Black Sea Affair Page 3

  "True, but not so fast, " Gaylord said. "It's not a problem sinking her. The problem is getting to her. This freighter operates primarily in the Black Sea. Sure, she comes out once in a while. She was operating in the Med when she worked with terrorists to transport L'Enfant, who had just been kidnapped on the French coast. But she's much harder to find and track once she gets on the high seas."

  "That's true, " Pete said. "It's almost impossible to find any given ship in the Pacific that doesn't want to be found. That was, as I recall, one of the premises of the war games off San Diego for which AIRPAC now wants my head." Pete raised his eyebrow at the admiral, who shook his head and chuckled.

  "Sure I can't interest you in a stogie, Pete?"

  "On second thought, I could probably use it, sir."

  Admiral Getman slipped an already-cut Montecristo across his desk, along with a silver Zippo. Pete lit the stogie, took a draw, and turned back to Captain Gaylord. "But you can't get a sub into the Black Sea, sir. Not submerged anyway. You'd have to get through the Bosphorus, which is too shallow, too narrow, too treacherous, and which has way too many ships passing through it to risk a submerged passage. And if you went through on the surface, the Turks would know all about it." A draw from the stogie followed. "And so would everyone else."

  Gaylord gave a knowing smile. "You've identified the problem, Commander. But we've developed a plan to make it happen. It's a dangerous plan. Once you get in, if you are in fact able to get in without being detected, you may not be able to get out.

  "Bear in mind this would be an attack on what is in theory a civilian ship flying under a Russian flag. In reality, it's a terrorist ship whose captain is taking money from Islamic terrorists on the side to give them a presence on the high seas, but the Russians, whose intelligence capabilities are not as astute as ours, may not see it that way, and we can't tell them about it lest we expose sensitive information about our intelligence sources. Some enemies of the United States would spin this as an attack on an innocent civilian freighter, which is an act of war. We don't want nuclear war with Russia over this.

  "The president wants to sink ships involved with maritime terrorism, but he doesn't want a direct link to the Navy. In this case, secrecy is as important to the success of your mission as actually sinking that ship. If you can't get out, you may have to sink this freighter and scrap the sub. That, of course, could cost you your life, and the life of your crew."

  Pete mulled that over. "Where would I get my crew?"

  "Just like we're asking you to volunteer, Pete, we're seeking an all-voluntary crew. We recognize that the chances of survival, especially if we have to scrap the sub, will be fifty-fifty at best. So we're being upfront about this, and asking only for volunteers. At the same time, we need the Navy's very best to pull this off."

  Pete looked at the admiral, who was leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed.

  "I still don't see how we're going to get through the Bosphorus and into the Black Sea."

  "Once you accept this assignment, and there's no pressure for you to do so, you'll be flown to your new duty station, where you'll be briefed on the plan. Until then, I'm under orders to reveal nothing else about it. The plan, of course, is top-secret."

  "What about the Chicago? When would I deploy for this new assignment?"

  "As soon as you walk out of this office, we'll put you on a plane back east. That's all I can say."

  "I wouldn't have an opportunity to say goodbye to my men?"

  "Your men will be told that their skipper has been reassigned to a top-secret mission. A new skipper has already been selected for Chicago, if you accept this assignment."

  This was all so sudden. Pete wasn't afraid of losing his life. But his men. His crew. They were all the family he had right now. To be unable to even say goodbye… Still, he was a naval officer, and the needs of the Navy and the call of his country always came first. But what of his two children? He'd not seen them in almost a year. But the call of his country prevailed.

  "Okay, gentlemen, I'm in. I'll do this. I'm ready to go."

  "Thank you, Pete." Admiral Getman rose and extended his hand, which Pete grasped. "The president thanks you too. And I will miss you."

  CHAPTER 3

  The Caucasus Mountains

  The Russian Republic of North Ossetia

  Hidden in the shadows under the crevices of the rocks, their positions were revealed by the red glow of their cigarettes. They had waited for an hour already.

  Listening.

