Black Sea Affair

by Don Brown

  A few minutes later, Riddle banked the plane to the northeast, then prayed that he would see no Russians.

  The USS Honolulu The Aegean Sea

  This time, the ascent had gone more smoothly. At least so far, they were on target. No abort signals from the SEAL team.

  Yet.

  "Ten feet, " the diving officer was saying. "Still ascending. Five feet. Three feet."

  A scraping, thuddish sound reverberated throughout his boat. Pete grasped the periscope tube in the center of the control room. The men at their watch stations anxiously listened for further sounds that would indicate the submarine was being torn apart by the heavy freighter.

  "Contact. Skipper, we have contact!"

  In the dim light of the control room, their eyes danced upward, nervously.

  Another scraping thud shook the boat. Men wiped their foreheads. Some breathed heavily. None said a word.

  The silence was deafening.

  Static from the radio crackled the silence.

  "The eagle has landed. Repeat, the eagle has landed."

  Cheering broke out in the control room. Pete allowed a smile to cross his face. The first dangerous stage of the mission was over. Pete uttered a silent prayer of thanks, then raised his hands, palms down, signaling for quiet in the control room.

  "Magnificent job, gentlemen. Now let's enjoy the ride – and hope that we make it through the Bosphorus."

  The Alexander Popovich

  Somewhere in the Black Sea

  Masha sat on the small single bed in her wardroom. Her hands shook uncontrollably and her knees were knocking.

  Her Black Sea cruise with her orphans, something that they had looked forward to with uncontrolled anticipation, had become a surrealistic nightmare. Would she become a victim like in those American horror movies? Would they toss her body to the sharks?

  How could this be? What about the twelve precious young souls that she was responsible for? What if they killed her? Would her children then disappear over the side of the ship?

  The young man standing outside seemed nice enough. But Aleksey Anatolyvich worked for the enemy. Should she kill him or befriend him? Or should she kill the captain or the first officer or whomever on the bridge that was advocating her immediate death?

  But even if she killed all these men, what good would it do? She could not sail the ship to America or some place where she might be welcomed. Wherever she ended up, she would be arrested for murder.

  What if she could somehow get onto the bridge and radio for help? But who would she call? Russia was run by the mafia, and there were no Americans in the Black Sea. And even if there were, how would she get on the bridge undetected? Plus she had no idea how to use the radio.

  "Miss Katovich, is everything okay in there?"

  "Yes, Aleksey, " she lied. "It takes a little while for a girl to get ready."

  She buried her face in her hands. Lord, help me, she prayed.

  She had to think of something. Then she remembered it.

  The little black Bible that was a present from the American missionaries who visited the orphanage last year was stashed somewhere in the bottom of her bag.

  She reached through the shirts and underwear, fumbling for it. When the tips of her fingers felt that black leather, she pulled it out, opened it, and read the message on the first page. The message was penned by the missionaries who gave it to her.

  Presented to Masha Katovich,

  In this book you will find all the answers to life's problems.

  If you are ever in doubt, ask him to show you the way!

  Given in Christian love, Eugene and Carol Allison, Charlotte, NC, USA.

  She remembered the looks in their eyes.

  They seemed so sincere, as if they really believed what they had told her and written to her. They had led her in something they called "the sinner's prayer, " and she asked Jesus into her heart when they did. That had gotten her into the habit of occasionally praying to God. And even though she had intended to learn more about this new faith, she had not read much of the Bible they gave her. She had carried it around like some kind of good luck charm.

  Now desperation overwhelmed her. She could not explain it, but she wished that the kind couple from America could be with her right now.

  Lord, if the Allisons are right that this book has answers, then show me what to do. Show me now. Time is running out.

  She opened the Bible. Its pages showed a book called Esther.

  "Miss Katovich?"

  "Please. Give me five minutes?"

  "Very well."

  Before her eyes was the seventh chapter of Esther.

  So the king and Haman went to dine with Queen Esther, and as they were drinking wine on that second day, the king again asked, "Queen Esther, what is your petition? It will be given you. What is your request? Even up to half the kingdom, it will be granted."

