Pete raised his eyebrow. "Plutonium?"
"She doesn't know what the cargo was, Skipper. I asked. Claims she overheard a conversation on the bridge through the ship's loudspeaker system. Something about a rendezvous with an Egyptian freighter to transfer expensive cargo."
"Hmm, " Pete mused. "The part about the expensive cargo sounds credible. The rest of it" – he scratched his chin – "I don't know."
A loud ping shot through the submarine. Then another. Ping. Then two more. Ping. Ping. The children looked up. Their eyes widened. Another round of fear washed across their faces.
"Galley. Conn. Skipper, are you still down there?" This was the XO, Frank Pippen.
"This is the captain, " Pete said.
"Sir, I'm sure you can hear, but we're getting active sonar pings."
Ping, ping. Ping, ping.
"Yes, we hear 'em." Pete said. "They've probably dropped a thousand sonobuoys up there."
Pete looked at the faces of the children. He was prepared to die. His men were prepared to die.
But these innocent children?
This was not part of the bargain. He had no way of communicating with Washington. He briefly considered floating the radio buoy, but the transmission signal could be traced to the point of transmission by the Russians. Plus, if there were a hitch in unwinding the winch, that could be picked up on the enemy's passive sonar. Too risky, he thought. Floating the radio buoy was out of the question.
"Your orders, Captain?"
"Until further instructions, steady as she goes. I'll be in my stateroom."
"Aye, sir."
Odessa International Airport Odessa, Ukraine
The presidents of Russia and Ukraine set up their war room in the VIP suite of the Odessa Intenational Airport. The heavily armed suite was quickly equipped with secure telephones, computers, and direct lines to Sevastopol. This allowed the presidents instant access to information coming from the Black Sea.
President Evtimov had hoped that his trip to Odessa would reso-lidify relations with Ukraine. But this was not what he had envisioned.
If the Americans were behind all this, and Evtimov suspected that they were, then Mack Williams had just delivered Ukraine back to Russia, all sealed and gift-wrapped in a surprise Christmas package.
Instead of working with President Butrin on some sort of useless humanitarian effort about beefing up orphanages, the president of the United States had united Ukraine and Russia in a common military goal – to seek out and destroy the submarine that had murdered Butrin's precious orphans.
Ukraine would fall back to the Russians even more swiftly than France had fallen to the Fascists. Evtimov thought of the photo of Hitler doing a jig when the Fascist Army captured Paris so easily in 1940. Evtimov might try the same thing in Kiev, but he needed to bridle his enthusiasm in front of Butrin.
Mustering a solemn face, the Russian gazed across the table at his Ukrainian counterpart. "Comrade President, I've just received word that one of our submarines, the Alrosa, has spotted what her computers classified as a Los Angeles – class submarine. The submarine was diving deep and heading south, on a projected course toward the Bosphorus."
Stunned silence.
"So it is true?" Butrin's eyes widened in disbelief.
Of course it was true. But Evtimov did not answer the question. Better to keep the Ukrainian guessing. "Alrosa fired two torpedoes. We believe we damaged it, but the sub got away. Alrosa tracked her for a few seconds heading west after the second explosion. Then she dropped off our sonar."
Evtimov studied Butrin's stunned face. The man was a self-proclaimed liberal who loved Western ideals. Now for America to prick all that idealism by murdering Butrin's precious orphans – it was worth the price of a billion rubles.
"What do you suggest we do, Vitaly?"
This was a good sign. The Ukrainian was using first names now.
"Joint cooperation between our great nations, Vlaclav. We need each other now more than ever."
"Dah." Butrin nodded. "And what do you suggest?"
"May I suggest Ukraine take charge of search-and-rescue efforts? Perhaps some of these dear orphans got off the ship. I suggest that Russia oversee military aspects of this operation."
"Dah. Of course." Butrin nodded again. "And how are we to stop this submarine?"
"The Americans are not invincible. The depth charge is the oldest, most primitive antisubmarine weapon ever used. After World War II, most nations eliminated them. The Russian Navy, I am now happy to say, did not.
"I have ordered hundreds of them dropped all over the area near the engagement between Alrosa and the enemy submarine. This is the functional equivalent of carpet bombing the sea depths.
"We are also dropping hundreds of sonobuoys all over the area. Not a single whale or dolphin will swim an inch without us knowing about it.
"In addition to that, I am deploying the entire Black Sea fleet in a line just south of the spotting. The American submarine will never make it through alive."
The Ukrainian president did not respond.
"Vlaclav, in the name of these twelve orphans, justice will be served.
We will sink that sub, or force it to the surface."
CHAPTER 23
The USS Honolulu
Black Sea depths
The images of the orphans burned his conscious as if emblazoned there by a nuclear flash.
The bleeding.
The crying.
The shaking.
The sight had driven him into his stateroom – and driven him to his knees, where before he could even beseech the Almighty, his thoughts turned to Hannah and Coley.
Something wasn't right about all this. All Masha Katovich's talk about meetings with the presidents of Ukraine and Russia sounded bizarre. Was she credible? She spoke of valuable cargo on board the ship. Plutonium would qualify as that. What if the plutonium had been transferred to an Egyptian freighter?
Ping.
Ping.
His orders were clear. "Do not surrender under any circumstances." Orders or not, as a sub commander he was inclined to stand fast and fight – to fight his way beyond the thicket of ships and mines just to his south.
Ping.
Ping.
But the odds of surviving that scenario were not good. Maybe twenty percent if he were lucky. And if the information were correct – that the plutonium had been transferred to another freighter – then Washington needed that information – and fast.
He could float a communications buoy and try to get a signal off, but that would make the sub a guaranteed bull's-eye for ASW torpedoes. The best way to get that information into the right hands would be to surface the sub, and then somehow, some way try to get that message back to Washington.
Ping.
Ping.
If he disobeyed his direct orders and surfaced, he faced a court-martial and could start a war with Russia. But what about the children he now had on board?
If he were to stay and fight, would they die a terrifying death with cold seawater pouring into their undersea compartment, rising to their ankles, then their knees, then their necks?
Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping…
Would they reach desperately for the last few inches of air near the ceiling before the sinking sub became a cold, watery grave? This was a death that he and his men were prepared to face. This was part of the bargain that all submariners understood may happen one day. The men on this mission especially understood.
Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping…
An explosion rocked through the water. From its sound, Captain Miranda estimated it to be a mile away.
Another explosion. This one was closer.
Depth charges.
He opened the Bible that he had brought with him and read two verses from the book of James.
"If any of you lacks wisdom, then ask God who gives to everyone liberally… and it will be given… But ask in faith, not wavering. For those who waver are like a wave of the sea, driven with the wind and tossed."