Black Sea Affair Read online

  "Why in such a hurry to sail, Kapitan? You have a date with some beautiful mermaid in the Black Sea?" Federov chuckled at himself.

  His pal Sidorov sneered, then spoke up. "You do realize, do you not, Kapitan, that it is a privilege, and not a right, to sail your freighter under the registration of the Motherland, and that your ability to fly the flag of Mother Russia on the high seas affords you certain" – he hesitated and scratched his chin – "shall we say, privileges not ordinarily afforded to ships flying the ensigns of other nations?"

  "Yes, of course I know it is a privilege not only to fly the flag of our country, but also to be a Russian citizen."

  "Hmm." This was Fedorov again. "Then you would undoubtedly volunteer your ship for a diplomatic mission on behalf of the president of the Russian Federation?"

  Where were they headed with all this? "Yes, of course. To the extent possible I would do everything I can for our president."

  "Good." Federov downed his vodka. "Have some more of this stuff, Kapitan?"

  "Dah, of course." Batsakov refilled the agent's glass to the brim.

  "You are aware, are you not, that President Evtimov has been concerned about Western influences undermining stability in a number of the former republics of the former Soviet Union."

  "I know what I read in Pravda."

  "You are aware that over the past few years, beginning with the election of Victor Yushchenko, that Ukraine has drifted closer to the Americans' camp."

  "I sail into Ukraine. I hear stories about this debate."

  Federov sipped more vodka. "Yes, well, President Evtimov is none too happy about it. And since the Americans lost some of their popularity after the Dome of the Rock attacks, our president has been courting Ukraine very hard."

  "Tell me, comrade. How can I help?"

  "There is an orphanage near Chernobyl. In fact, the Ukrainian president – Butrin – spent time there as a boy. He visits there often, and holds the place dear to his heart."

  "I've heard of it."

  "A group of orphans spent summer holiday here in Sochi. President Evtimov has been on the phone with President Butrin of Ukraine. As a gesture of friendship, our president has offered to find a Russian ship sailing for Odessa for the children to ride back on. When the ship arrives in port, President Butrin will be waiting for the children at the docks along with President Evtimov, at which time Russia will offer significant money to Ukraine to upgrade its orphanage facilities. We see that your ship will be sailing for Odessa, and we want you to host these orphans on your voyage."

  "How many children wish to ride on my ship?"

  "Twelve. Plus their adult counselor. Plenty of room for you to accommodate, Kapitan."

  "Are you crazy?" Batsakov threw his arms in the air. "What am I? A babysitter? My ship is a dangerous place for children. There is cargo sliding around and there is no one to watch them. They could easily fall overboard. Besides, why not just use a Russian navy vessel?"

  "Because President Evtimov wants to deemphasize military ties and emphasize peaceful civilian cooperation. This will only delay your departure twenty-four hours."

  Great. Another twenty-four hours for someone to discover the cargo for which I will be paid five million dollars for delivery. But what can I say? "Please tell President Evtimov that Alexander Popovich is pleased to be of ser vice to the motherland."

  CHAPTER 5

  United States Naval Support Activity

  La Maddalena, Italy

  A JAG officer will be right out, Commander. If you'd like to have a seat here in the lobby, sir, feel free."

  "Very well." Commander Pete Miranda looked up at the legalman chief, who had just walked through the double doors leading from the back of the spartan offices that served as the Navy Legal Ser vice Office in La Maddalena.

  An updated will was long overdue.

  He should've done it when he and Sally divorced five years ago. But the kids were well taken care of back in Norfolk, and there was plenty of life insurance should something go wrong.

  Plus, commanding a Los Angeles – class nuclear submarine provided no free time. His men, his boat, and the United States Navy were all-consuming.

  But the dangerous, top-secret mission ordered by Sixth Fleet had caused him to rethink his will. Certain things should go to his twelve-year-old son, Coley, he had decided: his two Navy Commendation medals; his three Meritorious Service Medals, the bronze "dolphins" worn on his uniform signifying his elite status as a member of the silent service; and his "command" medallion, showing that he was the captain of the USS Chicago.

