And then, on the far left, a step forward.
Two steps forward in the left center.
At the right end, and right center, the clicking steps of leather soles echoed against the concrete.
Wind whipped into the American flag at the end of the pier, energizing it with a fury. Then the Italian flag flying beside it came to life. Perhaps even the wind recognized that Old Glory was still the leader of the world.
They stepped forward, one by one, in the front and back lines. And when the wind had subsided, the movement of the four human lines was finished.
Every single man, now standing at crisp attention, had stepped forward.
Pete struggled for his words, but choked on the lump welling in his throat. He gripped the podium, squeezing it. A sub commander must not show tears to his crew.
"Never have I witnessed such bravery as is displayed in the sight before me." He inhaled deeply, then exhaled. "I thank each one of you for what you have done."
"Thank you, Skipper!" one of them shouted.
"We're with you to the end, sir, " another called.
He held his hands out, palms down, signaling that no more public comments were necessary.
"We'll get underway at sixteen hundred hours. That's two hours before sundown, gentlemen. Our orders are to sail, to submerge, and then to await orders from the president."
Each man stood at attention, eyes forward.
"Any questions?"
There were none.
"You are dismissed."
The White House
11:00 a.m. local time
Douglas MacArthur Williams, having been raised at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, and named for one of the greatest generals in American history, was the son of a career Army officer.
From the anteroom just beside the Oval Office, that same Douglas MacArthur Williams, now president of the United States, let memories of his father wash across his mind.
The lifelong dream of Colonel Manchester Elliot Williams was to see his son follow three generations of Williams men in the long grey line at West Point. The old tank driver had called his boy "Douglas" since his early days to remind both father and son of the great general who had proclaimed that "in war there is no substitute for victory, that if you lose, the Nation will be destroyed."
The old man's dream would not be realized. Mack attended the University of Kansas, where he had gone to law school, and then took a commission in the U.S. Navy as a JAG officer.
This Navy compromise seemed to assuage the colonel's disappointment in Mack's shirking West Point and the Army. The colonel did, at least, drive from Leavenworth to Lawrence to watch "Douglas" sworn in as an ensign, United States Naval Reserve.
Still, Mack never saw the pride return to the old man's eyes until that cold Tuesday in January, three years ago.
The old warrior donned his Army dress uniform and stood just ten feet away on the inaugural platform at the Capitol overlooking the National Mall, as his son was sworn in as commander-in-chief of the Army that the colonel loved so much.
"Son." There had been a pause as the two locked eyes. "I'm proud of you." And the old officer, standing on the sidewalk in front of the United States Capitol, did what officers do in the presence of their commander-in-chief. Colonel Manchester Elliot Williams stood as erect as any boot camp recruit, and with as sharp a precision as his eighty-two years could muster, shot the smartest, crispest salute that the young president would ever see.
Three weeks later, in the family's living room in Fort Leavenworth, Colonel Williams' cold body was found faceup in the middle of the floor. His eyes were open, his face frozen in a beatific smile, and in his hand they found a small green New Testament published by the Gideons. Inside the New Testament, at the third chapter of Romans, a wallet-sized photo of Ensign Douglas MacArthur Williams, JAGC, USNR, served as the old man's bookmark.
Three days later, across the river from the Lincoln Memorial, they buried the old warrior in the frosty ground of Arlington National Cemetery with full military honors. The president, who had never known his father to crack open a Bible, prayed that the colonel's eyes had finally been opened to the truth. By presidential directive, both the Bible and the photograph were buried with the old soldier.
Three sharp rifle volleys were followed by the slow, melodic rendition of taps. His father's resting place joined the graves of thousands and thousands of others, all marked by white crosses.
That day, over protests by the Secret Ser vice, the president had insisted on taking a solitary stroll among the grave markers. The names all blurred together now, but the places… the places still stood in his mind. The markers did not always reveal where they had died, but the president knew the places well.
Verdun. North Africa. Sicily. Belgium. Normandy. The Solomon Islands. The Phillippines. Inchon. Vietnam. Grenada. Panama. Afghanistan. Iraq.
At least these men died with honor, recognized by their country, and were buried on hallowed ground where hundreds of thousands would pay tribute to their immortal sacrifices.
But now, the men that he was about to send on this dangerous mission would never be so honored. Their mission would be unknown outside of a small circle of Americans with a need to know. And if they died, which they probably would, their bodies would never be honored as his father's had. They would be swallowed forever in the black abyss of the sea.
Death was a risk every American sailor understood.
But how could he explain this to their families? At least he knew where his father was buried.
But what of the children of the officers and crew of USS Honolulu?
Would they wonder all their lives what happened to their fathers? To disappear on a clandestine mission. To be lost at sea and never seen again. To have no answers for them. To have no tombstone in a national cemetery on which to rest their hands.
Perhaps diplomacy could solve this impasse. Perhaps the secretary of state was right.
What would Colonel Williams say?
Never had the commander-in-chief felt so alone.
The Al Alamein
Entrance to the Aegean Sea
4 p.m. local time
Over the sea to the east, pillars of gray clouds danced on black streaks of rain. To the west, toward the jagged Greek coastline, the sun had started its downward trek, bathing the great ship in a luminescent orangish hue. But with the wind blowing hard across the flybridge from the east, Salman Dudayev did not have to be a man of the sea to know that soon the massive ship would sail through a torrential downpour.
"The islands are beautiful, aren't they?" Salman directed this question to the captain of the Al Alamein.
"Ever seen the Greek Isles before?" Captain Hosni Sadir asked.
"In photographs." Salman removed his sunglasses. "This is my first time at sea."
"The Island of Kalymnos is twenty-five miles to our east. To our north, twenty-five miles off our bow, is the Island of Patmos."
"Ah… the home of the apostate renegade, John, " Salman said.
"The author of that infidel propaganda they call Revelation."
Wind gusted hard across the bow. The freighter rolled from the pitching seas.
"We will pass Patmos in an hour." Sadir cupped his hand around a fresh cigarette and fired up a Zippo lighter.
Salman ignored the comment. "How far to the Bosphorus from here?"
The captain cursed when the wind blew out the tip of his cigarette. He fired up the lighter again, sucked in, and caught a burning ember at the end of the cigarette. "A little more than a day."
Wind whipped harder across the spacious open deck. Whitecaps rushed alongside the ship. Her bow plowed into the swells. The captain turned to Salman. "So what's in this for you?"
Rage welled within Salman. "The Russians stormed my house. They were looking for me. They raped my wife and daughter, then murdered them with their bloody bayonettes. When I reached them, the murderous Russians were gone." His lips froze. He squinted in the wind.