Another moment passed. A string of three channel tugs were chugging in a line out of the mouth of the Bosphorus. Off to the side was a Turkish Navy patrol boat headed in the direction of the Al Alamein.
"Kapitan." The radio operator was over on the right side of the bridge, with a telephone cradled under his neck. He was waving his hand in the air, making agitated gestures.
"What is it?" Sadir asked.
"It is the Turks." He was out of breath. "They are boarding ships entering the Bosphorus. They wish to board the Al Alamein."
CHAPTER 11
The Alexander Popovich
The Black Sea
Bring her alongside, " Captain Batsakov ordered from the bridge. "Steady as she goes."
Alexander Popovich inched up behind the stern of the Egyptian freighter. The inscription identifying the ship was painted across the black stern in white Arabic lettering. But the flag, now in full view as it furled and unfurled in the Black Sea breeze, was clearly Egyptian.
The seas were calm. Good. The last thing Batsakov needed was for rolling swells to pitch his five-million-dollar prize overboard during the transfer to the Egyptian.
"Steer five degrees port."
"Five degrees port, aye, Captain."
The helmsman turned the ship's massive wooden wheel an eighth of a rotation to the left. Alexander Popovich angled slightly to the left, giving the slow-moving Russian freighter plenty of time and maneuvering room to avoid ramming the Egyptian freighter from the rear.
"Perhaps their radio isn't working, " Joseph Radin, the Popovich's first officer, said.
Dark-skinned sailors could now be seen milling about on the deck of the Egyptian freighter. Some waved at the Russian freighter.
"Call them again, " Batsakov said.
"Peter the Great! Peter the Great!" Joseph Radin barked into the radio.
Still nothing.
Then static.
Then a burst into the Popovich's radio from the Egyptian. "Engines down!"
Batsakov slung a full glass of vodka across the bridge. Shattering glass was followed by a string of profanity. "We should've known better. We aren't even close to the coordinates Abramakov gave us. We have wasted valuable time!"
"Kapitan, I urge you, remain calm, " Joseph said. "We are but two hours off schedule. We had to investigate. They were Egyptian. It appeared that they had come looking for us."
Batsakov grabbed the open bottle of vodka on the charting table. He brought the bottle to his lips, turning it bottoms up.
"We will sail to the original rendezvous area, Yuri Mikalvich, " Joseph said. "You will lead us there, my kapitan. We will deliver our cargo. Then we will be rich men!"
Batsakov was unsure if the hot vodka was mollifying his anger or fueling it.
"Think about it, Yuri Mikalvich, " the first officer said, patting him on the back. "Two-and-a-half million American dollars in your pocket!" A greedy tone permeated Joseph's voice. "A full million for me and the crew divides the rest! Our lives will never be the same at the end of this voyage, Kapitan."
Batsakov finished the vodka. His first officer was right. Their lives would never be the same. This was no time for temper tantrums. He had to focus. A fortune was on the line. He was a good sea captain. He would find this freighter, deliver the cargo, eliminate the Masha Katovich problem, and drop these bratty orphans off in Ukraine to satisfy the politicians. Then he would sail the Alexander Popovich to the Bahamas, where he would collect his fortune and wait for another assignment. Or perhaps collect his fortune and simply retire.
Batsakov's eyes met his first officer's. "You are right, Joseph. Let us go find the Egyptian!"
"To the Egyptian!" Now Joseph was raising his own glass of vodka. Batsakov held up his bottle and clanked it against Joseph's glass.
"To the Egyptian!" Batsakov repeated the comment, pretending to drink from his now-empty bottle.
"Allah would be pleased!" The first officer laughed, swilling his own vodka.
That comment ignited a volvanic guffaw from within Batsakov's belly, bending him over double. "Yes, Allah would be pleased, " he said, cackling at the notion. The captain regained his composure, stood erect, and issued his next order.
"Resume course two-seven-zero. All engines ahead full!"
The Al Alamein
The Sea of Marmara
Captain Hosni Sadir watched the armed boarding party from the Turkish Navy walk across the main deck of his ship for what seemed like the hundredth time.
The Turks were an inexplicable oddity, Sadir thought. They were 98 percent Muslim. But since the 1940s, they had been allied with the Americans. Many Arab Muslims could not understand this unholy alliance.
But his Muslim brothers in Chechnya understood it.
Fear of the bloodthirsty Russians drove this alliance. The more than a quarter of a million Chechen martyrs who had gone to paradise since 1994 would approve of their Turkish Muslim brothers doing whatever was necessary to halt the expansion of Russia, even if that meant sleeping with the infidel Americans.
Sadir watched as the party, consisting of two officers and three Turkish marines, looked in crates, opened hatches, and poked around in areas where there was nothing significant. It would take weeks for such a small group to search every inch of this ship, and if they stopped every ship trying to get through the Bosphorus, they would effectively shut down one of the world's busiest shipping arteries. The economic superpowers would not let that happen.
As long as the Turks did not go below and discover the lead-walled laboratory and the silver radioactive suits waiting for Salman Dudayev's team, he had no worries. And even if they did, he still had no worries. This was Allah's mission, and he was Allah's servant.
One of the inspectors approached. "I am Lieutenant Baghadur of the Turkish Navy. Our party has completed its inspection. You are free to pass, Captain."
"A pleasure having you on board the Al Alamein." Captain Sadir accepted the Turk's salute, then watched the boarding party climb down the ladders into their patrol boats. When they were safely away at a distance of two hundred yards, he headed down the main deck to the ladder leading back up into the bridge. Thirty minutes later, Al Alamein passed north, steaming at eight knots under the first bridge spanning the Bosphorus.
The USS Honolulu The Aegean Sea
The officer of the deck, Lieutenant Darwin McCaffity, had just completed a final sweep on the scope. It confirmed a dark image of the freighter's hull against the lighter water through the periscope head window. A quick check of the side-scan sonar to confirm the ship's position showed all was ready.
"Captain, the ship is ready to vertically surface." McCaffity's voice came from just a few feet away in the dimly lit control room.
"Very well, Mr. McCaffity, " Pete said. He stood in the center of the darkened control room, watching the ship's control party maintain the seven-thousand-ton submarine completely motionless at 160 feet under the surface of the Aegean Sea.
"Commence ascent."
"Aye, sir, commence ascent."
Good plans were often as good as the paper they were written on, Pete thought, as his crew began blowing air into his sub's ballast tanks to raise her up toward the giant freighter floating just above them.
Good plans often got people killed. Especially during military operations.
Commander Pete Miranda knew of good plans gone awry. He'd attended a dozen military funerals over the years. Most involved accidents from high-risk plans that had never been tried before.
Pete wiped sweat from his forehead as his chief of the boat, Master Chief Jack Sideman, called out changes in the submarine's depth during its ascent. Sideman was serving as the Honolulu's diving officer.
"Passing one hundred feet, Captain.
"Passing ninety-five.
"Passing ninety feet."
Honolulu was executing a stealth procedure never tried or even practiced by another submarine in the history of naval warfare. This was a potential recipe for disaster.