  To his thirteen-year-old daughter, Hannah, he would leave his wedding band, which he had saved since the divorce, his watch, his family Bible that his grandparents gave him on his graduation from college, and his officer's sword, which he had carried when he and Sally were married all those years ago.

  None of this meant much to the kids right now. But one day – if this mission went south – they just might come to appreciate what their daddy stood for.

  Residence of the secretary of defense Arlington, Virginia

  1:08 a.m.

  The cacophonous buzz from the telephone on the nightstand brought the bed's only occupant to a stiff, upright position. Unlike the personal telephone on his other nightstand, which rang in softer, more pleasant tones, the tortuous noise from the phone on the left could be from only one of four sources – the White House, the NSA, the Pentagon, or the CIA – and the caller on the other end was calling to discuss an issue of immediate, pressing, national security.

  "Secretary Lopez here."

  "Mr. Secretary, this is G. B. Harrell, the action officer for Russian affairs at NSA. Sorry to bother you at this time of morning."

  "I know you wouldn't call if it wasn't urgent. What's up?"

  "Sir, we're picking up significant movement of Russian ground forces."

  "Talk to me."

  "Several dozen divisions so far. Mostly moving south out of Volgograd. Plus several divisions moving east out of North Ossetia. Most likely destination, Chechnya. But at the strength level we're seeing, at this point we have to be concerned about them moving farther south, sir."

  "I'll call the president. Send your report to my office at the Pentagon. I'm headed over there right now."

  "Yes, sir, Mr. Secretary."

  The White House

  9:20 a.m.

  Before I order this attack, I need to know that our intelligence is solid."

  President Mack Williams folded his arms and turned his back on the small cadre of high-powered advisors gathered around him in the Oval Office. He looked outside. Dew drops on several dozen rose bushes sparkled in the morning sunlight. Out on the South Lawn, lush grass sprawled like a glowing green carpet from the Oval Office, under the black iron gates to the Mall, out to the Washington Monument.

  They had told him that the office would impose itself upon him. And in the five years since he had come to the Oval Office, the trim, fifty-five-year old Kansan had seen his hair transformed from pure brown to salt-and-pepper. More salt than otherwise.

  Lines of worry had begun to subtly cross his tan forehead, which the First Lady had said gave him a more distinguished look. But Mack Williams knew better. And in a post-9/11 world where the traditional rules of war and peace had become a distant concept of the past, it was inevitable that the weight of the great office would be heavy upon any man.

  Still, someone had to bear this weight. For the sake of freedom. For the sake of America. To defend the Constitution against all enemies, foreign and domestic. This was his time and place. He would bear this burden alone.

  Mack turned away from the peaceful view of the South Lawn. He folded his arms and gazed at the members of his National Security Council.

  "Where are we on all this Russian troop movement?"

  "I'll take that one, Mr. President, " Secretary of Defense Erwin Lopez spoke up. He extracted multiple copies of reports from his briefcase and handed them out. "Eight hours ago, NGA notice
d satellite photos of the first movement of Russian ground forces. We've had four more satellite passes since then. At two-thirty a.m., four o'clock, five-thirty, seven, and eight-thirty. Photos from each of these passes are included in your packets."

  Mack began thumbing through the satellite photos as the secretary of defense continued.

  "We have massive troop movements from Volgograd, and also some troop and armored vehicle movement from North Ossetia. The divisions driving east from North Ossetia have stopped at the Chechen border.

  "The divisions sweeping south from Volgograd are not there yet. At this point we think, sir, that Chechnya is their destination, although there's a danger that they could be headed farther south, into the Middle East. We've intercepted radio traffic which corroborates our theory that this is a massive move into Chechnya, and I'll defer to the director of Central Intelligence for that portion of the briefing."

  "Very well." Mack turned to his CIA director, Mitch Winstead. "Mr. Director?"

  "Thank you, Mr. President. I'm sorry to say that ground intelligence in the North Caucasus area in the last forty-eight hours has brought about more alarming news, sir."

  "Talk to me, Mr. Director."

