Black Sea Affair

by Don Brown

  "Because we're already in trouble for the perception that we sink unarmed freighters and because the freighter has done nothing illegal on the high seas that we're aware of." Why didn't that explanation take the knot out of his stomach? He turned to his CIA director. "Mr. Director, where's the dossier on this Egyptian captain?"

  "We're working on it, Mr. President."

  "Speed it up. I want to know everything about him. I want to know who his mamma was, who his daddy is, where he was educated, what groups he's been a member of… the whole works."

  "Yes, sir, Mr. President."

  St. Nicholas Naval Cathedral St. Petersburg, Russia

  In the case of the People of the Russian Republic versus Commander Peter Miranda, on the charges of crimes against humanity and destruction of – and conspiracy to destroy – property of the Russian Republic, we will now hear from the prosecution."

  A slim officer wearing the green dress uniform of the Russian Army rose to his feet. He stared for a second at Pete, and then turned and faced the three crusty officers sitting at the tables in the chancery of the cathedral.

  "Generals. Admiral. I am Major Konstantin Andropov of the Russian Army. We gather today, in this great cathedral, a building dedicated to the great men of the sea who gave their lives for the motherland… to see that justice is done.

  "Russia is a great nation. We are at peace. True, we have our internal conflicts such as Chechnya, as every nation has such conflicts. But we are at peace.

  "The question in this trial is whether our great and peaceful nation will extend protection to our civilian ships on the high seas from acts of aggression and piracy.

  "Today, I am sad to report that one of our own ships, the freighter Alexander Popovich, has been sunk and its crew murdered by the heinous war crimes committed by the defendant and his crew."

  The major turned directly to Pete and pointed. "This, gentlemen, is Commander Peter Miranda. He is the captain of the American submarine Honolulu, and it is he who ordered the unjustified and indiscriminate attack on a civilian Russian freighter – a freighter which had no means of defending itself.

  "This man is an international terrorist of the darkest order. He violated international laws and the law of the high seas by sailing his submarine through the Bosphorus submerged. He attacked a civilian ship, taking the lives of innocent Russians who were only doing their jobs on the sea to try and earn a living for their families."

  Andropov turned back to the panel. "There are several people in this courtroom today that I would like to introduce. Ludmilla Batsakov, please stand."

  Pete looked around. A stout, matronly lady with white hair and a severely wrinkled face stood in the row just behind the orphans. Andropov waved his hand grandly as he turned back to the panel. "This, gentlemen, is Ludmilla Batsakov – the mother of Kapitan Yuri Mikal-vich Batsakov."

  Wailing and crying erupted from the woman at the mention of her son's name. Two Russian soldiers rushed to her aid, offering tissues and water.

  "And I remind you, gentlemen, " Andropov said over the woman's dramatic wailing, "that Kapitan Batsakov was not the only innocent Russian to die. I present to you the family of the deceased crewmembers of the Alexander Popovich." They stood in the row just beside the Bat-sakov woman – an assortment of wives, mothers, and girlfriends – and children. More groaning and crying arose from the choir of the bereaved, as Andropov turned back to the panelists again.

  "And finally, the most horrific part of all this: This terrorist tried to murder a group of innocent orphans on board the Alexander Pop-ovich." He turned and surveyed the first row behind counsel table. "Stand, children."

  Pete caught Dima's eyes as the orphans, some of whom were trembling at all the attention, rose sheepishly as a group just behind the prosecution's table. "As a result of this man's acts, these little ones were subject to smoke and fire, to water and oil, were thrown into the sea, where they were rescued by one heroic Russian sailor, Aleksey Anatoly-vich. Please stand, Aleksey Anatolyvich." Aleksey stood there, looking down at his feet. "He single-handedly got them into lifeboats and saved them all.

  "At that point this man" – Andropov pointed again at Pete – "came up with another sinister idea. Seeing that the orphans surviving could be a witness to what happened, he did what terrorists do as a matter of routine. He took these young orphans hostage. He surfaced, captured them all at gunpoint, then dove under the sea again, where he made a run south, trying to escape through the Bosphorus.

