"As for the Russians, they will think they have captured a Los Angeles – class nuclear submarine." Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping.
"They are in for a surprise."
Defense Ministry of the Russian Republic Moscow, Russia
Olga Kominicha picked up the telephone on her desk and punched the button which would alert the man just inside the large oak officebehind her desk that a very important member of the Russian military or the Russian government wished to speak with him.
In this case, Giorgy Alexeevich Popkov was being telephoned by Admiral Petrov Voynavich, commander of the Black Sea fleet. "Hurry, " the admiral barked. "I have an urgent update for the defense minister from the Black Sea."
"Yes, Admiral. I buzzed him, but he did not answer." The defense minister was probably napping again from too large a spot of afternoon vodka. Or perhaps he was in his personal toilet accessible from inside the office. More likely sleeping off another vodka-induced buzz. "I will get him for you."
"Comrade Secretary." Still no answer on the intercom. The admiral's voice resonated with urgency. Olga had heard that the Navy was hunting an American submarine in the Black Sea. She was not supposed to know this, but rumors were impossible to contain sometimes within the Defense Ministry. Perhaps the call was related to this.
She stepped to the outside of her boss's closed door and knocked.
Nothing.
She opened the door.
Giorgy Alexeevich was sprawled out, lying back in the chair behind his desk. His eyes and mouth were frozen wide and open. Blood gushed from his mouth and the gash in his neck.
Olga screamed at the top of her lungs, then felt the room begin to spin. She hit the floor with a thud. And then, darkness.
The USS Honolulu Black Sea depths
The depth charges shook like a jackhammer. Pings rang thorough the submarine every thirty seconds or so.
The Russian Navy was playing a giant game of Russian roulette. Pulling the trigger.
Firing blanks.
Thank God no live round had struck them. Yet. And despite all the pinging, there was no evidence yet that any of the sonobuoys had transmitted a contact to any of the Bear bombers overhead. At least no more torpedoes had been dropped into the water, nor had that Kilo-class sub come back around.
All that would change, Pete knew, if he tried running past the naval blockade that the Russians were stringing just south of him across the Black Sea.
All they could do at this point was sit in the water, and wait and pray.
Pete checked his watch. Twenty-five minutes had passed since he sent the SEALs into the water for the dangerous mission of attaching plastic explosives on the submarine's hull. Time was of the essence. There was little room for error. Any second, a depth charge could strike too close or a wave of torpedoes could close in on his isolated submarine.
Lieutenant Phil Jamison stepped into the control room.
"How are they, Phil?"
"Trembling and crying every time they hear a ping or the slightest shake from a depth charge."
"What did you tell 'em?"
"I told them not to worry, that we'd be safe soon. Didn't seem to do much good, sir."
"What about the woman?"
"Frankly, she seems to have nerves of steel. Said she was relieved to be aboard."
"Skipper, " the OOD said. "The SEALs are finished. They're back in the sub now."
"Very well, Mr. McCaffity. Prepare for emergency surface maneuver."
"Aye, aye, sir."
Ka-27 Chopper Number 3 Above the Black Sea
Junior Lieutenant Igor Pavalov dropped his last depth charge into the sea, then waited several minutes for a visual confirmation that the bomb had exploded. Unlike his last two charges, which exploded at one hundred fifty feet, this baby would sink twice as deep, to three hundred feet, before sending a wave of explosive concussions and sound waves through the water.
Pavalov waited another minute or two. Another white mushroom rose to the surface of the water. Perhaps this one had struck the target. Perhaps he would get credit for sinking the American submarine. He would stand in Red Square before President Evtimov and receive the highest award bestowed on a Russian citizen.
He would be declared a "Hero of the Russian Federation." The honor had been bestowed to several military members fighting in Chechnya. So why not bestow it upon the Navy helicopter pilot who sunk an enemy submarine – an American submarine – which had somehow infiltrated the Black Sea?
He lingered a bit longer over the surface of the water, hoping to see debris from a submarine floating to the surface.
Nothing.
But he had expended ordnance and he was rapidly losing fuel. He would need to start heading back within the next fifteen minutes or be prepared for a long swim.
Pavalov rotated the chopper on a stationary, midair axis, pointing the nose on a course of ninety degrees – due east – then called his squadron leader and announced that he would be flying back to Sevastopol for refueling and reloading.
A large cylindrical nose burst through the sea like a whale leaping through the surface. The long, dark object shot above the water and then splashed down onto the surface.
This was no whale.
This was a submarine!
A Los Angeles – class submarine! It had broken the water perhaps a quarter of a mile just east of his position. And his depth charges had forced her to the surface!
If only he had a torpedo or more depth charges… he would go in for the kill right now.
"Light Blue Three to Light Blue Leader!"
"Go ahead, Light Blue Three."
"I have got it!"
"Got what?"
"The American submarine! My depth charges have forced her to surface!"
"What is your position?"
Pavalov gave the latitudinal and longitudinal coordinates.
"Maintain visual for as long as your fuel will allow. Your relief is on the way."
"Very well, " Stavinskiy replied, fuming that someone else could get credit for the kill that he was responsible for.
"Maintaining visual, " Pavalov said again over the radio. "Please allow the record to reflect that the submarine surfaced as a result of my depth charge."
He waited for an answer. No response. Pavalov inched the chopper forward, closing to within a hundred yards or so in front of the American submarine. He brought the chopper's altitude down to one hundred feet, so low that the prop blast was blowing a round circle on the water's surface.
The pilot brought his binoculars to his eyes for a better look. He studied the conning tower. Could the sub have surfaced to fire a missile? Of course not. It could have fired a missile from under the water. It had surfaced for one reason and one only.
The hatch on top of the sub swung open. Men stepped up onto the open bridge. They brought up an American flag. The murderous pigs. He thought for a moment of directing machine-gun fire at the men standing on the bridge.
But what glory was there in that? Shooting men standing on the top of a submarine would not make him a hero of the Russian Federation. The president wanted the sub sunk. This was his path to glory.
The men waved at him, like he was their best friend. How odd, these Americans. And then someone brought another flag to the bridge.
This was not an American flag.
This was a white flag! They waved it back and forth through the air! The Americans were surrendering!
His depth charges had forced the Americans to surrender! After he became a hero of the Russian Federation, there would be speeches and parades and parties in his honor.
Igor picked up the microphone again.
"Light Blue Three to Light Blue Leader! The American submarine is surrendering to me right now! Repeat, the American submarine is surrendering to me!"
CHAPTER 24
The USS Honolulu
The Black Sea
Pete stood on the open air bridge of his sub, his orange jacket flapping under the wind blasts from the five Russian ASW helicopters hovering in the late-afternoon sky. The choppers circled the Honolulu.