"I have many talents, as you will see."
A moment later, they reached the captain's stateroom. He opened the door. They stepped inside. He closed the door behind them.
The USS Honolulu The Black Sea
Easy, gentlemen, we're almost home free, " Pete said.Volga River had cut her engines, just according to plan, at a point twenty nautical miles north of the Bosphorus. The giant retractable arms holding the O-rings that had cradled the submarine were inching their way apart in opposite directions. Soon, the sub would be free from the mother ship. It was showtime, and they all had their game faces on.
"Diving Officer."
"Aye, Captain."
"When those O-rings clear our bow and stern, on my command, initiate an emergency deep procedure."
"Aye, Captain, on your command."
"I want you to take her to six hundred feet and hold."
"Six hundred feet and hold, aye, sir."
"Officer of the Deck."
"Yes, Captain."
"When we level at six hundred, I want all ahead one-third, and then bring depth back to one-five-zero. Pass those commands along to the engine room and diving officer."
"Aye, sir."
"From there, I will give my coordinates for setting a new course."
"Aye, Captain."
The Alexander Popovich
Thank you, Boris. Unless Miss Katovich would like something else, that will be all."
Yuri Batsakov looked at his guest sitting across the table. She nodded at the ship's chief chef, who wore a white chef's apron and hat. "Thank you, Boris, " she said. "It is all so lovely, and smells so delicious."
She even spoke with grace, unlike the bimbos that he was accustomed to. Perhaps she could be trained to make a good pirate's wife, he thought, and then dismissed that thought when he remembered the money that was at stake for completing this mission.
"If you need anything, Kapitan, I will be waiting in the mess galley for your ring, " Boris said.
"I will call you if we need you."
The ship's chief chef nodded and stepped out of the captain's stateroom, leaving the captain alone with his guest.
Finally.
It was about time.
"Tell me, my dear, do you like wine?"
"I love it." She seemed uncomfortable. Probably their age difference.
"And what is your preference, white or red?"
She smiled. "Red, please."
"Ahh! You are in luck." He stood and walked to the cabinet in the small galley in the captain's suite. "I have saved this for a special occasion. This pinot noir is over twenty-five years old. From the finest vineyard in Georgia!"
"I love Georgian red wine." Her tone relaxed. "It is a shame it has gotten so expensive."
He grunted. "Yes. Things are different with Georgia from my early days in the Soviet Navy, when Russians and Georgians served proudly alongside one another." He filled her glass with the dark red liquid, then did the same with his. "Perhaps we should propose a toast?"
She displayed a grin that again seemed forced. A sip or ten was definitely in order. "I am not a very good toaster or even a very good public speaker. I should consider it a privilege if you would do the honors. After all, it is your ship, Kapitan."
He reached across the table and touched her hand. She did not recoil. This was a good sign. "Very well, then I shall do the honors. And I would like to propose a toast" – what words would make her most relaxed and at ease in enjoying the evening? – "to your children, the twelve delightful and adorable orphans hand-selected to meet the president of Ukraine!"
That brought about a smile. She raised her glass and touched his.
"And do not forget, " she said. "It is rumored that the president of Russia will be at the dockside as well. And I believe that to be true. After all, why else would Russian FSB agents help me with money for a dress for a special occasion?" She brought her lips to the glass and he followed her lead.
"Perhaps" – he took another sip – "because they are red-blooded Russian males, whose blood, at the sight of you, turns darker and redder than the wine from which you sip."
She smiled and looked down. "Oh, Kapitan, you make me blush."
"That is my objective."
The telephone rang from the bridge. This had better be good or someone would walk the plank.
"Excuse me for a moment, my dear." He stood and walked over and picked up the telephone receiver. "Kapitan here. What is it?"
The voice on the line was his first officer, Joseph Radin. "Sorry to disturb you, Kapitan, but it is urgent."
"What is urgent at the dinner hour?"
"It is the Egyptian freighter. It has made contact with us."
"I am busy, Joseph. We are not even in the sector yet. You told me before that we had found the freighter and we wasted half a day."
"But, Kapitan, this is no false alarm. The freighter is eight miles off our bow, and it is broadcasting the signal."
"Do you mean to tell me that we have an Egyptian freighter off our bow, but this one is specifically broadcasting the signal Peter the Great?"
"Dah, Kapitan. The freighter has broadcast this signal five times already."
Batsakov looked over at Masha. She was sipping her wine.
"Very well, Joseph, " Batsakov said. "I will be up to the bridge in just a few minutes." He hung up the phone and walked back to the table. "Miss Katovich, it seems that each time you are a guest in my cabin, I am being called to the bridge by my crew. They always seem to have something urgent at hand, which more often than not, turns out not to be so urgent. The matter for which I am now being called, unfortunately, may take several hours, during which time, unfortunately, the delicious meal that Boris has prepared for us may become too cold to enjoy."
"I understand, Kapitan. The captain of a great ship like the Alexander Popovich has heavy responsibilities for his ship and the lives of his crew and passengers." She touched his hand.
It must have been the effects of the wine, Batsakov thought.
"Please, do not feel bad. You have great responsibilities as a sea captain. Perhaps I will stay here and finish my wine and my meal, if that is all right with you, and then I will see myself out."
"Yes, I insist. And I also insist that you give me the privilege of seeing you again under different circumstances."
She smiled, and touched his other hand. "I am certain that our paths will cross again."
"Of that I am certain also." He stood and walked out of the stateroom and into the passageway.
He would see Masha Katovich again, all right.
He would see her when he blew her brains out and tossed her to the sharks.
What a waste.
MiG-29
Codename Fulcrum Three
Northwest of Grozny, Chechnya
Alexander Giorsky banked the supersonic Fulcrum in a large, swooping turn to the left, pointing the nose back to the southeast. Their target destination: the city of Grozny, the Chechen capital, which sat in the foothills of the Caucasus Mountains, just at the edge of the Caspian Depression.
Giorsky's targets on this run included a warehouse on the northeast side of Grozny, a railroad depot, and a second warehouse.
"Sniper Two, are you there?" Giorsky was calling to his wingman, Junior Lieutenant Staas Budarin, who was piloting the other MiG- 29 in this attack tandem. This was Staas's first combat mission, which Gior-sky knew would bring out the jitters in a man's stomach no matter how thorough the training.
"Sniper One. Still here, sir. Looping on your right wing. Awaiting instruction."
"Sniper Two. Descend to one-five-zero-zero. Lock on targets. Watch for incoming SAMS."
Unfortunately, the two powerful S-24B surface-to-ground rockets that each plane was carrying were unguided weapons. Thus, the MiGs had to swoop down low, get visuals on their targets, and then release their weapons in visual conditions.
"Descending to one-five-zero-zero. Following you, Kapitan."
Giorsky watched the altimeter spin in counterclockwise loops. 5000. 4500. 4000. 3500. 3000. 2500. 2000.
"Approaching one-five-zero-zero."
"Roger that, Kapitan, approaching one-five-zero-zero."