by Don Brown
"You may, even at this hour, gentlemen, step away from this mission. And if you step away, there will be no shame, no disgrace, and your naval personnel records, which will never confirm your participation in this mission should you go, will in no way be adversely affected.
"Not that your naval records mean a heck of a difference at this point, since most of you – like me – are old geezers in the Navy and about to go to the beach permanently anyway."
That comment brought a few chuckles, a brief respite to the deadly seriousness of the moment.
"In a moment, I will give you an opportunity to step away from this with honor. But before I do that, you deserve to know what you're getting into.
"Just over forty-eight hours ago, a sizable amount of weapons-grade plutonium-239 was stolen by terrorists in the Caucasus Mountains of Russia."
That comment brought murmuring and looks of grave concern in many of the men's faces.
"The Russians, who haven't publicly acknowledged the problem, think the plutonium was captured and has been transported east to Chechnya. They've mobilized their army, and they appear prepared to wipe Chechnya off the face of the earth to try and find the plutonium.
"We, on the other hand, believe the plutonium has been smuggled to the Russian city of Sochi, on the Black Sea, where it has been stored on a rogue Russian freighter with terrorist ties. We believe that freighter may be about to sail, and if she does, the president may call upon us to slip into the Black Sea, through the Bosphorus, submerged, and sink her."
More murmuring.
"It is imperative, for the national security of the United States, that this mission remain top secret. There will be no glory, no triumphant victory parade, no public honor for what you are about to do.
"As you know, United States relations with Russia and most of the Islamic states have soured since two Islamic terrorists posing as U.S. Navy pilots attacked the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem. So the Russians have cozied up with the Islamic states in the Persian Gulf. They have not been able, ironically, to deal with radical Islamic elements in their own backyard in Chechnya.
"By sinking this freighter, if we are able to get that far, we will in fact be doing the Russians a favor. Remember, that plutonium could just as well be used in a bomb against a Russian city as an American city, since the Chechens hate the Russians so much. Or, the plutonium could be split up and used in multiple bombs to advance the cause of Islam against both American and Russian citizens.
"Therefore if called on, we must" – Pete chopped his hand in the air. The eyes of each man froze on him – "I repeat we must, find her and sink her before she gets out of the Black Sea. If we fail in our mission, we will have failed America. We will have failed millions who will never know that we are here… millions of innocent men, women, and children… who if not incinerated by a nuclear blast, would be subjected to the indiscriminate path of burns, blindness, boils, and cancer from flash, heat, and radioactive fallout."
The gong of ship's bells filled the silent void.
"Gentlemen, to underscore the gravity of this situation, our intelligence believes that enough weapons-grade plutonium is missing to build a bomb ten times as powerful as the bomb that fell on Hiroshima.
"I said a moment ago that we will be doing the Russians a favor by sinking the freighter. But the Russians, in their ignorance, won't even realize we are doing them a favor. All Russia will know is that we've sunk a freighter flying their flag.
"Ordinarily, an attack on a civilian freighter of one nation by the naval vessel of another nation is an act of war. That's the way the Russians will see it if we are discovered. And that's why the Russians must never know what hit this freighter."
He eyed every man before him.
"Listen to what I have to say, because this is where the rubber meets the road." Pete stopped again. "We cannot risk the capture of the Honolulu." His voice resonated over the chopping wavelets lapping against the hull of the submarine. "We cannot link this freighter's sinking to a U.S. submarine. Gentlemen, once we attack this freighter, if we can find her, the chances of getting back out of the Black Sea through the Bos-phorus undetected are slim. Not impossible, but I want you to understand the danger.
"So after the attack, gentlemen, we are going to make an effort to link back up with the freighter and slip back through the Bosphorus the way we came in. But remember that the Black Sea is not the Pacific Ocean. There are fewer places to hide.
"If we are able to attack this terrorist freighter, we'll have to get out of there fast. Otherwise, we may have to scuttle the Honolulu." The men looked to each side, with looks of bewilderment on their faces. "That's right. We may have to abandon ship, and then send her to the bottom of the Black Sea. That's the potential sacrifice your country is asking you to make. Any questions?"
A senior chief torpedoman's mate raised his hand.
"Senior chief."
"Sir, I know it's not the Pacific, but still, the Black Sea is a big place. Assuming we can pull off this maneuver and get through the Bosphorus without getting spotted by the Turks, just how does Washington expect us to find this freighter once she's underway?" The seasoned senior chief spoke in a drawl that made him sound like he was from Arkansas. "I think we all know that tracking the location of freighters at sea is a problem that is hard even for the U.S. Navy. There are just too many of them, and the oceans and seas of the world are just too big. I mean, no disrespect intended, sir, but ain't this like looking for a needle in a haystack? Sir?"
A number of the prospective crewmembers nodded in agreement at the senior chief's question.
Pete looked the senior chief in the eye, and eyed every crew member standing before him. "Gentlemen, the senior chief asks a great question. Frankly, I should've covered this. But then again, that's why God created chiefs and senior chiefs and master chiefs – to make sure the old man's backside stays out of a sling. Right?"