  "Well, sir, from what we've heard on the streets, the Russians seem to have misplaced several pounds of weapons-grade plutonium."

  "What?" Mack raised his voice slowly. "Repeat that, Mr. Director."

  "Sir, the Russian government, like the Soviet government before it, is stone-faced and tight-lipped, but their subordinates on the street don't do a very good job of guarding state secrets."

  Lord, please don't let this be true. "Mr. Director, I want to know exactly what you've been hearing."

  "Approximately eighteen hours ago, around midnight Caucasus time, rebel forces, probably Chechen, ambushed a Russian military truck in the Russian Republic of North Ossetia. Our sources say the truck was under guard and carried weapons-grade plutonium 239. The driver and the two guards were killed. The plutonium is gone."

  "How much is missing?"

  The CIA director whipped out a handkerchief and patted his forehead. "Mr. President, bear in mind that we do not know the precise amount, but we believe that at least fifty pounds was taken."

  "Fifty pounds?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "So how much firepower is that?"

  The director cleared his throat. "That's more of a military question, Mr. President. I think I should defer that question to the secretary of defense."

  The president glared at the secretary of defense. "Well, Mr. Secretary? How much firepower are we talking?"

  Secretary Erwin Lopez met the president's eyes. "That's enough to build four or five small thermonuclear devices or…" SECDEF's voice trailed off.

  "Out with it, Mr. Secretary."

  "Or, Mr. President, they could package the fuel to build a small hydrogen bomb of approximately five megatons."

  "So what would five megatons do, Mr. Secretary?"

  The secretary of defense hesitated. His brows furrowed. His eyes shifted around the Oval Office.

  "Out with it, Erwin, " the president said.

  "Five megatons, if they were able to build such a device, would vaporize" – the secretary looked down – "any major city on the entire Eastern seaboard, and then some."

  Shudders swept Mack's body. Only the ticks and tocks of the grandfather clock near the entrance of the Oval Office punctuated the respite of silence.

  "Lord, help us, " the president said.

  "We think the Russians believe that Chechen rebels smuggled the plutonium to Chechnya to build a nuclear device. But frankly, sir, we think the Russians are wrong."

  "Go on."

  "As you know, Mr. President, you directed the CIA and Department of Defense to develop contingency plans to sink the Russian freighter Alexander Popovich, the ship used in the kidnapping of Jeanette L'Enfant."

  "Yes, I remember that directive. Go on."

  "We've recently traced a five-million-dollar transfer from the radical Islamic organization the Council of Ishmael to the captain's Caribbean bank account. Mr. President, that had to be a payment for something – transportation of stolen plutonium would be worth that kind of money."

  "Any other reason to suspect the Alexander Popovich?"

  "Sir, we've maintained surveillance on Alexander Popovich. It's home-ported at Sochi, Russia, which is not that far from where we believe the nuclear fuel was heisted. About three o'clock in the morning, just three hours after the attack, a truck showed up with a delivery for Alexander Popovich."

  Mack mused on that. "Two questions, Mr. Director. First, how did we just happen to have someone in place to see this delivery, and second, how do we know that this mysterious truck that showed up in the middle of the night was carrying the plutonium?"

  The CIA director and the secretary of defense exchanged glances, and then SECDEF spoke up. "I'll take that one, Mr. President. First, we've been watching Alexander Popovich as a result of your directive to devise a secret battle plan to sink it. Since we believe it is connected to terrorist activities, we've had agents on the ground there keeping a close contact on the ship's in-port activities.

  "In addition to our CIA operatives on the ground in Sochi, NCIS special agents in Sochi report that Alexander Popovich is in port taking on supplies. That report is corroborated by satellite photos. She could be ready to sail in weeks or even days."

  SECDEF continued, "Our agents personally watched all this last night from a remote point with binoculars."

  Mitch Winstead, the CIA director, spoke up. "In other words, we've already tracked this ship to terrorist activities, and we believe that this ship is being retained for another mission."

  Another brief moment of silence followed.

