Black Sea Affair (19 page)

As a human backup to the GPS, a team of Navy SEALs, decked in black scuba gear and oxygen tanks, swarmed outside the submarine. They swam with powerful underwater lights and underwater transmitters. These transmitters provided contact directly to the bridge of the freighter and the control room of the submarine.

If the ascent was off target, the SEALs could press a transmitter on their watches, which would alert the sub to implement an emergency dive through the water to avoid the collision.

That was the plan anyway.

"Eighty-five feet."

"Slow and easy, " Pete said. "Easy does it."

"Eighty feet."

Something felt wrong. The sub seemed to be ascending too fast.

"Seventy-five feet."

"Easy. Reduce the blow a bit." A lower air-rate blown into the ballast should slow things down.

"Seventy feet."

An alarm buzzer sounded on the control panel. One of the Navy SEALs swimming outside the submarine had pressed his emergency transmission button. The SEALs had spotted trouble in the ascent.

"Sound collision alarm!"

The alarm siren blared throughout the submarine. The siren started with a very low pitch and continued to a high shrill, then repeated itself.

"Collision alarm! Collision alarm! Rig ship for impact!" Alarms rang all over the ship. Like firemen rushing into action at the news of a blazing structure, men's feet trampled all over the steel grated decks, rushing to their stations for a collision.

"Execute emergency deep!" Pete's order rung over the 1MC, over the sound of the claxons, trampling feet, and ringing bells.

"Emergency deep. Aye, Captain."

"Sixty-five feet."

"Wrong way!" Pete snapped. "We're continuing to rise. Emergency deep! Flood ballast tanks! Now!"

"Sixty feet."

"Execute emergency deep! Now!" Pete slammed his fist against the railing in the control room. Like a fast-moving elevator, the boat kept rising. This was taking too long. Time was running out.

"Fifty-five feet."

"Emergency deep!" The chief-of-the-watch's voice rang throughout the ship over the 1MC.

"Ahead full!" Pete ordered. The cavitation bell rang three times, alerting the throttle man in the aft of the engine room to bring the ship to full power.

"Fifty feet!"

"Rig for impact!"

Water flooded the main ballast tanks. In an instant
Honolulu
's nose dipped dramatically. Clipboards, coffee mugs, and anything else not buckled down slung across the control room. The sub dropped, angled nose-first, like a cart on a roller coaster. Pete grabbed the mast in the center of the control room, hanging on and praying as his boat plunged to a depth of four hundred feet.

Incirlik Air Base
Adana, Turkey

Captain A. J. Riddle, United States Air Force, throttled the F-15E Eagle slightly forward, to the number one waiting position at the end of the three-thousand-meter runway.

Riddle had just reported for duty last week from Seymour Johnson AFB in North Carolina. His transfer to the U.S. Air Base at Incirlik, strategically located less than fifty miles from the aqua-blue waters of the Mediterranean and less than one hundred miles from the northeastern border of Syria, provided the best opportunity for aerial combat, he had figured.

Captain Riddle was itching for some action. He had expected to tangle with the Syrians or the Iranians. He had not expected this.

Riddle unrolled his navigational chart for a last glance at his flight plan.

This flight plan would take him on a northeasterly route, directly into Georgian airspace.

Georgia was a tiny border country. Barely one hundred miles of it separated the Turkish and Chechen borders -- the distance of a millisecond, or so it seemed to a supersonic jet fighter.

Riddle knew what loomed on the northern side of the Georgian border. Formidable Russian MiG-29 jets, all intent on defending what they considered their territory, filled the Chechen airspace. This would be like lighting a sparkler while pumping your gas.

A sparkle against a fume -- and
poof.

If the president wanted U.S. warplanes patrolling Georgian airspace, and if those orders included a "weapons free" to fire if fired upon, then so be it. Captain Riddle was trained to take on and defeat any fighter pilot from any air force in the world. But the Russians? The Cold War was supposed to be over. Wasn't it?

A. J. Riddle had supreme confidence in his abilities to engage and defeat a MiG-29. But if he shot one down, then what?

If he shot down an Iranian jet, what were the Iranians going to do about it? Invade San Francisco? Shoot down a Russian jet, and the problem was escalation. What if one of his Sidewinders ignited World War III?

From the ready position at the end of the runway, Riddle looked up. Another giant C-17 Loadstar from the States glided in for a landing. The 82nd Airborne Division was staging at Incirlik. Within the next few days, the division would be ferried by helicopter to points in northeastern Turkey.

"Eagle One. Incirlik Tower. You are clear for takeoff. Runway five-nine. Eagle One, you may proceed."

"Incirlik Tower. Eagle One, roger that."

Captain Riddle pushed full throttle. The Eagle's engines screamed, pushing him down the runway in a great roar, gathering tremendous speed. The F-15 rocketed skyward.

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.