A wave of laughter followed that comment. Old man was an endearing term used in the Navy to refer to a commanding officer of a ship, submarine, or shore station, and had nothing to do with an officer's chronological age.
"Thank you, Senior, for keeping this old man's rear out of the tar pit, even before we set sail." More laughter.
"No problem, Captain, " the senior chief torpedoman said.
"I want you all to understand that we may never find the Alexander Popovich. This is, in a sense, like looking for a needle in a haystack. Even in this smaller section of the Black Sea, we are still dealing with thousands of square miles of water. We may be trying this dangerous docking maneuver for nothing. We are risking our lives on a lark that our satellites are good enough to track her down, to feed us her coordinates, and let us hunt her down and kill her.
"But here's how we're gonna try to find her. Our intelligence has picked up rumblings that the ship will be sailing from the Russian port of Sochi to Odessa in Ukraine. And from there, probably out of the Black Sea and who knows where.
"So here's what we're gonna do. We're gonna sneak through the Bosphorus under the freighter Volga River, and when we make it into the Black Sea, we will disengage from the Volga River. From there, we will sail to the entrance of the shipping lanes leading to Odessa. We will stay there, submerged, waiting. We will set an underwater steel trap. If Alexander Popovich shows up, we will spring that trap with two MK-48 torpedoes under the midsection of her hull. That should do the trick.
"And as she sinks to the bottom of the sea, we will engage in full power and get the heck out of there." There were multiple instances of head nodding. The answer seemed to have done the trick. "Any other questions?"
There was no response. "Gentlemen, you've given your lives to the Navy, and you've volunteered for this mission. You're the best that this country has to offer. You have a right to ask questions."
A chief petty officer raised his hand.
"Chief?"
"Well, sir. I think we're all either divorced or never married. The Navy is our lives, but we do h
ave families back in the States. Many of them depend on our Navy salaries. If those salaries were gone…" The chief hesitated, searching for his words. "We all know that this business may bring death at any time. We knew that the day we enlisted. But I guess what I'm asking is… are we going down with the sub, sir?"
A large cloud cast a shadow over the sub and her prospective crew. "Fair question, " Pete began. "No, chief, we won't ask you to go down with the sub. We will abandon her, if possible, and the crew will board life rafts. Before abandoning ship, we'll arm all sensitive equipment with plastic explosives. We will trigger automatic timers that will flood the ballasts. All computers, data storage, et cetera, will be destroyed. We'll have thirty minutes at most to paddle away from the sub before she sinks."
Another hand shot up. "Yes, petty officer?"
"Skipper, are we going to try and transit the Bosphorus submerged?"
"A freighter has been retrofitted and is somewhere out there right now." Pete nodded his head to the south, toward the open waters of the Mediterranean. "The plan is to come up under the bottom of the freighter and surface, partially. We'll bring the sub's sail into a watertight compartment under the bottom of the freighter, where large O-Rings attached to the hull of the freighter will retract around the bow and stern of the sub.
"We'll have the element of surprise going in. Hopefully, no one will suspect what we're doing. Coming back out, that won't be the case. When the freighter goes down, every ship in the Russian Black Sea fleet will be hunting every inch of water looking for the vessel that attacked it. If we stop under the Volga River to reattach, every Russian and Turkish chopper in their respective air forces will be on the freighter like white on rice. We'll try to get out, but we may have to scrap the sub.
"A moment ago, I said that this crew will be moved to rubber lifeboats as the sub sinks. Speedboats will be deployed from obscure ports in Turkey, Bulgaria, and Romania to search for our crew. If we are found, we will be taken back to the shorelines of those respective countries, where the plan is to smuggle us ashore, circumventing customs, and then we will be transported to the United States embassies in those respective countries.
"If we are fortunate enough to make it that far, we could be in for a long stay within the sanctuary of those embassies. We would be evacuated under diplomatic immunity, in very small numbers to avoid suspicion, over a long period of time. In other words, by bringing only two or three of us out per month, it could take up to three years before they can get us all home.
"Now all that is true if they find us out there in our floating rafts before our food and water supply runs out."
Pete ran his hand through his hairline. "Of course if they don't find us…" He let that sentence trail off. "Well, as you know, it is a pretty big body of water out there. And with the currents and the weather…"
He let that comment hang. A cloud floated across the sun.
He pulled the Garrison cap from his belt, adjusted it on his head, donned a pair of shades, and spoke with the sharpest military bearing he could muster.
"Gentlemen, with no pressure, and no obligation, and no dishonor if you say no, I say to you this day that your country needs you. If you're prepared to go with me on your last voyage, understanding that there will be no glory, and finally, understanding that the price for saving thousands and perhaps even millions may be your own lives – then signify your acceptance of your responsibility by taking one step forward."
There was a pause. For a frozen moment in eternity the wind swirled in the silence. There was no movement in the line.
And then, on the far left, a step forward.
Two steps forward in the left center.
At the right end, and right center, the clicking steps of leather soles echoed against the concrete.
Wind whipped into the American flag at the end of the pier, energizing it with a fury. Then the Italian flag flying beside it came to life. Perhaps even the wind recognized that Old Glory was still the leader of the world.