  Their feet and legs ached. They knew, from surveying this position dozens of times in the daylight, that the mountain steeped down at a forty-five-degree angle. One slip of a boot would plunge them hundreds of feet into a dark abyss.

  Sergei checked his watch.

  Five minutes till midnight. The time – the nearness to the hour -ignited his heartbeat.

  He sucked on his cigarette, flicked it down, and watched the burning tip vanish in the darkness below.

  Sergeant Natasha Asimova downshifted, again, and pressed the accelerator to the floor. The engine whined and strained, but kept pulling the KAMAZ 4310 military truck up the incline.

  "Are we going to make it, Sergeant?" one of the two guards yelled from the back.

  "Dah, dah, " she said. "My truck has never failed me on this run." She pressed her boot against the clutch, then downshifted once more.

  "Once we make it around the last curve, we will be at the top of the mountain, and then it is all downhill from there."

  "Arkady has never made this run before." The other guard laughed. "He's a mamma's boy from the coast at Arkangel. He's afraid of heights!"

  "Shut up, Boris Andropovich!" the first guard shot back.

  "Comrades! Silence!" Natasha snapped. "I must concentrate, or we will run off the cliff."

  "Sorry, Sergeant."

  The moon crested over the jagged peaks above their heads, bathing them in a pale radiance, illuminating the shadowy outlines of his comrades, who were also crouched down along the rocky incline below the winding, mountainous road.

  Sergei drew the cool, thin Transcaucus air into his lungs. The engine from the distant truck whined and shifted gears, straining to pull its cargo up the incline of the road.

  A brief, shrill whistle pierced the chilly night.

  Sergei looked to his left. Mikhail, the team leader, signaled thumbs-up.

  This is it.

  He worked the action on his AK-47. The clank of chinking metal from the other platoon of assault rifles followed, echoing off the rocks and down the steep mountain.

  The sound of the truck grew louder… louder…

  And then, headlight beams flashed over the crest of the road above their heads.

  "Seachess!" Mikhail barked in Russian. "Now!"

  Sergei and eight other members of the team leaped over the ledge and onto the road.

  Dual headlights came out of the night up the hill. The military truck, its engine struggling to make the top of the hill, was slowing under the strain of the climb.

  "Stop the truck!" Mikhail shouted.

  The truck slowed even more.

  Good.

  Perhaps this would be easier than anticipated, Mikhail thought, as the freedom fighters approached the truck.

  Then the engine revved. Gears shifted. The truck lunged forward. The driver was making a run for it.

  "Shoot the tires!"

  Multiple gunshots echoed off the canyon walls. The front of the truck thumped down onto the concrete.

  "Don't shoot!" The driver, a blonde woman wearing a Russian military uniform, squinted at the high-beam flashlight in her face, then whipped out a pistol.

  "Take cover!"

  Three sharp bursts rang from the woman's pistol. Sergei immediately fired back in the direction of the driver. "Perimeter positions!" Mikhail ordered. "Out of the truck!"

  Sergei and another commando took positions around the rear, training their rifles on the closed doors. The twin back doors flew
open. Two silhouettes emerged from the cargo bay.

  "Fire!"

  The crack of rifle fire, like the sound of a volley fired by an execution squad, echoed against the mountain walls. The two guards who had rushed out the back doors lay bleeding on the road from Sergei's weapon. The driver's head hung out the window, her eyes frozen open in the moonlight. Blood trickled from her gaping mouth.

  "Get the cargo, " Mikhail ordered. "Now! Move!"

  The Alexander Popovich Sochi, Russia

  The telephone rang and Captain Yuri Mikalvich Batsakov pushed up from his rack and rubbed his eyes.

  A flip of the lamp switch on the table beside his bed reminded him that he was not alone in the captain's stateroom. The pretty blonde woman – he couldn't remember her name at the moment, perhaps either Elena or Tatiana – grunted and rolled over. Too much vodka was bad for the memory. Not that her name mattered at this time of morning. The clock on the bulkhead showed 3:00 a.m. But still…

  The phone rang again.

  "All right. All right." Batsakov cursed as his feet met the cold deck. He reached for the shipboard telephone.