  "Ah, but it was not to be." Andropov wagged his index finger back and forth like a windshield wiper in a rainstorm. "For you see, the Navy of the Russian Republic, the Black Sea Fleet, put a noose around the terrorist's neck and forced him to the surface. And only because of the heroism of our Navy do these children live today!"

  Applause broke out in the courtroom. Andropov waited for the applause to subside, then continued.

  "But today we can right the wrongs committed by the terrorist and his crew. That this… this… man committed these crimes is indisputable." Andropov turned around and shot Pete an evil glare. "The only real issue is what shall we do about him? Hmm?"

  He turned back to the three senior officers. "Miranda must be convicted and he must be executed. Miranda's crewmen likewise must be executed. This must be done swiftly and efficiently.

  "Thank you."

  Pete had watched Zack Brewer on television during the Quasay court-martial. Zack had the reputation for being one of the best trial lawyers not only in the Navy, but in the world. But this was different. These rules were skewed. Surely even Zack was now in over his head.

  Zack strode over to the podium, displaying a confident air, without a single note.

  "General Prokofiev" – he looked at the officer in the middle of the tribunal – "distinguished officers of this court-martial, and the great citizens of the Russian Republic, I bring you greetings on behalf of the people of the United States of America.

  "Although we stand here this day in disagreement over the facts surrounding the sinking of the Alexander Popovich, we choose to first embrace something that we do not disagree upon. We choose first, gentlemen, to embrace the common heritage of our peoples. It is a common heritage that came together in the twentieth century to suppress the most vicious threat to freedom ever imposed by man. The great and noble sacrifices of your armies on hallowed ground at places like Stalingrad – and our armies on the beaches of Normandy and in the terrible blizzard of Bastogne – was blood spilled, Russian and American blood. Our blood was spilled in a common and eternal effort to rid the world forever of the oppressive Nazi jackboot.

  "We had our differences in the so-called Cold War – yes – but never was a shot fired. And in the end, we came together to fight yet another enemy."

  Zack paused, looked at the prosecutor, and then resumed. "That common enemy… was radical Islam." Zack paused once again, this time to sip a glass of water. "Muslim terrorists brought our buildings down in New York in 2001, and Muslim terrorists murdered 186 of your children in the Beslan Massacre in 2004.

  "The airliners that crashed into the World Trade Center were registered as American airliners. They became weapons of mass destruction in the hands of Muslim terrorists, yet the American flag was painted on them all.

  "And likewise, gentlemen, the Alexander Popovich, though flying under the great flag of this great nation, I am sad to say, had also become a weapon of mass destruction whose captain had sold out to Muslim terrorists for money."

  A half second delay for the translation. Then murmuring arose in the courtroom. Then loud, angry voices. The woman identified as Lud-milla Batsakov, Captain Batsakov's mother, was standing, shaking her fists at Zack, and screaming something in Russian.

  "Come to order." General Prokofiev, the chief judge sitting in the middle, whapped his gavel. "Sit down or you will be arrested and put on trial for public disorder!" Another whap. Russian soldiers moved towards pockets of standing protestors. "Commander Brewer, I warn you that in Rus
sia, slander is a felony. You are a guest in this country at the invitation of the Russian government. But be forewarned that you may not violate our laws without running the risk of arrest and prosecution yourself. Do you understand?"

  Zack Brewer looked squarely into the eye of the general. "I respect your laws, General Prokofiev. But we will prove what I have said is true. Our government believes that the freighter was carrying plutonium – weapons-grade plutonium that was illegally stolen from your Army by Islamic Chechen terrorists in the Caucasus Mountains. In the end, we are confident that Commander Miranda and his crew will be acquitted."

  That translation brought another eruption in the courtroom, followed by more whapping from the general.

  Zack turned and walked to the counsel table and sat. Pete did not know how Zack planned to proceed.

  But this he did know.