  "And I suppose that mission is to take this weapons-grade plutonium that nobody has actually seen, then sail off with it so that some terrorist group can blow up the United States?" This was the voice of Secretary of State Robert Mauney, who sat cross-armed to the president's left.

  "Mr. Secretary, " Winstead shot back, "in the intelligence world, we can never be one hundred percent sure about anything. What you have said is true. Nobody – at least nobody that we have in our intelligence camp – actually saw what was in that crate hauled on the ship. But mathematically speaking, given the intelligence data we currently have, I'd say that odds favor that, sir."

  "Then why are the Russians sending their forces to Chechnya? Do they know something we don't know?" Mauney wrung his hands. "Doesn't that tell us where the plutonium is?"

  "With all due respect, Mr. Secretary, " Director Winstead replied in deliberate tones, "this is more likely a matter of us knowing something that the Russians don't know."

  "Elaborate, Mr. Director, " the president said.

  "The financial trail, Mr. President." Director Winstead leaned forward. "It goes back to the deal that Commander Brewer cut with Commander Quasay when we prosecuted those Islamic fighter pilots. Quasay gave us information in exchange for our not seeking the death penalty. That information led us to financial accounts which have allowed us to track cash flow from radical Council of Ishmael accounts to accounts controlled by this Russian captain – Batsakov."

  "You don't think the Russians know about this ship's activities?"

  "They may have some notion that the skipper is lavishing around in a lot of cash, but I doubt they know about this five-million-dollar infusion of cash into his Caribbean account, or that he even has such an account."

  "Mr. President." The secretary of defense fidgeted with his cufflinks.

  "Yes, Secretary Lopez."

  "Sir, this underscores the need to sink that freighter. We know it has been used by terrorist organizations, that it will be used again by terrorist organizations. It is now most likely carrying enough plutonium to blow up New York City, Los Angeles, or Washington, D.C. The Russians either condone it or have turned a blind eye to it."

  "With all due respect, Mr. Secretary, " the secretary
of state responded, "that idea is too risky." Robert Mauney looked at Mack. "Please, Mr. President, I strongly urge you to give diplomacy a chance."

  "Diplomacy?" Secretary of Defense Lopez spoke up. "Our diplomatic relations with the Russians are as low now as they have been since the Cuban Missile crisis. What are we supposed to do? Just say to the Russians, 'Excuse me, but you've got it all wrong on Chechnya, and one of your freighters is carrying the nuclear material you're looking for.'

  "Mr. President." Secretary Lopez turned his gaze from the secretary of state and looked at Mack. "The Russians don't know that we're aware of this missing plutonium. If we let them know, that compromises our intelligence on the ground there, and if we let them know that we suspect this freighter of terrorist activities, that ends our opportunity to sink it surreptitiously. If we sink it after we tell the Russians we think it's a terrorist ship" – he shifted his gaze back to the secretary of state – "you've really got a diplomatic challenge, Mr. Secretary."

  "All right." Mack waved his hands in the air. "That's enough." Mack let a moment of silence permeate the air. He looked at his secretary of state. "Secretary Mauney, the State Department feels that a military operation against this freighter is too risky?"

  "Yes, sir, we do, Mr. President."

  "Very well. I'd like you to address that, and after you've finished, Secretary Lopez may respond. Fair enough?" Mack glanced at Lopez, then back at Mauney.

  "Yes, sir, " both secretaries said at the same time.

  "Secretary Mauney, the floor is with the State Department."

  "Thank you, Mr. President." The secretary of state rose from his chair, then walked around the conference table to a position just a few feet in front of the president.

  "Now, Mr. President, as I understand the Navy's plan, which I have yet to see, by the way" – a halting glance at the secretary of defense, as if insulted that he had not been in on the military planning for the infiltration of the Black Sea – "this freighter would be sunk by a U.S. submarine in the Black Sea.

  "Mr. President, the Black Sea is a dangerous place. The Russians consider it their territory. Even today, they protest the presence of warships there. The Russians claim that only the littoral nations surrounding the Black Sea – including Russia, Bulgaria, Ukraine, Georgia, Turkey, and Romania – have a right to have warships there.