  "Dah."

  "Kapitan Batsakov?"

  "Dah."

  "This is the guard at the end of Pier Three."

  "What is it?"

  "Sorry to interrupt, Kapitan, but there is a truck here at the end of the pier. They claim to have cargo for your ship. The driver says his name is Mikhail Abramakov. His papers match that, Kapitan."

  "Oh, dah! Dah!" Amazing how the prospect of American dollars could cure even a vodka-induced amnesia. "We're expecting that shipment. Wave Abramakov through the checkpoint and send a few stevedores down to the pier. I'll be right down."

  "Of course, Kapitan."

  Batsakov hung up, then picked up the phone again and called the bridge. "Dmitri, this is the captain. Round up three deckhands and meet me at the quarterdeck in five minutes. Yes, of course I know what time it is." He swigged the lukewarm vodka in the clear glass beside the bed. "Get them out of the racks and get them moving! Now!"

  He hung up the phone and slapped the now-empty vodka glass back on the table.

  "What time is it, Yuri?" The blonde was sitting up, rubbing her eyes and squinting at him.

  "Look, Elena, darling, it has been much fun, but something important has come up. I have work to do, " he said, putting his arms into a black pea coat. "Go back to sleep. I will send my steward up to help with your things in the morning."

  He opened the cabin door and started to step out.

  "Tatiana, " the blonde snapped.

  He looked back in and saw the perturbed-looking blonde helping herself to the bottle of vodka on the side table.

  "Excuse me?"

  "I'm Tatiana!" Her blue eyes blazed fury as her lips met the opening of the glass bottle. "You called me Elena!" she said, after an angry swig.

  "Yes, my apologies. You are so beautiful – that plus the vodka – forgive me – I was not thinking straight. I will call you when I am back in port."

  He slammed the door closed just in time to block the airborne vodka bottle. He walked away to the sounds of shattering glass and the fading strains of "call Elena next time you're in port, you fat pig."

  Five minutes later, Batsakov approached the quarterdeck of his freighter. The lights along the pier cast an eerie, pinkish glow on the concrete below.

  A black panel truck was rolling up the pier. It stopped at the end of the catwalk and switched off its headlights. The doors opened, and four men, dressed in black, stepped into the night. They opened the back of the panel truck and removed a large wooden crate, which took all of them to handle.

  As a fifth man started bounding up the catwalk to the ship, Batsakov motioned for his deckhands to head down to the pier to assist in getting the wooden crate out of the truck.

  The trio of deckhands passed the figure coming up the catwalk, and less than a minute later, the fifth man reached the quarterdeck. "Permission to come aboard, Kapitan?" the man asked.

  "You must be Abramakov."

  "My papers, Kapitan." The black-haired, scruffy-bearded stranger handed a manila envelope to Batsakov. "Mind if I borrow a cigarette while you check me out?"

  "No problem." Batsakov glanced at the papers under the quarterdeck lights while holding the cigarette pack in the direction of the stranger. "Looks in order." Batsakov returned the identification papers.

  "And my colleagues asked me to give you this." Abramakov handed the captain a second envelope.

  "For the love of Lenin!" Batsakov's eyes widened at the envelope full of hundred-dollar bills.

  "This is nothing compared to what has been wired to your Bahamian account, Kapitan, or what you will receive upon completion of your mission. This is but a small departure bonus of ten thousand dollars cash as a token of our appreciation." Abramakov sucked in on his cigarette and blew his smoke off to the side. "There is one other thing, " Abramakov said. "Read this." He handed yet another envelope to Batsa-kov, who studied the paper.

  Dear Kapitan Batsakov,

  The cargo that you will be carrying is important to the future of the world. You will take it on board at Sochi, and then you will proceed under normal circumstances to set sail in the Black Sea. You will sail to a rendezvous point located at 30 degrees east longitude and 43 degrees north latitude, where you will rendezvous with another civilian vessel of Egyptian registry, whose name is withheld for security reasons.