  Zack Brewer had nerves of steel.

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

  Three hours later

  President Vitaly Evtimov wanted to scream and yell. His problem at the moment, however, was that the man he wanted to choke, former Defense Minister Giorgy Alexeevich Popkov, was already dead.

  "How do the Americans know about the missing plutonium?" President Evtimov slammed his fist on the large wooden desk. "We took every precaution against releasing this information! Now Brewer makes this announcement in the court-martial for the entire world to hear! Someone must have leaked. I demand to know who."

  "Perhaps Brewer is bluffing!" the president's chief of staff noted.

  "How could he bluff about such a thing?" the foreign minister asked. "He was right about the plutonium missing, he was right about who stole it, and he was right about where the theft took place."

  The president sipped vodka. "But if he is right about what happened, could he be right also about the plutonium being on a ship?"

  Foreign Minister Kotenkov addressed that. "We were assured by Giorgy Alexeevich that the plutonium had been taken to Chechnya."

  "Giorgy Alexeevich!" Evtimov thundered. "He was useless as a defense minister. And he's useless as a dead man. He was useful only in delivering Aslambek Kadyrov the materials he needs to build a Chechen bomb."

  "Perhaps the Americans are right, " Kotenkov added, "perhaps the plutonium is at the bottom of the sea. If they are right, then we must know."

  Evtimov turned to his chief of staff. "Contact Admiral Voynavich. Tell him I want the Black Sea Fleet to find this ship on the bottom of the sea, and then find out if it has plutonium on board."

  "Yes, Comrade President."

  "And issue a statement denying that any plutonium is missing."

  The Al Alamein

  100 miles south of Gotland Island The Baltic Sea

  Captain Sadir looked around the bridge at the men who had volunteered for this mission – the men who had eagerly volunteered for martyrdom. Sadir looked over at Salman Dudayev and nodded.

  Dudayev nodded back.

  It was time.

  "Gentlemen, I bring you here today to the bridge of this great ship because each of you has volunteered to give your lives in what will be the greatest act of jihad in history."

  He relished their fierce, piercing eyes. These were the eyes of true warriors.

  "You all know that we sailed into the Black Sea and took valuable cargo from the Russian freighter. You all know what that cargo was, and you all know that there is a great weapon to be used to Allah's glory in the belly of this ship.

  "What you do not know, at least not yet, is our final destination. I know that all kinds of rumors have floated around the crew. Some have hoped for New York. Some thought London. And believe me, when we sailed through the English Channel, I felt tempted to change our mission and pay back the British for being America's footstool in their satanic war against holy Islam."

  Enthusiastic nodding from at least half his officers.

  "But we have another mission. And until now, only Mr. Dudayev and I have known that mission. But now is the time for you to be brought into the fold.

  "At this point, we are approximately two hundred fifty miles southwest of the Gulf of Finland." Their eyes glued to him. "When we get there, the Al Alamein will turn due east. We will sail past Estonia to our south and Finland to our north. We will sail until we reach Kotlin Island. This island is about twenty miles west of the main part of St. Petersburg. But we will not stop there.

  "Igor, the map please."

  "From Kotlin Island we will sail past the causeways and sail to the l l d ll l h d l h mouth of the Neva River, the prize jewel of the city. We will never dock, but instead, from this bridge, I will initiate the process that will turn our ship into the largest hydrogen bomb in the history of the world."

  Applause, cheering, and fist shaking.

  "Through us, Allah will repay the godless Russians a hundred thousand fold for the blood and carnage they have poured on our country. The entire city of St. Petersburg shall be vaporized, and the radiation shall kill millions of Russians hundreds of miles away, all the way to Moscow!"

  More cheering and shouting.

  "Those who are left behind shall demand a permanent withdrawal of the Russians from Chechnya, and shall demand freedom for our country while we dance with a thousand maidens in paradise!"

  "Glory to Allah for this privilege!" one of them shouted.

  "And blessed be the prophet Mohammed, peace be upon him!" another said.

