Black Sea Affair

by Don Brown

  Russian sailors scrambled to the fantail, waving their arms and yelling phrases that Pete could not understand. Flames burst in the open bridge area of the Honolulu. The submarine started sinking in the water.

  Honolulu was taking on torrents of seawater, undoubtedly from the holes in her hull caused by the SEALs' handiwork with plastic explosives. She was going under, slowly, and her weight was pulling on the back of the Suzdaltec. Pete ordered his men to stay put.

  Pete felt the Suzdaltec's engines shift from ahead to neutral. This was to loosen the tension in the lines between the ship and the submarine. Even still, the fantail was listing, and water was starting to lap up over the stern.

  Suzdaltec's commanding officer had come down from the bridge and was walking about the fantail, barking orders. Were they not going to cut the lines to the sinking sub? Would they let the waterlogged sub capsize and sink the corvette? Pete had heard about Russian inefficiency. He had surrendered his sub to save the orphans. But now, if the corvette went down, they could all wind up dying anyway.

  "Mr. Jamison, what's going on?"

  "The captain's talking about sending a boarding party back to the Honolulu to investigate."

  "A boarding party? The idiot is going to wind up sinking his own ship."

  "To be honest, sir, I think he and some of his officers were in the galley celebrating the capture of the Honolulu with a little too much vodka, sir."

  "Great." The Russians would wind up getting them all drowned. "Lieutenant Jamison. Tell the Russian skipper that the sub is sinking, that it cannot be saved, and that he should cut the tow lines."

  "Aye, Captain, " Jamison said. He called out to the Russian skipper. "Eezveneetzyah, Kapitan!" Lieutenant Jamison got the Russian skipper's attention and translated the message as instructed.

  The Russian captain walked over to the center of the listing fantail, waving his hands and frantically waving and yelling at Pete.

  "What's he saying?" Pete asked.

  "He's steamed that we sabotaged the sub, sir. Lots of cursing. Says we will be shot for it."

  "Tell him he'll never live to see us shot if he doesn't cut those lines and cut them now!"

  "Aye, sir."

  Jamison relayed the message. More screaming from the Russian skipper. The ship's stern lapped lower into the sea. A moment later, however, Russian sailors cut the lines attaching Suzdaltec to the sinking Honolulu. The ship's stern rose back up to normal level.

  Armed sailors broke through the perimeter and approached Pete. The barrels of their AK-47 assault rifles jabbed his neck and the back of his skull. They were yelling something in frantic Russian.

  "What are they saying?"

  "They want you to go with them, Skipper."

  "Okay, I'll go."

  The men pushed Pete at gunpoint into the ship's superstructure. Once inside, they forced him down a ladder, then into a windowless space somewhere below deck. They turned off the lights and locked the door.

  The room was pitch dark, except for the faint light seeping under the passageway.

  Pete kneeled in the dark and prayed for the safety of his crew.

  The White House Situation Room

  Emergency meeting of the National Security Council

  Is it true?" President Mack Williams stood at the end of the long mahogany table, staring out over the members of his National Security Council. Most of them wore somber faces.

  "Have the Russians really captured our submarine?"

  Silence.

  "Can no one answer my question?"

  Mitchell Winstead, CIA director, spoke first. "No one can confirm seeing the Honolulu, at least not yet, Mr. President." The slim mathematician swiped sweat from his thinning hairline. "But we trust our sources on this one, sir. It doesn't look good."

  The president buried his eyes in his left hand. "Secretary Lopez, where's our submarine? Does the Navy know?"

  "Mr. President, we've not heard from them in six hours. Our last contact was an extremely low frequency signal indicating they had spotted the Alexander Popovich. We think that they attacked the freighter… sunk it… And then… nothing, sir."

  Mack stopped drinking years ago. He vowed to abstain while in public office. But now… if he had a gin and tonic… He dismissed that thought. "Director Winstead, what about this claim that the Alexander Popovich was carrying orphans?"

