If the president wanted U.S. warplanes patrolling Georgian airspace, and if those orders included a "weapons free" to fire if fired upon, then so be it. Captain Riddle was trained to take on and defeat any fighter pilot from any air force in the world. But the Russians? The Cold War was supposed to be over. Wasn't it?
A. J. Riddle had supreme confidence in his abilities to engage and defeat a MiG-29. But if he shot one down, then what?
If he shot down an Iranian jet, what were the Iranians going to do about it? Invade San Francisco? Shoot down a Russian jet, and the problem was escalation. What if one of his Sidewinders ignited World War III?
From the ready position at the end of the runway, Riddle looked up. Another giant C-17 Loadstar from the States glided in for a landing. The 82nd Airborne Division was staging at Incirlik. Within the next few days, the division would be ferried by helicopter to points in northeastern Turkey.
"Eagle One. Incirlik Tower. You are clear for takeoff. Runway five-nine. Eagle One, you may proceed."
"Incirlik Tower. Eagle One, roger that."
Captain Riddle pushed full throttle. The Eagle's engines screamed, pushing him down the runway in a great roar, gathering tremendous speed. The F-15 rocketed skyward.
A few minutes later, Riddle banked the plane to the northeast, then prayed that he would see no Russians.
The USS Honolulu The Aegean Sea
This time, the ascent had gone more smoothly. At least so far, they were on target. No abort signals from the SEAL team.
Yet.
"Ten feet, " the diving officer was saying. "Still ascending. Five feet. Three feet."
A scraping, thuddish sound reverberated throughout his boat. Pete grasped the periscope tube in the center of the control room. The men at their watch stations anxiously listened for further sounds that would indicate the submarine was being torn apart by the heavy freighter.
"Contact. Skipper, we have contact!"
In the dim light of the control room, their eyes danced upward, nervously.
Another scraping thud shook the boat. Men wiped their foreheads. Some breathed heavily. None said a word.
The silence was deafening.
Static from the radio crackled the silence.
"The eagle has landed. Repeat, the eagle has landed."
Cheering broke out in the control room. Pete allowed a smile to cross his face. The first dangerous stage of the mission was over. Pete uttered a silent prayer of thanks, then raised his hands, palms down, signaling for quiet in the control room.
"Magnificent job, gentlemen. Now let's enjoy the ride – and hope that we make it through the Bosphorus."
The Alexander Popovich
Somewhere in the Black Sea
Masha sat on the small single bed in her wardroom. Her hands shook uncontrollably and her knees were knocking.
Her Black Sea cruise with her orphans, something that they had looked forward to with uncontrolled anticipation, had become a surrealistic nightmare. Would she become a victim like in those American horror movies? Would they toss her body to the sharks?
How could this be? What about the twelve precious young souls that she was responsible for? What if they killed her? Would her children then disappear over the side of the ship?
The young man standing outside seemed nice enough. But Aleksey Anatolyvich worked for the enemy. Should she kill him or befriend him? Or should she kill the captain or the first officer or whomever on the bridge that was advocating her immediate death?
But even if she killed all these men, what good would it do? She could not sail the ship to America or some place where she might be welcomed. Wherever she ended up, she would be arrested for murder.
What if she could somehow get onto the bridge and radio for help? But who would she call? Russia was run by the mafia, and there were no Americans in the Black Sea. And even if there were, how would she get on the bridge undetected? Plus she had no idea how to use the radio.
"Miss Katovich, is everything okay in there?"
"Yes, Aleksey, " she lied. "It takes a little while for a girl to get ready."
She buried her face in her hands. Lord, help me, she prayed.
She had to think of something. Then she remembered it.
The little black Bible that was a present from the American missionaries who visited the orphanage last year was stashed somewhere in the bottom of her bag.
She reached through the shirts and underwear, fumbling for it. When the tips of her fingers felt that black leather, she pulled it out, opened it, and read the message on the first page. The message was penned by the missionaries who gave it to her.
Presented to Masha Katovich,
In this book you will find all the answers to life's problems.
If you are ever in doubt, ask him to show you the way!
Given in Christian love, Eugene and Carol Allison, Charlotte, NC, USA.
She remembered the looks in their eyes.
They seemed so sincere, as if they really believed what they had told her and written to her. They had led her in something they called "the sinner's prayer, " and she asked Jesus into her heart when they did. That had gotten her into the habit of occasionally praying to God. And even though she had intended to learn more about this new faith, she had not read much of the Bible they gave her. She had carried it around like some kind of good luck charm.
Now desperation overwhelmed her. She could not explain it, but she wished that the kind couple from America could be with her right now.
Lord, if the Allisons are right that this book has answers, then show me what to do. Show me now. Time is running out.
She opened the Bible. Its pages showed a book called Esther.
"Miss Katovich?"
"Please. Give me five minutes?"
"Very well."
Before her eyes was the seventh chapter of Esther.
So the king and Haman went to dine with Queen Esther, and as they were drinking wine on that second day, the king again asked, "Queen Esther, what is your petition? It will be given you. What is your request? Even up to half the kingdom, it will be granted."
Then Queen Esther answered, "If I have found favor with you, O king, and if it pleases your majesty, grant me my life – this is my petition. And spare my people – this is my request."
Masha whispered, "Spare my children, Lord. This is my request!"
CHAPTER 12
The National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency Fort Belvoir, Virginia
The black-and-white photographs were shot several days ago by a KH-12 "keyhole" satellite whose orbit had been altered to two hundred miles directly over the Russian port city of Sochi.
How fortuitous, Kent Pendleton thought.
Kent extracted the photos from the large manila photograph and studied them.
The pictures could be of any freighter in the world docked alongside a pier, Kent thought. To his eyes, they all looked alike. But like a man's fingerprints, no two ships were exactly alike.
And though many were very similar in outward appearance, there was no other ship in the world exactly like the Alexander Popovich. Studying the satellite photo shot over the port of Sochi, Russia, Kent could not tell one freighter from the next. But the supercomputers stored on the two White Cloud ocean surveillance satellites just launched atop the Delta rockets from Vandenberg could tell the difference. At least, if the satellites got a clear shot of the ship again, they could.
At an orbit of two hundred miles, the birds would circle the earth every ninety minutes. Their orbit was staggered so that every forty-five minutes, one or the other would pass over the sea lanes in the Black Sea leading to the Ukrainian port of Odessa.
If the Popovich happened to pass under one of the birds, and if the cloud cover cooperated, and if the Honolulu made it through the Bos-phorus and happened to be in the vicinity, then maybe, just maybe…
Finding a freighter on the open seas was like looking for a needle in a haystack.
It would all depend on a lucky shot.