  Then Queen Esther answered, "If I have found favor with you, O king, and if it pleases your majesty, grant me my life – this is my petition. And spare my people – this is my request."

  Masha whispered, "Spare my children, Lord. This is my request!"

  CHAPTER 12

  The National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency Fort Belvoir, Virginia

  The black-and-white photographs were shot several days ago by a KH-12 "keyhole" satellite whose orbit had been altered to two hundred miles directly over the Russian port city of Sochi.

  How fortuitous, Kent Pendleton thought.

  Kent extracted the photos from the large manila photograph and studied them.

  The pictures could be of any freighter in the world docked alongside a pier, Kent thought. To his eyes, they all looked alike. But like a man's fingerprints, no two ships were exactly alike.

  And though many were very similar in outward appearance, there was no other ship in the world exactly like the Alexander Popovich. Studying the satellite photo shot over the port of Sochi, Russia, Kent could not tell one freighter from the next. But the supercomputers stored on the two White Cloud ocean surveillance satellites just launched atop the Delta rockets from Vandenberg could tell the difference. At least, if the satellites got a clear shot of the ship again, they could.

  At an orbit of two hundred miles, the birds would circle the earth every ninety minutes. Their orbit was staggered so that every forty-five minutes, one or the other would pass over the sea lanes in the Black Sea leading to the Ukrainian port of Odessa.

  If the Popovich happened to pass under one of the birds, and if the cloud cover cooperated, and if the Honolulu made it through the Bos-phorus and happened to be in the vicinity, then maybe, just maybe…

  Finding a freighter on the open seas was like looking for a needle in a haystack.

  It would all depend on a lucky shot.

  The Alexander Popovich The Black Sea

  Captain Batsakov sat at his desk in his stateroom, studying the navigational charts of the Black Sea. Alexander Popovich was still more than two hundred miles from the rendezvous point.

  He took a drag from his cigarette and cursed. He'd wasted two hours by pulling alongside that Egyptian freighter. Hopefully, by this time tomorrow his ship would be near the rendezvous point. Tossing his reading glasses on the table, he pushed back from the desk and stood up.

  A knock came on the cabin door.

  "Who is it?"

  "It is Aleksey."

  "Enter."

  The stateroom door opened. Aleksey stood in the entranceway. "Captain, I have Miss Katovich here with me."

  With all the commotion about the false alarm, Yuri had nearly forgotten about his beautiful but soon-to-be-dead passenger.

  "Bring her back in, Aleksey."

  "Yes, Kapitan." Aleksey motioned. She stepped in.

  Yuri's chest thumped.

  She wore a black sleeveless dress, cropped just above the knees. A string of elegant pearls were draped around her perfect neck. What a terrible waste this would be.

  "Beautiful dress, Miss Katovich."r />
  "I bought it in Sochi when I found out we would meet the president." Her blue eyes sparkled at him. "It cost me a month's wages, and some help from other sources too. Do you think it was worth it?"

  He inhaled. "Every ruble was well spent, my dear."

  She flashed a flirtatious smile. "I'm told that the kapitan often dines alone." She nodded at Aleksey. Her eyes twinkled. "What a shame."

  "Yes, well…"

  "My children wish to meet you, Kapitan. You are a busy and important man as a ship's master, but perhaps you could spare a few short moments to come meet them?"

  "Well…"

  "They have many questions of such a great man of the sea."

  "Well, I suppose…"

  "And afterwards, Kapitan, not to be intrusive or presumptuous, but I was thinking…"

  "Perhaps dinner, Miss Katovich? In my stateroom?"

  "I would be honored, Kapitan. And afterwards, I would be equally honored by a personal tour of your ship."

  Batsakov felt himself smiling. But why do all this if he was going to kill her? Was he looking for a reason to change his mind? Then again, what was the harm? They were hours from the rendezvous point. His crew could drive the ship. Perhaps this would be a nice respite and a bit of fun. Even condemned prisoners got sumptuous last meals.