  "Yes, sir, " Winstead said. "We've tracked down those claims. They're true, Mr. President."

  "It just keeps getting better and better."

  "Mr. President, " Secretary of Defense Lopez said.

  "Secretary Lopez."

  "Sir, the Russians have raised the alert levels of their nuclear forces to levels comparable to the Cuban Missile Crisis levels, sir. I recommend that we raise our level to DEFCON 2, sir."

  Another knot twisted Mack's stomach.

  "Mr. President, " the secretary of state spoke up.

  "Secretary Mauney."

  "Rising to DEFCON 2 would be a mistake. Sir, that puts us on the precipice level for nuclear war."

  "But, Mr. President, " Secretary Lopez responded, "we must continue to show strength here. Remember, Russian forces in the Caucasus region threaten our Turkish allies. The Russians know only one word. Strength. They've raised their threat level. We must respond."

  "But, sir, " Secretary Mauney responded, "now is the time for calm and reason before all this blows up. I urge an open dialogue with the Russians before it's too late. Sir, I believe we should first have Secretary Lopez contact the Russian minister of defense to calm things down and assure them that our forces are not there to attack them. That would be followed up by you calling President Evtimov, sir."

  The CIA director spoke up. "I'm afraid it won't be possible for Secretary Lopez to call Minister Popkov."

  "What do you mean, Director Winstead?"

  "Sir, our intelligence sources in Moscow say that Minister Popkov has been assassinated."

  That news was a bucket of cold water on Mack's head.

  "Not only that, sir, but we have satellite photos showing trucks fueling at least two dozen long-range intercontinental ballistic missiles in Siberia. These missiles had been drained of fuel as part of the Ballistic Missile Reduction Treaty negotiated by the previous administration."

  "What's going on? Who's in charge of the military?"

  "Sir, we hope that President Evtimov is still in charge. But the answer to the question is that we really don't know, " Director Winstead said.

  "Mr. President, " the secretary of defense said. "All the more reason to raise the readiness status of our nuclear forces to DEFCON 2. We don't know who's running the show."

  "Let's call President Evtimov, " Secretary Mauney retorted. "Let's defuse this thing now. Please."

  "Of course Evtimov will claim he's in charge." Secretary Lopez's voice was as tense as Mack had ever heard it. "But are we to believe that?

  Popkov is murdered. Then they raise their nuclear alert status to Cuban Missile Crisis levels? Sir, that means that they're targeting American cities again. Right now.

  "The Russians know only strength. You'll get Evtimov's attention if we're at DEFCON 2. He'll know we mean business. And if someone other than Evtimov is running their military, whoever is in charge will know that we mean business too."

  Mack stood, crossed his arms, and paced back and forth across the front of the ornate conference room. The secretary of defense was right. The Russians had for generations only understood and responded to strength. But the secretary of state was right too. This whole thing was spinning out of control. The thunder of war – of nuclear war – boomed in the distance.

  The president stared at the red telephone on the table. In theory, he was supposed to pick up that phone, get the president of Russia on the line, and immediately defuse the specter of nuclear holocaust.

  That was the theory anyway.

  But there was theory, and then there was reality. Someone had murdered the man, who next to the Russian president hi
mself, was directly in charge of Russia's deadly nuclear arsenal.

  On top of that, nuclear warheads were being targeted at American cities again.

  What to do? If rogue forces controlled the Russian military, failing to raise the level of United States forces could invite a preemptive strike. But raising the level of American forces could further provoke the Russians. A miscalculation either way could cost the lives of millions.

  Lord, help me. We must remain so strong that no potential adversary will dare test our strength.

  The words of Ronald Reagan rang in the back of his mind.

  "Mr. Secretary." He looked at the secretary of defense. "Order United States nuclear forces to DEFCON 2."

