Manilov wondered if he was hearing correctly. Was it the vodka? It couldn’t be real.
There was more. Instead of turning over the Mourmetz’s weaponry to the Iranians, would he be interested in fulfilling his nineteen-year dream? Would he, perhaps, be interested in sinking an American warship?
Manilov felt his skin prickle.
The man — he identified himself only as Hakim — suggested that they meet again the next day. In the closed booth of a hotel restaurant, Hakim gave Manilov a glimpse of his briefcase. It contained what appeared to be millions of stacked Swiss francs. Manilov, if he accepted the terms, could live the rest of his life in unimaginable luxury.
“It is too incredible,” Manilov murmured. “Who wants this to happen? He must be insane.”
Hakim shook his head. “His name does not matter for now. He is not insane. He is a military leader who will change the balance of power in the Middle East.”
“By sinking one American warship?”
“It will be just one blow in a coordinated battle.”
It was too much for Manilov to comprehend. For the moment he had no more questions. He gazed out at the dreary shipyard and its ghost fleet. He let his imagination run, thinking of a life away from this miserable place.
After a minute had passed, Hakim said, “You have had time to consider. You must decide. Do you agree to what we discussed or not?”
For the first time Manilov noticed an edge to the man’s voice. Gone was the breezy vodka talk, the affable business manner. The man’s eyes had darkened, and his voice was clipped. Manilov understood that they had crossed a point of no return. He knew almost nothing, but even that was too much. Without realizing it, he had allowed himself to be drawn into a minefield.
Hakim’s eyes bored into him. Manilov ignored him, thinking about his situation. Life as he knew it was over. He was childless, with a plump and indifferent wife who lived with her parents in Minsk, in Belarus. He had nothing of value in Russia. But at the depth of his being, Manilov knew he would forever be a Russian. Russians were dreamers. Woven indelibly into the Russian psyche was a gloomy belief in mysticism, fate, and an inescapable destiny.
Through the grimy window Manilov looked out at the sprawling remnants of Russia’s once-proud Navy. Yes, he thought. Some things were meant to be. He was a Russian dreamer. He believed in destiny.
“I agree.”
Hakim smiled. The men raised their vodka glasses in a toast. You have made a pact with the devil, Manilov thought. So be it. So long as the devil wanted to sink American ships.
Thereafter, his task was to select his crew. He would sail with only eight trusted officers instead of the usual fourteen. He handpicked a dozen warrants, all known to him and chosen for their loyalty. Only the officers were told of the Mourmetz’s true mission and, as Manilov anticipated, each had agreed. The warrants were not informed until after the Mourmetz departed Vladivostok. Only one, a torpedoman named Kalugin, had flatly refused to cooperate, even when informed about his share of the reward. Kalugin was placed under arrest and confined to the ship’s dispensary.
Six enlisted sailors embarked on the Mourmetz, all recruits still in their teens or early twenties. They were wide-eyed and respectful. Manilov expected no trouble from them.
Captain Manilov would go to sea with half his normal crew complement for a combat patrol. What they lacked in manpower they would make up for in tactical surprise.
The Ilia Mourmetz completed its voyage to the Gulf of Aden in ten days.
“Am I interrupting?” said Claire.
Maxwell looked up from his seat at the wardroom table. She was wearing her working outfit — a blue jumpsuit with the silk scarf that he had given her in Dubai.
He scrambled to his feet and pulled out a chair. “No, ma’am. I’ve been waiting for you.”
Claire sat next to him and squeezed his hand. A half dozen officers sat at tables in the wardroom. A white-coated steward shuttled trays of coffee. The gentle motion of the deck beneath was the only clue that the Reagan was under way.
She nodded across the wardroom to where Whitney Babcock was holding court with several reporters. She lowered her voice. “The honorable Mr. Babcock is a media hound. He really expects that we will make him out to be the grand pooh-bah of military affairs in the Middle East.”
“Well, won’t you?”
“I’m a good reporter, but not that good.”
Maxwell nodded. He still hadn’t adjusted to the notion of having the girl he was in love with being aboard his ship — headed to war. The world had changed. So had the Navy.
He felt another pair of eyes on them. Then he remembered B. J. Johnson, seated at the end of his table. She was watching them with a strange look on her face. “Excuse me,” Maxwell said. “Claire Phillips, meet Lieutenant Johnson. Call sign B.J.”
As the women shook hands, Maxwell detected an instant coolness. Claire put on a polite smile. B.J.’s face was frozen in a tight mask.
Claire tried to coax B.J. to talk about what it was like to be the only woman pilot in a squadron. B.J. wasn’t having any of it. She replied in terse, wooden answers. Yes, she liked flying fighters. No, she didn’t care if she was the only woman pilot. Yes, she was doing fine, thank you. And so on.
Maxwell watched the exchange with curiosity. He wondered what had come over B.J. Until Claire arrived she had been carrying on an animated discussion about the history and topography of Yemen. In the ship’s library she had mined every bit of reading material and turned herself into an expert on the ancient country. He decided that B. J. Johnson was the one to give the in-country brief on Yemen to his squadron.
B.J. was now as talkative as a clam.
Claire had an idea. “B.J., would you consider doing a taped interview for the evening report?” She glanced at Maxwell. “With your commanding officer’s approval, that is?”
“No,” said B.J.
“But you’d be perfect. You’re so… you’re unique. Our viewers would love—”
“No interview.” B.J. folded her arms across her chest.
Claire looked to Maxwell for help.
He shrugged. “I think she means no.”
“What a shame,” said Claire. “It would be a great human-interest piece.”
A silence fell over the table. B.J. seemed to be focused on a spot on the far bulkhead. Claire drummed her fingers on the table, saying nothing. Maxwell tried to think of something cheery. He couldn’t, so he summoned the steward to bring them more coffee.
Women. He had never understood them. Never would.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Secretary, you can count on it.”
Whitney Babcock hung up the secure phone and tilted back in his chair. Before he went back into the conference room to inform the officers about his conversation with the Secretary of Defense, he wanted to indulge himself.
He gazed again at his image in the mirror over the desk. He was wearing his favorite shipboard outfit — starched khakis, aviator glasses, collar worn open in the MacArthur style. He tilted his chin and struck another pose. Yes, in fact, he definitely looked like a young MacArthur, with that flint-eyed, aristocratic gaze, the keenly intelligent eyes. It was a face that would grace an upcoming cover of Time. The caption, he expected, would read something like Whitney Babcock: Warrior-Statesman.