And now… this.
The closing of these great ports-of-call was disturbing to him. Was the Navy losing its significance around the world? Which begged the question, was he losing his own? After all, the Navy was in him, wasn't it?
That thought led him often to the thought of retirement. But his love of the Navy, his love of the sea, his love for submarines would not let him retire. Not yet, anyway. Not voluntarily.
Somewhere, it was still out there. He knew it in his gut. The mission that would define his significance as a naval officer. This was why he couldn't retire. Not yet. The mission that would define his legacy might cost him his life. So be it. He would face the mission bravely, and perform it to the best of his abilities.
Pete looked over to his left. The chief petty officer in the driver's seat pulled the Alfa Romeo into a parking space. Across the street a Los Angeles – class submarine was moored alongside the pier. A group of naval officers and enlisted men milled about on the pier.
"Let me check on things, Skipper, " the chief said. "I'll come get you just as soon as the crew is ready."
"Sure thing, Chief." Pete puffed his stogie as the chief got out of the car.
The chief returned from across the street and opened the passenger door of the Alfa Romeo.
"Ready, Chief?"
"Aye, aye, Skipper."
"Very well, " Pete said. "Let's do it."
Pete stepped out of the car, crossed the street to the end of the pier where the submarine was moored to his right. A crew of one hundred officers and enlisted men were lined on the pier in four rows to his left.
"Attention on deck!" a lieutenant commander called from atop the aluminum platform erected just in front of the four rows of men.
The crew came to sharp attention as Pete, followed by the chief, stepped up four aluminum steps and joined the lieutenant commander on the platform. He dropped the stogie on the platform and stamped it out.
"Afternoon, Frank, " Pete said to the lieutenant commander, accepting and returning the salute of his new executive officer.
"Afternoon, sir." The executive officer sharply held his salute. "Sir, I present to you the officers and crew of the USS Honolulu."
"Very well." Pete dropped his salute, and the XO crisply followed. Pete stepped to the podium, turned, and faced the brand-new crew.
"Gentlemen, at ease!"
Pete looked out and saw one hundred of the Navy's finest kick from strict attention to parade rest. Beyond them in the background, the adjoining concrete piers were empty of ships and empty of men. Other than circling seagulls, not another soul, beyond Pete and these men, was anywhere within earshot. The Navy had cordoned off a five-hundred-yard guarded perimeter around the ship to maintain secrecy.
"Good afternoon, gentlemen. I'm Commander Pete Miranda. Up until one hour ago, I was commanding officer of the USS Chicago.
"Some of you I know. Many of you I don't. Here's what I know about all of you. You have been in the Navy at least twenty years. You're all within one year of retirement or have retired within the last year.
"You've all volunteered for this mission. And although a hundred others also volunteered, you were screened, selected, and flown here because your records as submariners are exemplary. And you've all been apprised of the danger in what we may be called on to do.
"I want you to take this moment to look at the man on each side of you."
Men looked to their left and their right.
"If the president of the United States gives the order that is being contemplated in Washington even as we speak, there's a better than even chance, that thirty days from now, either you, or the man next to you, or both of you… will be dead."
Pete's words reverberated off the concrete pier.
Wind whipped off the water, and the chorus of wheeling gulls provided the only background to the moment of icy silence.
"You may, even at this hour, gentlemen, step away from this mission. And if you step away, there will be no shame, no disgrace, and your naval personnel records, which will never confirm your participation in this mission should you go, will in no way be adversely affected.
"Not that your naval records mean a heck of a difference at this point, since most of you – like me – are old geezers in the Navy and about to go to the beach permanently anyway."
That comment brought a few chuckles, a brief respite to the deadly seriousness of the moment.
"In a moment, I will give you an opportunity to step away from this with honor. But before I do that, you deserve to know what you're getting into.
"Just over forty-eight hours ago, a sizable amount of weapons-grade plutonium-239 was stolen by terrorists in the Caucasus Mountains of Russia."
That comment brought murmuring and looks of grave concern in many of the men's faces.
"The Russians, who haven't publicly acknowledged the problem, think the plutonium was captured and has been transported east to Chechnya. They've mobilized their army, and they appear prepared to wipe Chechnya off the face of the earth to try and find the plutonium.
"We, on the other hand, believe the plutonium has been smuggled to the Russian city of Sochi, on the Black Sea, where it has been stored on a rogue Russian freighter with terrorist ties. We believe that freighter may be about to sail, and if she does, the president may call upon us to slip into the Black Sea, through the Bosphorus, submerged, and sink her."
More murmuring.
"It is imperative, for the national security of the United States, that this mission remain top secret. There will be no glory, no triumphant victory parade, no public honor for what you are about to do.
"As you know, United States relations with Russia and most of the Islamic states have soured since two Islamic terrorists posing as U.S. Navy pilots attacked the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem. So the Russians have cozied up with the Islamic states in the Persian Gulf. They have not been able, ironically, to deal with radical Islamic elements in their own backyard in Chechnya.
"By sinking this freighter, if we are able to get that far, we will in fact be doing the Russians a favor. Remember, that plutonium could just as well be used in a bomb against a Russian city as an American city, since the Chechens hate the Russians so much. Or, the plutonium could be split up and used in multiple bombs to advance the cause of Islam against both American and Russian citizens.
"Therefore if called on, we must" – Pete chopped his hand in the air. The eyes of each man froze on him – "I repeat we must, find her and sink her before she gets out of the Black Sea. If we fail in our mission, we will have failed America. We will have failed millions who will never know that we are here… millions of innocent men, women, and children… who if not incinerated by a nuclear blast, would be subjected to the indiscriminate path of burns, blindness, boils, and cancer from flash, heat, and radioactive fallout."
The gong of ship's bells filled the silent void.
"Gentlemen, to underscore the gravity of this situation, our intelligence believes that enough weapons-grade plutonium is missing to build a bomb ten times as powerful as the bomb that fell on Hiroshima.
"I said a moment ago that we will be doing the Russians a favor by sinking the freighter. But the Russians, in their ignorance, won't even realize we are doing them a favor. All Russia will know is that we've sunk a freighter flying their flag.
"Ordinarily, an attack on a civilian freighter of one nation by the naval vessel of another nation is an act of war. That's the way the Russians will see it if we are discovered. And that's why the Russians must never know what hit this freighter."
He eyed every man before him.