  CHAPTER 25

  FSB Headquarters

  Lubyanka Square, Moscow

  The Russians had kept him in isolation for several hours, Pete assumed, first in a holding area onboard ship, and then at a holding facility in Odessa. But because they had taken his watch, and because he could not see outside, he could only estimate how much time had passed.

  He saw sunlight again when they chained his arms and legs and led him out of an armored car across the tarmac to a plane at Odessa Airport. He was grateful for a few minutes of fresh air. He was also grateful that they had placed him in a seat by the window, which allowed him to at least enjoy the daylight, a welcome respite from the deadly silence of the armed guards accompanying him on the flight.

  He had assumed they were taking him to Moscow, and his suspicions were confirmed when he spotted the spirals of the Kremlin through a break in the clouds.

  A few minutes later, the plane touched down on a large, concrete runway.

  At gunpoint, the guards rushed him to an armored jeep, and they sped away out of the airport with blaring sirens and whirling lights of police escorts both in front of and behind the armored jeep.

  About thirty minutes later, the armored jeep sped down a large boulevard, heading straight up toward the multi-colored bulbed spirals towering into the overcast sky.

  This world-famous sight looked more imposing in real life than it had in the pictures. But to be in an armed vehicle approaching St. Basil's Cathedral in the heart of Red Square, thousands of miles from home, Pete realized that he was about to be held accountable for his actions as commanding officer of the USS Honolulu.

  A light rain fell as the jeep turned right just in front of the Kremlin. The driver swung around the perimeter of Red Square, turned right again, and headed into an underground parking deck of a large grey building with Stalinesque architecture.

  Pete did not remember his geography of downtown Moscow all that well, but he assumed that this was Lubyanka Square, the former headquarters for the old KGB, and now its successor, the FSB.

  The jeep stopped near an underground freight elevator shaft, where half a dozen armed Russian soldiers were waiting.

  One of them opened the door. A younger man, wearing a dark suit, spoke in perfect English. "I am Special Agent Vasily Borvich. I am a translator working for the Russian government. Come with me and these men, please."

  A soldier pushed a button and the elevator doors swung open. All six soldiers stepped in, surrounding Pete with their guns. The translator stepped in and closed the doors, then pushed the button. The elevator started rising.

  "Where's my crew?"

  "It is not for you to ask questions."

  The elevator stopped. The doors swung open into a large corridor with fluorescent lights and antiseptic-smelling tile floors.

  "Step out of the elevator and follow me."

  They stepped across the hallway from the elevator, their boots clicking and echoing down the corridors. They walked through two ornate double doors.

  The doors swung into a large, chandelier-filled courtroom. The courtroom was packed with people who turned and stared at Pete.

  "Walk forward."

  Pete stepped down the center aisle, through a wooden gate.

  "Sit here." The translator pointed at a table to his left.

  At the table to his right, a grim-faced Army officer stared him down with angry eyes.

  Something was said in Russian. Three high-ranking military officers, one each from the Russian Army, Navy, and Air Force, stepped through the door behind the big benches in front of Pete. All three looked to be in their fifties. With a solemn face, the Army officer in the middle nodded at a clerk.

  A clerk began reading in English.

  "This Russian Military Tribunal, convened to hear the charges of war crimes against this officer for attacking a civilian Russian ship with a civilian crew, is now in session. Please be seated."

  The Army officer in the middle, a general, grunted something, and the translator spoke.

  "Are you Commander Peter Miranda of the United States Navy?"

  Pete stood. The Geneva Convention required him to provide his name, rank, and serial number.

  "I am."

  "Commander Miranda, you are charged with the following crimes, for which if you are convicted, could result in your being executed by firing squad or being sentenced to life in prison."

  There was a pause, as the English translation was followed by more Russian.

