"Make my depth one-five-zero feet! Aye, sir!" the diving officer repeated, then said, "Chief of the watch. On the 1MC!" The diving officer's order opened up every loudspeaker on the sub for every crew member to hear the next commands.
"Dive!"
"Dive!"
"Dive!"
Over flashing lights and warning alarms, the words that electrified the soul of every submariner – dive, dive, dive – echoed throughout the ship.
"Make your depth one-five-zero feet, " the diving officer told the planesman, the petty officer in the blue jumpsuit who sat at the control of the submarine. "Five degrees down bubble."
Sweat beaded on the planesman's forehead. He pushed the steering wheel down ever so slightly.
Honolulu's nose angled down under the surface. Her ballasts began flooding with salt water. Geysers of water shot into the air from the forward section of the sub as rushing water gushed into the forward ballasts.
She continued angling down, down under the surface. Time was of the essence. Pete had to get Honolulu on station, in a position to perform this mission if President Williams ordered it.
"Approaching one-five-zero feet, " the diving officer said.
"Very well, " Pete said. "Set course for one-three-five degrees. All ahead two-thirds."
"One-three-five degrees, " the OOD parroted – Honolulu was on a course due southeast. "All ahead two-thirds."
"Maneuvering. Conn. All ahead two-thirds."
"Conn. Maneuvering. All ahead two-thirds."
Honolulu's engines revved. She sliced through the depths, a silent hunter-killer on a life-or-death mission.
The Alexander Popovich Sochi, Russia
9:00 a.m. local time
Captain Batsakov checked his watch. From the bridge of Alexander Popovich, he looked over at the concrete pier and cursed. The unexpected and unwelcome visitors from FSB had delayed his sailing for twenty-four hours. The holdup was that group of kids from the blasted orphanage.
Politicians.
They were all the same.
They all had their agendas, strutting about like proud peacocks with their chests puffed out and their thumbs hooked under their suspenders. These bloodsuckers would cost him millions if he did not untie his ship from the concrete pier and find that Egyptian freighter. Not to mention loss of possible future business. The blasted Islamic terrorists had more American money than the Americans themselves.
He was tempted to thumb his nose at the FSB and sail without the little terrors if they didn't show up soon. But if he did that, the authorities could send a Russian submarine to sink him, if they could find one in the Black Sea fleet that was still seaworthy. Even in the best-case scenario, he would never be able to sail into a Russian port again.
Batsakov cursed.
The problem, it seemed, was that the orphans had gone on a camping trip up in the Caucasus Mountains and had not returned in time to travel yesterday.
The phone rang on the bridge.
"For you, Kapitan, " one of the bridge hands said. "It is the pierside telephone."
Batsakov reached for the phone. "Dah!"
"Kapitan Batsakov?"
"Dah."
"This is Radimov at the pier shack."
"What is it, Radimov? I am busy."
"My apologies, Kapitan. It is the children. They are here."
Finally. Batsakov checked his watch again. If he could get them boarded in the next thirty minutes…
"You are sure they are all here, Radimov?"
"They rolled up in an old bus, Kapitan. They are all hanging out the windows like monkeys."
"I'll be right down." Batsakov cursed again, then slammed down the phone.
Quiet! Quiet children!" Twenty-five-year-old Masha Katovich stood at the front of the bus, barking instructions at the group of twelve orphans who were crawling all over themselves, giggling and talking and pointing at the object outside the right side of the dirty old bus.
That object was a large black ship, a freighter, to be precise. She understood their exhilaration. She too became excited when they told her that the group that she had been chaperoning here in Sochi would sail home to Ukraine on board a ship!
She had never even seen a ship. Neither had the children. And now they were here, exhilarated, and she had to get them under control.
"Children! Quiet!"
Nothing.
"Children. No quiet, no ship ride!" Their volume decreased. "No quiet, no ship ride!"
This tactic worked. She could hear herself think. Twenty-four sparkling eyes latched upon her.
"Stay here with the driver and remain quiet. I am going to meet the people from the ship, and then we will go on board!"
Cheering followed that announcement. Masha shook her head. "Don't let anyone out, " she ordered the driver, who nodded his head asshe stepped out of the bus.
Captain Batsakov's skull was about to explode.
He would get his ship off the pier, if he had to go horsewhip the little devils up onto the deck. And if the FSB tried to board, he would take them out to sea, shoot them in the back of the head, throw them to the sharks, and tell the authorities that they fell overboard when they had overdone it on vodka.
He checked his watch, snorted, and stormed across the deck to the gangway. From there, he looked down and saw the white bus that Radimov was talking about. In fact, he saw Radimov milling about down in front of the bus. Why wasn't he herding the blasted urchins out?
Batsakov bounded down the gangway. He reached the concrete pier, accepted and returned a sloppy salute from the half-drunk sailor at the bottom, and met eyes with Radimov, who still stood in front of the parked bus.
"Radimov! Get these… these…" He held his hands in the air, searching for something more diplomatic to call them than devils. "These young individuals off the bus!"
A young woman stepped around the front of the bus. Her black curly hair bounced on her shoulders. Her slim waistline complemented casual jeans and an unkempt green shirt. She smiled.
"These young individuals, as you call them, are mine." Her blue eyes blinked at him. "And who, may I ask, are you?"
He was about to announce "I am the captain of this ship" when a sporty-looking black Volga 3111 automobile pulled toward them. Bat-sakov winced at the faces of the two FSB agents who had invited themselves on board his ship less than forty-eight hours ago and announced that he would be forced to host a floating kindergarten.
The two FSB agents, in black suits and black sunglasses, stepped out.
"Ah, Kapitan, " said the first one, whose name Batsakov remembered as Federov. "I see you and Miss Katovich are becoming acquainted." The agents walked toward the captain and the woman.
"We were getting off to a good start." The young woman locked her eyes on Batsakov again. "I'm Masha Katovich. I work for the relief organization that sponsors summer trips for these orphans." She extended her hand, as if expecting him to kiss it.
He obliged. "You aren't FSB like your friends here?" That brought laughter from her, but no reaction from the stone-faced agents.
She flicked her head toward them. "I envy their salaries and their car. I am but a mere social worker, Kapitan."
"I wouldn't describe you as a mere anything, my dear." She had mollified his anger about the late sailing, he realized. "I shall gladly transport your orphans to wherever you wish to sail."
"Kapitan, " spoke the second one, whose name he had forgotten in the immediate glow of Masha Katovich. "Unfortunately, my colleague and I cannot sail with you. Developments in Chechnya have us occupied. You will be met by other FSB agents at the pier in Odessa. They will come onboard and bring the children off. There will be no need for you to disembark. If you choose to disembark, wait until after the ceremonies at the dockside. Meantime, Miss Katovich will assist you during the course of your journey."
"Miss Katovich is coming with us?"
"If that is okay with you, Kapitan." She smiled at him.