"But of course. My ship is your ship."
"Then with your permission, I will round up my young individuals and get them on board. I am sure you are anxious to set sail, and apologize if we have held your ship up in any way."
"Please, bring your children aboard. And no apologies are necessary, Miss Katovich. Radimov here will assist you in finding your berthing spaces."
She smiled, nodded, stepped into the bus, then barked a command. A minute later, they emerged, like baby geese following their mother goose. One by one, in single file, holding a single linen bag with whatever possessions they owned, they marched up the gangplank and onto the deck.
Batsakov followed them up to the deck and ordered the gangplank removed.
It was time to sail.
The USS Honolulu The Straits of Sicily
10:40 a.m. local time
Pete and Frank had just finished their inspection of Torpedo One when the 1MC began blaring. "Alert one! Alert one! Incoming emergency action message! Alert one! Alert one! Incoming EAM!"
"Weps, report to your duty station!" Pete ordered the weapons officer. "XO? Come with me!"
"Aye, Captain."
They rushed back through the narrow passageways. Sailors wearing dark blue ball caps stepped back and shouted, "Make way! Make way for the captain!"
Pete stepped into the radio room. "Attention on deck!" the radio officer called.
"At ease, " Pete barked. "Where is it?"
"Here, sir."
Pete ripped the message from the radio officer's hands and spread it out on the table. Frank looked over Pete's shoulder.
EMERGENCY ACTION MESSAGE
FROM: NATIONAL MILITARY COMMAND CENTER – WASHINGTON, D.C.
TO: THE USS HONOLULU, THE USS CHARLOTTE
SUBJECT: ACTION MESSAGE REMARKS:
Russian weapons-grade nuclear fuel confirmed missing.
Russian freighter Alexander Popovich reportedly underway from Sochi 0700 hours Zulu time this day.
Russian high command apparently unaware of presence of fuel on board Alexander Popovich.
Russian forces amassing on Chechen border.
The USS Honolulu rendezvous with Russian freighter Volga River for execution of Operation Undercover.
Proceed through Bosphorus, then seek out and destroy Alexander Popovich in Black Sea.
The USS Charlotte establish patrol area Sea of Marmara. Stand by for updated coordinates and orders.
Set DEFCON 4 by order of National Command Authority.
Pete looked at Frank. "XO, All department heads report to the galley in thirty minutes for an officers meeting at" – he glanced at his watch – "ten hundred hours Zulu time."
"Aye, Captain." Frank picked up the microphone, switching to the 1MC. "Now hear this. This is the XO." Frank's voice echoed throughout the passageways of the submarine. "All officers report to the galley at ten hundred hours Zulu time. This is the XO."
"Give me that." Pete reached for the microphone. He flipped a switch opening a direct line to the control room. "Radio. Conn. This is the captain. Notify engineering. I need full power. Now! That is all." Pete slammed the microphone back in its holster. "May God protect our souls."
CHAPTER 8
The Alexander Popovich
Forty miles east of Sochi, Russia
12:45 p.m. local time
Captain Batsakov peered out through his binoculars, pretending to scan the deep blue horizon of the Black Sea. The key now would be finding this freighter.
At his current speed of 15 knots, or 17.3 miles per hour, it would take at least thirty hours for Alexander Popovich to reach the rendezvous in the western sector of the Black Sea. That, of course, meant that they would arrive in the rendezvous sector as the sun was setting, complicating matters even more.
Locating civilian freighters on the open seas was problematic. Not even the great navies of the world were efficient at tracking freighter traffic. Trying to find the Egyptian freighter in the dark would be next to impossible. So they would probably have to steam in circles and wait for the sun to come up, and hope that the freighter was in the area.
Of course, sunlight was not a problem at the moment. This fact was apparent in his binocular-assisted view provided of the lovely Masha, who was currently waving her hands like a traffic policeman down on the deck. How was she able to stand there so calmly, smiling while keeping track of those twelve little devils who were running around on the deck like monkeys released from a zoo?
"Kapitan?"
"Yes, what is it, Petrov?" Batsakov did not put aside his binoculars.
"The galley, sir. They wish to know if you would like some food brought to the bridge."
"Dah, dah." Batsakov waived his hand. "Vodka and a sandwich would be fine."
"Right away."
After a moment, another voice materialized over the captain's shoulder. "Stunning, isn't she?"
Batsakov dropped the glasses and locked eyes with his first officer, Joseph Radin. "Are they prettier than in our day, Joseph? Or do our old minds play tricks on us?" He handed the binoculars to the first officer, who took a grinning turn. "Or perhaps our luck is getting better on this voyage."
"You know, Kapitan, sometimes our old minds can cloud our better judgment." Radin set the binoculars on a ledge as a steward brought a silver tray with a bottle of vodka, two clear glasses, and an assortment of finger sandwiches.
"Spaceeba." Batsakov took the vodka. "That will be all." He nodded at the young mess steward, dismissing him. Then, taking a sip, he lowered his voice. "Do I hear a cautionary tone in your last comment, Joseph?"
The first officer put his hand on Batsakov's shoulder, lowering his voice as well. "Kapitan, you and I have sailed together for a long time. Dah?"
"Dah."
Radin nodded his head once down toward their beautiful visitor. "What if she is FSB?"
The suggestion was like a wet blanket. Batsakov felt his eyes widen. "I asked her. She denied it and laughed."
"Of course she denied it. But can we take this risk?"
The first officer's point was well taken. Batsakov filled Joseph Radin's glass.
Radin continued. "Even if she is not FSB, can we afford to have her witness the transfer of our cargo to the Egyptian freighter? Suppose someone asks her? Suppose she is interrogated by FSB? Or worse, what if she is FSB?"
"What are you saying, Joseph?"
Their eyes locked. "We cannot afford a slipup, Kapitan. This mission is worth more money than either of us have ever made in our lives. We all know, unfortunately, that accidents sometimes happen at sea."
Captain Batsakov let his eyes wander down to the deck again. "Perhaps you are right, friend. But what a waste. Let's keep an eye on her before making a final decision on this."
Their glasses clanked and they drank.
She had been sitting for no more than five minutes when she heard their excited voices.
"Masha! Masha!"
Masha Katovich removed her sunglasses and looked up from her deck chair. Two skinny blonde boys, their ribcages visible as they panted excitedly, stood over her. They made excited gestures with their hands.
"Anatoly, Sasha, what is it? I'm trying to catch a nap."
"Masha! Masha!" Their voices ran together. They pointed to something out over the side of the ship. "Get up and come look!"
A gust of cool breeze refreshened her face. "Why not?"
She dropped her novel on the deck, then pushed herself up. The children stood near the side of the ship. "Get back away from the railing!" she shouted. They ignored her, and instead laughed and pointed out to the sea.
"Dolphins!" Ten-year-old Natalia smiled from ear to ear.
A hundred yards or so off to the side, fifteen or twenty bulb-nosed dolphins danced and played in the water. The chorus of laughter and chattering from the children warmed Masha's heart.
But the cold hand on her shoulder from behind startled her.
"Miss Katovich." A bearded deckhand, smiling with two missing front teeth, was standing so close to her that she could smell the liquor on his breath."You like dolphins?"