  "You are being charged with twenty-five counts of crimes against humanity, to wit, in that you commanded the United States submarine USS Honolulu on an illegal and secret military mission into the Black Sea, wherein you subsequently ordered your vessel to attack a civilian freighter, to wit, the Russian freighter Alexander Popovich, and that your actions have caused the untimely deaths of at least twenty-five known innocent civilians on board that ship."

  More Russian. A murmuring rose from the courtroom. Pete looked around and caught the eyes of a young brunette woman sitting in the front row just behind him to his right. His eyes lingered on her for a moment, and then he recognized her as Masha Katovich, the young lady he had rescued.

  "You are also being charged with conspiracy to destroy and destruction of property of the Russian Republic, to wit, in that after having surrendered the said USS Honolulu to the Navy of the Russian Republic, thus transferring ownership of said vessel to the Russian Republic, you did conspire to, and did in fact instruct certain subordinates to destroy said property by the use of explosive devices, which led to the sinking of such vessel in the Black Sea in waters west of the Crimean Peninsula."

  More translation.

  More astonishment from the crowd.

  Pete looked around again. Masha Katovich was gone. He felt strange disappointment at her absence.

  He'd sensed a sympathetic look on her face. Or so he thought. Then again, he had nearly killed her precious orphans. Perhaps his imagination had shifted into overdrive. She was probably the prosecution's star witness.

  "You are also charged with violation of international law pertaining to transit of the high seas in that you broke various provisions of the Montreux Convention and the United Nations Convention on the Law of the Seas, to wit, in that you illegally and without justification brought your submarine in a submerged state through that international strait known as the Bosphorus, in violation of all semblances of international law prohibiting such submerged transit.

  "To these charges, how do you plead?"

  "I will plead to nothing until I know that my crew is safe and that they will be released."

  "Silence!" the general shouted. "It is not for you to be concerned of the fate of war criminals."

  "And I will not participate in this kangaroo court until I know my men are safe!"

  "That is enough!" The admiral, just to the left of the general, snarled. "Your crew's fate will be tied to yours. If you are convicted, they will be convicted. If you are executed, they will be executed. And if you are acquitted, then they will be set free."

  "That is not acceptable."

  "Silence!" A banging gavel rapped from the one in the middle. "Perhaps the innocent children and crewmen of the freighter you sunk would say that a submarine against an unarmed freighter is not acceptable!"r />
  "That freighter was being used by terrorists!"

  "Ha!" The air marshal sitting to the right spoke up. "Typical American response justifying the unchecked use of military power against civilians. Everything is tied to terrorists!"

  The general in the center spoke again. "How do you plead to these charges?"

  "I do not understand these charges. Do I now have a right to counsel?"

  "Aah. The brave commander, who is so brave as to attack an unarmed freighter, now wishes to hide behind an attorney?"

  Mocking laughter arose at the translation.

  "Very well! This is a military tribunal, Commander. And under our rules, you may have one Russian military attorney and one military attorney of your choosing from your country, should your host country agree to provide one. You will not be allowed a civilian attorney. Is this your wish, Commander?"

  "Yes, sir. I wish to exercise my right to counsel."

  "Very well!" the army general announced. "You will be removed to your cell, where you will communicate your desire for counsel to your translator. This court will reconvene in forty-eight hours."

  Three more gavel bangs rang out. The generals and the admiral exited the courtroom.

  Armed guards clamped cuffs on Pete's hands. They hustled him back behind the bench area, through a small door, into a narrow corridor. A moment later, they slammed the iron doors behind him in the cold cell.

  The ornate Russian Orthodox Church was nestled in a grove of trees across from the large, rectangular brick compound that surrounded the United States Embassy. She remembered visiting this place last summer, shortly after Carol and Eugene Allison had left Ukraine.

  Then she had taken a stroll through the summer heat to find a peaceful courtyard just outside the chapel, and to try something that the Allisons had taught her to do. Pray.

  Today's short walk from Red Square through the blustery wind to the church was for the same purpose. The leaves were gone now, and the church seemed colder and greyer.