"Bring them on!" one of the pilots shouted.
"We are ready!" shouted another.
"Comrades." Federov held his palms down to calm the pilots. "President Evtimov does not want a war with the Americans or NATO. But the president views these actions as provocative by the Americans, whose aim is world domination, and he is most displeased about NATO's flirtation with Georgia, which as you know was a longstanding Socialist Republic of the former Soviet Union."
"Send us through the skies of Georgia, and we shall teach the Americans a lesson!" Alexander shouted.
"Yes, that would be nice, " Special Agent Federov said. "But unfortunately – or fortunately, depending on your perspective – those are not the president's orders." He paused. "The President's orders are to fly to Chechnya through Azerbaijan, to avoid Georgia if at all possible, but to defend yourselves if fired on."
"We will defend ourselves!"
"I am sure you will, " the FSB agent said. "This concludes the political portion of this briefing. I return the podium to Colonel Stratsovich, who will brief you on the military aspects of this operation."
The tall, lean, and weather-worn Russian Air Force colonel stepped back to the podium. "Comrade Federov has stated our objective – to bomb Chechnya into submission while avoiding the airspace of Georgia."
The colonel's strong eyes swept the room. "I realize that many of you, comrades, wish to tangle with the United States Air Force, to show the world that the Persian Gulf wars were not a real representation of what would happen if the Americans were to fight with our best pilots and our best planes."
"Dah! Dah!"
"But these are not our orders. So here is how we shall accomplish our mission." The colonel nodded. The sergeant unfurled an aerial map of Armenia and the surrounding countryside. The colonel's pointer tapped the center of the map. "Here, comrades, is our current position at the Erebuni Air Base.
"The Georgian border is sixty-five miles to our north, and the most direct route to Chechnya would be to fly due north, through Georgia, just to the west of the capital city of Tbilisi and directly into Chechnya, which is one-hundred-sixty miles from where I am standing.
"In the old days, when Georgia was a Soviet state, we would fly this route." The colonel winced and shook his head. "Now, to avoid Georgia, we will take off and fly to the northeast, across Lake Sevan to the Kura River in Azerbaijan. Fortunately, Azerbaijan is still our ally. That is a distance of one hundred nautical miles. From there we turn southeast for sixty miles to avoid the easternmost section of Georgia, then due north into Dagestan, and then we turn to the northwest, where we will deliver our munitions on targets of opportunity in Chechnya, and in particular, around the capital city of Grozny. We will return by the same route." The colonel stopped and eyed them all. "Any questions?"
Alexander raised his hand.
"Yes, Kapitan Giorsky."
"Colonel, as I understand our flight pattern, in order to avoid Georgian airspace, as the Americans say, we are essentially going around our elbows to get to our thumb?"
That brought a few chuckles.
"I know it is frustrating, comrades. But we are professional officers of the Russian Air Force. And let us focus on our goal. We are not seeking a fight with the Americans. Our goal is to drop our ordnance so that that a nuclear bomb is not built by the radical Islamic forces in Chechnya."
The colonel's comments resonated. "Be prepared. Be ready. Be vigilant. Go now and do your duties." The colonel nodded at the sergeant.
"Attention!"
Alexander and the other pilots rose from their chairs.
"You are dismissed."
The USS Honolulu The Sea of Marmara
Other than the hum of the freighter's engines overhead, eerie silence pervaded every sector of the submarine.
Honolulu had shut her engines to avoid any possible sonar detection, and the sub was being carried through the water in the giant O-rings under the Volga River's hull.
Other than coordinates on the control panel, the control room lighting was subdued.
The GPS showed them at 41.10 degrees north latitude and 29.10 degrees east longitude. Speed indicator showed the sub moving under the water at five knots. They were headed on a course of three-five-six degrees, just slightly to the west of due north.
Pete had served aboard United States submarines all over the world. The Pacific. The Atlantic. The Med. The Indian Ocean. But 41.10 degrees north latitude and 29.10 degrees east longitude was a location under the seas that he had never sailed.
Pete eyed the amber screen showing the electronic map of the shoreline above their location. Two land masses were split into by a long, narrow waterway. His executive officer, Frank Pippen, stood at his side. Their eyes met, and there was a silent look of amazement. All around the control room, men looked up in bewildered silence.
Their position – 41.10 degrees north latitude and 29.10 degrees east longitude – was the entrance to the Bosphorus Strait. Honolulu's crew could do nothing, except depend on the the Volga River to carry them through these dangerous waters. If the Volga River could stay in the middle of the channel where the water was deep enough, if the Turks did not stop her, if the sub didn't scrape the rocks in the treacherous channel, if they could make it just another nineteen miles…
"Ever watch Star Trek, Mr. Pippen?" Pete asked his executive officer.
"Watched all the reruns, Skipper."
"Remember the beginning of the show when the Enterprise would swoosh through the stars with the theme song and Captain Kirk's voice came on with that line about 'Space… the final frontier'?"
"Gives me goosebumps just thinking about it."
"Know what other line I'm thinking about if we can hang on about three more hours and make it through to the Black Sea?"
Frank smiled. "Let's see if I can remember it. Hmm. 'These are the voyages of the Starship Enterprise'?"
Pete's eyes stayed on the black and amber GPS monitor. The monitor now showed the submarine and the ship in the southern channel of the Bosphorus Straits, headed north, toward the first bridge spanning the European and Asian sectors of Istanbul. All around them, millions of Turks were undoubtedly carrying on their affairs in the daily bustle of one of the world's most historic and exciting cities, oblivious that a United States nuclear submarine was at this moment transiting the waters just a stone's throw from their work and play.
"Good guess, but not exactly."
Master Chief Sideman wore a sly grin on his face.
"Anybody else? Chief of the Boat? You've got that cheese-eating grin on your face."
"Would the skipper be referring to Captain Kirk's immortal and timeless declaration that the Starship Enterprise would 'boldly go where no man has gone before'?"
Pete felt himself smiling. "Gentlemen, your chief of the boat is a learned and articulate man of the world, having embarrassed your distinguished executive officer by reciting such valuable information – information that is of vital importance to the United States Navy and to the security of the United States of America."
That brought a roar of laughter from the control room crew, and a "thank you, sir, " from the COB, as the electronic image of the ship and sub could be seen on the monitor turning to the northeast in the middle of the channel, and making a slow approach toward the First Bosphorus Bridge.
The laughter subsided.
"Enjoy this moment, gentlemen, " Pete said. "No matter what happens from this moment on – whether we live or die – at this moment you are doing something that no submariner in the world has ever done before. You are transiting the Bosphorus underwater. And if we make it another seventeen miles or so, you will be the first American submarine crew ever to go on a combat mission in the Black Sea."