, 70, 60.

  When the number stabilized at 60, the diving officer spoke. "The ship is at periscope depth, Captain."

  "Very well. Up scope."

  "Up scope."

  The OOD hit the button on the Type 18 search periscope on the starboard side of the sail. There was a click, click, click noise as the electric motor within the tubing extended the scope above the surface.

  "Scope's up, Skipper, " Lieutenant McCaffity said.

  "Very well." Pete brought his eyes to the ocular sockets, rested his hands on the grips, and began a slow, three-hundred-sixty-degree sweep of the horizon above.

  Green water lapped the bottom of the lens, and clear blue sky dominated the top. Pete stepped another quarter to his left, carefully sweeping the horizon in a counterclockwise direction.

  The view in the scope showed a panoramic display of blue and green water against sky. As the scope swept the horizon, a wedge rushed by in the water. Pete stopped the scope and slowly turned it back to his right.

  Bingo. The grey wedge was a ship headed this way.

  "Target's in sight!" Pete said. "She's heading this way. Let's get to her broadside for a better shot. Ahead one quarter."

  "Ahead one quarter."

  "Right full rudder."

  "Right full rudder."

  Through the periscope, Pete watched his submarine close the distance to the freighter. His only problem – the freighter was headed north and Honolulu was going south.

  Pete waited until the sub had passed alongside the freighter, then ordered a full turning maneuver to bring Honolulu alongside headed in the same direction.

  "Left full rudder. Make course three-four-zero degrees."

  "Left full rudder. Making my course three-four-zero degrees, " the helmsman said.

  The submarine closed the distance with the freighter and was soon off to her side.

  "Make your speed ten knots."

  "Making my speed ten knots, aye, Captain."

  The underwater turn and speed adjustment now had Honolulu running parallel with the freighter, out to her port side, at a distance of about 1800 yards. Through the scope, Pete saw the freighter from bow to stern. She was low in the water, which Pete found a bit odd. But was she Alexander Popovich? He wanted a better view.