  Sadir raised his hands. "Glory to Allah indeed. Now let us all return to our stations and finish the work we have begun."

  CHAPTER 30

  The White House

  Mr. President, " Admiral John Ayers spoke with an elevated urgency in his voice, "USS Charlotte reports that the Al Alamein is now turning east from the Baltic Sea into the Gulf of Finland."

  "When?" Mack asked.

  "Within the last hour, sir."

  "Let's see the charts."

  "Yes, sir."

  The president, along with the vice president, the secretaries of defense and state, the White House chief of staff, the director of central intelligence, and the national security advisor looked on as Admiral Ayers spoke.

  "Right now, the Al Alamein is about one hundred twenty-five miles southwest of Helsinki and some three hundred miles from St. Petersburg."

  "What's going on here?" Mack wondered out loud.

  "At least it's not London or New York, " the secretary of defense muttered.

  "Why would they want to threaten Helsinki?" Vice President Surber asked. "Sure, Finland is a member of NATO, but they had their shot at London, for goodness sakes."

  "Maybe, " Secretary Mauney said, "we're all off base and there's nothing on that freighter but freight."

  "Surely they're not targeting St. Petersburg?" Vice President Surber said.

  "That makes no sense, " said Cynthia Hewitt. "Neither al-Qaeda nor the Council of Ishmael seems to care much about the Russians. They want to kill Westerners. I can't imagine them using a nuclear device – if that's what they have – on an insignificant target like that."

  "Unless this is somehow all related to Chechnya, " Vice President Surber noted.

  "Possible but unlikely, Mr. Vice President, " the CIA director noted.

  "Do we have a dossier on the Egyptian skipper yet?" Mack asked.

  "Not yet, but we're still working on it, sir, " the CIA director responded.

  "That's not good enough! I need info on this skipper, " the president said. "And I need to find out what the target is! We need something that supports our suspicions that this freighter is carrying that nuclear fuel!" He eyed his CIA director. "Director Winstead, put the heat on your people for that dossier. That may give us a clue. Remember, time may be running out."

  "Yes, sir."

  St. Nicholas Naval Cathedral St. Petersburg, Russia

  Television lights, cameras, and media representatives from every major nation dotted the packed, ornate, cathedral-turned-courthouse.

 
; The three Russian military judges had been gone an hour now, and Zack wondered if the enlongated recess was extended to prepare his arrest warrant for violation of the Russian slander laws.

  Zack sipped the chlorine-heavy Russian water. He glanced over at Pete Miranda, who looked pale.

  Zack could handle about anything the American judicial system could throw at him. In America, in the military justice system, he knew the rules.

  But this?

  This was an international sideshow designed to win over wavering nations back into Russia's camp by making America look bad, and everybody knew it.

  If that's the way the Russians wanted to play, so be it.

  "All persons stand, " the translation came through the headphones, as the three grim-faced officers made their way from the side doors in the front of the cathedral, through a cascade of flashes, to their tables. Good. No arrest warrant for Zack.

  "Is the prosecution ready to proceed?"

  "We are, " Major Peter Andropov announced.

  "Very well. Call your first witness."

  Now. Zack rose to his feet. "Excuse me, General Smirnov."

  "What is it, Commander Brewer?"

  "My apologies, Comrade General, but the defense has a motion, sir."

  "What kind of a motion?"

  "With greatest deference to the tribunal, the defense at this time makes a motion to dismiss."

  After his statement was translated, angry shouts in Russian erupted all over the courtroom. Zack looked over his shoulder. They were standing – angry bearded men and women in frumpy dresses – yelling and shaking their fists in the air. Their eyes were ablaze.

  He turned and looked back at the tribunal. General Smirnov's black eyes burned down upon him. The general rapped his gavel on the desk and yelled something in Russian at the tumultuous gallery. The crowd settled down.

  "And what gives you the right to make such a motion at this time, Commander?"

  "With all due respect, General, the Geneva Accords gives me that right."

  "What do you mean?"