Black Sea Affair (4 page)

Admiral Getman laid the stogie in an ashtray. "I believe you, Pete. My problem now is that AIRPAC demands I formally reprimand you for violating the rules of engagement."

"Reprimand me? Sir, that would end my career as a naval officer."

"Don't worry, Pete. As much as it might actually
help
your reputation in the sub community if I reprimanded you for chapping a carrier's backside in a war game, I'd only do so if PACCOM or somebody higher up the chain tells me to. I don't think that'll happen." Getman was now chomping on the cigar, which had gone out. "I am, however, going to ask that you consider
voluntarily
stepping down as commanding officer of the
Chicago
."

Pete's stomach sank. "Relinquish my command? Sir, I'd rather you reprimand me."

"Pete, I'm not
telling
you to step down from command of
Chicago.
But we've got something else in mind. It's a mission calling for volunteers. It's highly dangerous, and you're the only sub driver in the Navy that could pull this off. If you say no, that's fine. You can finish your tour as skipper of
Chicago
and your career will not be affected.

"The objective for this mission has been signed off on by the president, but even he doesn't know how we're planning to try and carry out his order. Not yet anyway. If you say no, no one will ever know about this mission, and especially not any future promotion boards when you're up for captain."

Pete sat for a moment. "Sir, I'll do anything my country needs me to do, and anything for the Navy. Whatever it is, I'm in."

Getman smiled. Finally. "Pete, you've got two kids back in Virginia. Why don't you let us brief you on this mission first?" He nodded to Captain Gaylord. "Rockie?"

"Yes, sir, Admiral." Captain Gaylord stood and unrolled a poster-sized color photograph of an ocean-going freighter. Pete noticed that the freighter in the picture was flying a Russian flag off its stern."This, Commander, " Gaylord began, "is the Russian freighter
Alexander Pop-ovich.
I'm showing you this photo because this freighter, and a number of others like it, is becoming an increasing threat to Western security."

"Maritime terrorism threat?" Pete asked.

"Not only a threat, but this particular freighter now has a track record of selling out to terrorists."

"How's that, sir?"

"U.S. intelligence has shown that the skipper of this vessel, a Russian national, has taken a ton of money from the Islamic terrorist organization, the Council of Ishmael, to use his ship for the furtherance of terrorist activities.

"The Russian captain has Caribbean bank accounts where he's parked this money. Most recently, this ship was used to transport a kidnapped hostage through the high seas, where she was eventually transported to a terrorist camp in the Gobi Desert in Mongolia. Remember the name Jeanette L'Enfant?"

Pete raised his eyebrow. The name sounded familiar. "Wasn't she the one who was held hostage with Lieutenant Commander Colcernian?"

"Bingo. One and the same. And we've just tracked another sizable deposit from the Council of Ishmael to this skipper's Caribbean account. Our intelligence believes this is another down payment for a job they're asking him to do. We don't know what, where, or why. But there's no telling what else this skipper might try unless he's stopped."

Pete mulled that for a second. "What can I do to help?"

"The president wants to sink that freighter. He wants him put out of the game permanently."

"That shouldn't be a problem, " Pete said. "It's just a freighter. An unarmed freighter against a sub -- no contest. Nazi U-boats proved that with their attacks on allied commercial shipping in World War II."

"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.