  "With pleasure, Miss Katovich. My chef will prepare a dinner in the galley fit for a king." He extended his arm. "Lead me to these poor little orphans of yours."

  Erebuni Air Base

  Outside Yerevan, Republic of Armenia

  Captain Alexander Giorsky, Air Force of the Russian Republic, sat at the small desk in the briefing room and gazed out the window, across the runway, and into the distance. The purple, snow-capped mountain just across the border to the south majestically dominated the horizon in a powerful, almost godlike manner.

  The mountain was in another nation now, in enemy territory. On it were two radar and monitoring stations for tracking the flight patterns of Russian warplanes, including his own sophisticated and powerful MiG-29.

  Even so, ever since his prestigious assignment to the Erebuni Air Base in Armenia six months ago, Alexander had had a difficult time shaking his fascination with Mount Ararat. The world's most storied mountain remained a symbol of Armenian pride, even though it fell into Turkish hands in 1915. According to the Bible, Noah landed his ark there after the great flood of antiquity. Some even claimed to have seen the ark frozen up somewhere in the icecaps. Alexander often found himself squinting up at the icecaps, and had even studied the mountain with binoculars, as if perhaps he might even see the ancient boat himself!

  Although the Republic of Armenia was the first nation to officially recognize Christian ity, and although the Russian Orthodox Church had officially replaced atheism as the religion of the motherland after the breakup of the USSR, Alexander knew that the whole story of the great flood and Noah's ark was a myth.

  It had to be.

  What man could have done such a thing so long ago? To have built an ark and put all those animals on it?

  Still, why his obsessive fascination with the story? Was it all this Armenian folklore talk that Noah's great-great-grandson Haik had built the Tower of Babel at the foot of the mountain and became the father of all Armenians?

  Alexander brought his binoculars to his eyes and scanned the base of the mountain, as if part of the tower – if there ever were such a tower – would still be there.

  Get a grip of yourself, Giorsky! You are a fighter pilot in the Russian Air Force! You fly the most sophisticated fighter plane in the world. You have a job to do!

  "Attention!" An Air Force sergeant stepped through the doorway of the briefing room just in front of Colonel Stratsovich, the wing commander, who clicked into the room holding a clipboard and a pointer. A pale-looking man wearing a black suit trailed the colonel and the sergeant.

  "At ease, comrades!" the colonel said. "Be seated."

  Alexander and the other pilots shuffled into their desks and focused their attention on the front of the room.

  "Comrades, as you know, throughout the years, the base here at Erebuni has been a major force in our aerial bombardment of rebel operations in Chechnya. Recently, we have enjoyed a ceasefire from hostilities. But now Moscow calls upon us once again. But this time, the circumstances have changed. The stakes are altered. The danger is higher."

  He turned to the pale-looking man. "Comrades, I present to you Special Agent Andrei Federov. Russian FSB."

  The pale man, a typical-looking FSB bureaucrat who looked to be in his early thirties, stepped to the podium. His black eyes swept across the pilots. A cold arrogance exuded from his silent expressions – the typical look of aggrandized self-importance worn by many young FSB officers who bought into the agency's garbage about being the most elite intelligence force in the entire world.

  "Pilots of the 426th Russian Air Force, I greet you in the name of the president of the Russian Republic, Vitaly Evtimov."

  The pompous toad spoke as if he personally knew Evtimov, as if he had just come from a lunch at 4 Staraya Square. His bulging eyes surveyed the room, as if his claim to have come in the name of the president would impress a room full of seasoned MiG-29 pilots.

  "After the breakup of the Soviet Union, and ever since the first bloody Chechen war in 1994, the 426th Air Force has heroically ruled the skies over the traitorous rebels in Chechnya. Were it not for your supremacy in the skies, it is possible that this conflict would have been lost already and that a radical Muslim nation would have been set up on the soft underbelly of Mother Russia."

  Tell us something we do not know.

  "This time, you are being called upon again for your bravery."