They stepped forward, one by one, in the front and back lines. And when the wind had subsided, the movement of the four human lines was finished.
Every single man, now standing at crisp attention, had stepped forward.
Pete struggled for his words, but choked on the lump welling in his throat. He gripped the podium, squeezing it. A sub commander must not show tears to his crew.
"Never have I witnessed such bravery as is displayed in the sight before me." He inhaled deeply, then exhaled. "I thank each one of you for what you have done."
"Thank you, Skipper!" one of them shouted.
"We're with you to the end, sir, " another called.
He held his hands out, palms down, signaling that no more public comments were necessary.
"We'll get underway at sixteen hundred hours. That's two hours before sundown, gentlemen. Our orders are to sail, to submerge, and then to await orders from the president."
Each man stood at attention, eyes forward.
"Any questions?"
There were none.
"You are dismissed."
The White House
11:00 a.m. local time
Douglas MacArthur Williams, having been raised at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, and named for one of the greatest generals in American history, was the son of a career Army officer.
From the anteroom just beside the Oval Office, that same Douglas MacArthur Williams, now president of the United States, let memories of his father wash across his mind.
The lifelong dream of Colonel Manchester Elliot Williams was to see his son follow three generations of Williams men in the long grey line at West Point. The old tank driver had called his boy "Douglas" since his early days to remind both father and son of the great general who had proclaimed that "in war there is no substitute for victory, that if you lose, the Nation will be destroyed."
The old man's dream would not be realized. Mack attended the University of Kansas, where he had gone to law school, and then took a commission in the U.S. Navy as a JAG officer.
This Navy compromise seemed to assuage the colonel's disappointment in Mack's shirking West Point and the Army. The colonel did, at least, drive from Leavenworth to Lawrence to watch "Douglas" sworn in as an ensign, United States Naval Reserve.
Still, Mack never saw the pride return to the old man's eyes until that cold Tuesday in January, three years ago.
The old warrior donned his Army dress uniform and stood just ten feet away on the inaugural platform at the Capitol overlooking the National Mall, as his son was sworn in as commander-in-chief of the Army that the colonel loved so much.
"Son." There had been a pause as the two locked eyes. "I'm proud of you." And the old officer, standing on the sidewalk in front of the United States Capitol, did what officers do in the presence of their commander-in-chief. Colonel Manchester Elliot Williams stood as erect as any boot camp recruit, and with as sharp a precision as his eighty-two years could muster, shot the smartest, crispest salute that the young president would ever see.
Three weeks later, in the family's living room in Fort Leavenworth, Colonel Williams' cold body was found faceup in the middle of the floor. His eyes were open, his face frozen in a beatific smile, and in his hand they found a small green New Testament published by the Gideons. Inside the New Testament, at the third chapter of Romans, a wallet-sized photo of Ensign Douglas MacArthur Williams, JAGC, USNR, served as the old man's bookmark.
Three days later, across the river from the Lincoln Memorial, they buried the old warrior in the frosty ground of Arlington National Cemetery with full military honors. The president, who had never known his father to crack open a Bible, prayed that the colonel's eyes had finally been opened to the truth. By presidential directive, both the Bible and the photograph were buried with the old soldier.
Three sharp rifle volleys were followed by the slow, melodic rendition of taps. His father's resting place joined the graves of thousands and thousands of others, all marked by white crosses.
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That day, over protests by the Secret Ser vice, the president had insisted on taking a solitary stroll among the grave markers. The names all blurred together now, but the places… the places still stood in his mind. The markers did not always reveal where they had died, but the president knew the places well.
Verdun. North Africa. Sicily. Belgium. Normandy. The Solomon Islands. The Phillippines. Inchon. Vietnam. Grenada. Panama. Afghanistan. Iraq.
At least these men died with honor, recognized by their country, and were buried on hallowed ground where hundreds of thousands would pay tribute to their immortal sacrifices.
But now, the men that he was about to send on this dangerous mission would never be so honored. Their mission would be unknown outside of a small circle of Americans with a need to know. And if they died, which they probably would, their bodies would never be honored as his father's had. They would be swallowed forever in the black abyss of the sea.
Death was a risk every American sailor understood.
But how could he explain this to their families? At least he knew where his father was buried.
But what of the children of the officers and crew of USS Honolulu?
Would they wonder all their lives what happened to their fathers? To disappear on a clandestine mission. To be lost at sea and never seen again. To have no answers for them. To have no tombstone in a national cemetery on which to rest their hands.
Perhaps diplomacy could solve this impasse. Perhaps the secretary of state was right.
What would Colonel Williams say?
Never had the commander-in-chief felt so alone.
The Al Alamein
Entrance to the Aegean Sea
4 p.m. local time
Over the sea to the east, pillars of gray clouds danced on black streaks of rain. To the west, toward the jagged Greek coastline, the sun had started its downward trek, bathing the great ship in a luminescent orangish hue. But with the wind blowing hard across the flybridge from the east, Salman Dudayev did not have to be a man of the sea to know that soon the massive ship would sail through a torrential downpour.