  When you reach the rendezvous point, the cargo will be transferred to the Egyptian ship. Codename for the transfer is "Peter the Great." You will be hailed on international frequencies by the approaching Egyptian vessel, and you will accept transfer instructions from the Egyptian captain.

  Upon the safe transfer of the cargo at the coordinates as set forth herein, the remaining half of your fee shall be transferred to the account you have designated, and your duties for this mission shall be discharged.

  Thank you for the opportunity to do business with you.

  For security reasons, the author of this directive must remain anonymous.

  "Well, well." Batsakov folded the directive and stuck it on the inside of his pea coat. "An intervessel transfer on the high seas." A drag from his cigarette. "Brings back fond memories of my days in the Soviet navy."

  "We hoped you would view these orders with fondness, comrade." Abramakov flicked his cigarette. "Now then, Kapitan, there is this matter of bringing the cargo aboard your vessel."

  "Would you like a crane to lift it aboard?"

  "No." Abramakov lit another cigarette. "That would cause too much attention. My men can bring it up the catwalk. We will store it below decks wherever you direct us, but we will need a dry compartment."

  Batsakov studied Abramakov's beady eyes. Abramakov looked Slavic, unlike the crazy-looking Middle Easterner who worked for the organization that had hired him to transport a woman prisoner from France to Sochi.

  This fellow had Russian roots. Perhaps he could strike a rapport here – a rapport that could lead to repeated business. "I suppose, my friend, it does me no good to ask what you are bringing aboard my ship?"

  Abramakov laughed. "Think of it as gold, Kapitan. The contents of this crate have made you a rich man. Beyond that, there is no need for you to know. Understood?"

  Batsakov smiled. Abramakov was right; already the money transferred to his Bahamian bank account had made him rich beyond his wildest dreams. If he could keep dealing with these people – whoever they were – soon he could afford to buy his own fleet of ships.

  "Understood, my friend. I will assign somone to find a suitable place for the cargo."

  "Spaceeba, Kapitan." Abramakov turned, stepped to the side of the ship, and motioned at the men still standing by the van down below.

  Four men dressed in black, like pall bearers carrying an oversized casket, lugged a large, rectangular plywood box across the transom and onto the deck of the Alexander Popovich. Captain Batsakov gave a few signals to his deckhands, and the wooden
crate disappeared below deck.

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

  What do you mean it just disappeared?" The president of the Russian Republic stood, slamming his fist on the large wooden desk. Russia had come so far under his leadership. With America's falling stature around the globe as a result of her military intervention in Iraq, Afghanistan, and other hotspots, the world had become hungry for leadership from another superpower.

  And this had been his dream: to restore Russia to her days of unparalleled glory, to the days when she stood as a great world superpower in the wake of the Great War, when she commanded the republics of the great Soviet Union, when her name commanded fear and respect in every corner of the globe. President Vitaly Evtimov was the man for this glorious task. He was the youngest Russian president since Putin. The Western press had called him charismatic, and some had referred to him even as "the Russian JFK."

  And now he was at the right place in the right time. Until this. This. The inability to track and contain weapons-grade nuclear fuel could prove to be the type of international embarrassment that would derail his noble and grandiose plans for the motherland.

  "Weapons-grade plutonium does not just disappear into the Caucasus mountains!"

  Evtimov flung a stack of memoranda out towards the members of the Russian National Security counsel who were present at this hastily called emergency meeting. "I have three dead members of the Russian Federal Army, and more than enough nuclear fuel missing to vaporize the entire city of Moscow!"

  "Please, Comrade President, " pleaded the minister of defense, a balding, stout man with a ruddy nose. "Please calm down."

  "How dare you lecture me about calming down, Giorgy Alexeevich!" Evtimov glared at his defense minister. "How can I remain calm when the army over which I place you in charge cannot muster enough riflemen to guard a shipment of volatile nuclear fuel?"

  "Comrade President." The president's chief of staff, Sergey Semyon-ovich Sobyanin, spoke in a calm voice. "With all due respect, sir, Giorgy Alexeevich's army took security precautions which exceed those often taken by the Americans."