  What a political suck-up.

  "But this time, the stakes are higher." He paused. "This time, Chechen rebels have stolen plutonium, and they have brought it to Chechnya. We believe they are about to build a bomb that could vaporize all of Moscow!"

  The FSB bureaucrat had succeeded in riveting the pilots' attention. "I am no pilot, so I cannot tell you how to do your jobs. The colonel here will do that for you." Federov nodded at Colonel Stratsovich, who nodded back. "I can tell you this, however. By order of the president, we will bomb Chechnya into submission, and we shall keep bombing until the rebel leaders return our plutonium!" That brought cheers and whistling from the action-hungry pilots. "They shall return the plutonium or they will all die!"

  More cheers and applause. Perhaps this Federov bureaucrat had a political future.

  "Our mission is complicated and more dangerous than ever. This time NATO planes – many of them armed – will be flying within a short missile's shot of the battleground."

  The pilots looked at one another.

  "The president of Georgia has requested that NATO warplanes patrol Georgian skies, to ensure that no Russian planes enter their airspace. And the president of Turkey has requested NATO ground support. The elite American 82nd Airborne Division is at this hour arriving at the NATO Air Base in Incirlik."

  "Bring them on!" one of the pilots shouted.

  "We are ready!" shouted another.

  "Comrades." Federov held his palms down to calm the pilots. "President Evtimov does not want a war with the Americans or NATO. But the president views these actions as provocative by the Americans, whose aim is world domination, and he is most displeased about NATO's flirtation with Georgia, which as you know was a longstanding Socialist Republic of the former Soviet Union."

  "Send us through the skies of Georgia, and we shall teach the Americans a lesson!" Alexander shouted.

  "Yes, that would be nice, " Special Agent Federov said. "But unfortunately – or fortunately, depending on your perspective – those are not the president's orders." He paused. "The President's orders are to fly to Chechnya through Azerbaijan, to avoid Georgia if at all possible, but to defend yourselves if fired on."

  "We will defend ourselves!"

  "I am sure you will, " the FSB agent said. "This concludes the
political portion of this briefing. I return the podium to Colonel Stratsovich, who will brief you on the military aspects of this operation."

  The tall, lean, and weather-worn Russian Air Force colonel stepped back to the podium. "Comrade Federov has stated our objective – to bomb Chechnya into submission while avoiding the airspace of Georgia."

  The colonel's strong eyes swept the room. "I realize that many of you, comrades, wish to tangle with the United States Air Force, to show the world that the Persian Gulf wars were not a real representation of what would happen if the Americans were to fight with our best pilots and our best planes."

  "Dah! Dah!"

  "But these are not our orders. So here is how we shall accomplish our mission." The colonel nodded. The sergeant unfurled an aerial map of Armenia and the surrounding countryside. The colonel's pointer tapped the center of the map. "Here, comrades, is our current position at the Erebuni Air Base.

  "The Georgian border is sixty-five miles to our north, and the most direct route to Chechnya would be to fly due north, through Georgia, just to the west of the capital city of Tbilisi and directly into Chechnya, which is one-hundred-sixty miles from where I am standing.

  "In the old days, when Georgia was a Soviet state, we would fly this route." The colonel winced and shook his head. "Now, to avoid Georgia, we will take off and fly to the northeast, across Lake Sevan to the Kura River in Azerbaijan. Fortunately, Azerbaijan is still our ally. That is a distance of one hundred nautical miles. From there we turn southeast for sixty miles to avoid the easternmost section of Georgia, then due north into Dagestan, and then we turn to the northwest, where we will deliver our munitions on targets of opportunity in Chechnya, and in particular, around the capital city of Grozny. We will return by the same route." The colonel stopped and eyed them all. "Any questions?"

  Alexander raised his hand.

  "Yes, Kapitan Giorsky."

  "Colonel, as I understand our flight pattern, in order to avoid Georgian airspace, as the Americans say, we are essentially going around our elbows to get to our thumb?"

  That brought a few chuckles.