A clerk began reading in English.
"This Russian Military Tribunal, convened to hear the charges of war crimes against this officer for attacking a civilian Russian ship with a civilian crew, is now in session. Please be seated."
The Army officer in the middle, a general, grunted something, and the translator spoke.
"Are you Commander Peter Miranda of the United States Navy?"
Pete stood. The Geneva Convention required him to provide his name, rank, and serial number.
"I am."
"Commander Miranda, you are charged with the following crimes, for which if you are convicted, could result in your being executed by firing squad or being sentenced to life in prison."
There was a pause, as the English translation was followed by more Russian.
"You are being charged with twenty-five counts of crimes against humanity, to wit, in that you commanded the United States submarine USS Honolulu on an illegal and secret military mission into the Black Sea, wherein you subsequently ordered your vessel to attack a civilian freighter, to wit, the Russian freighter Alexander Popovich, and that your actions have caused the untimely deaths of at least twenty-five known innocent civilians on board that ship."
More Russian. A murmuring rose from the courtroom. Pete looked around and caught the eyes of a young brunette woman sitting in the front row just behind him to his right. His eyes lingered on her for a moment, and then he recognized her as Masha Katovich, the young lady he had rescued.
"You are also being charged with conspiracy to destroy and destruction of property of the Russian Republic, to wit, in that after having surrendered the said USS Honolulu to the Navy of the Russian Republic, thus transferring ownership of said vessel to the Russian Republic, you did conspire to, and did in fact instruct certain subordinates to destroy said property by the use of explosive devices, which led to the sinking of such vessel in the Black Sea in waters west of the Crimean Peninsula."
More translation.
More astonishment from the crowd.
Pete looked around again. Masha Katovich was gone. He felt strange disappointment at her absence.
He'd sensed a sympathetic look on her face. Or so he thought. Then again, he had nearly killed her precious orphans. Perhaps his imagination had shifted into overdrive. She was probably the prosecution's star witness.
"You are also charged with violation of international law pertaining to transit of the high seas in that you broke various provisions of the Montreux Convention and the United Nations Convention on the Law of the Seas, to wit, in that you illegally and without justification brought your submarine in a submerged state through that international strait known as the Bosphorus, in violation of all semblances of international law prohibiting such submerged transit.
"To these charges, how do you plead?"
"I will plead to nothing until I know that my crew is safe and that they will be released."
"Silence!" the general shouted. "It is not for you to be concerned of the fate of war criminals."
"And I will not participate in this kangaroo court until I know my men are safe!"
"That is enough!" The admiral, just to the left of the general, snarled. "Your crew's fate will be tied to yours. If you are convicted, they will be convicted. If you are executed, they will be executed. And if you are acquitted, then they will be set free."
"That is not acceptable."
"Silence!" A banging gavel rapped from the one in the middle. "Perhaps the innocent children and crewmen of the freighter you sunk would say that a submarine against an unarmed freighter is not acceptable!"
"That freighter was being used by terrorists!"
"Ha!" The air marshal sitting to the right spoke up. "Typical American response justifying the unchecked use of military power against civilians. Everything is tied to terrorists!"
The general in the center spoke again. "How do you plead to these charges?"
"I do not understand these charges. Do I now have a right to counsel?"
"Aah. The brave commander, who is so brave as to attack an unarmed freighter, now wishes to hide behind an attorney?"
Mocking laughter arose at the translation.
"Very well! This is a military tribunal, Commander. And under our rules, you may have one Russian military attorney and one military attorney of your choosing from your country, should your host country agree to provide one. You will not be allowed a civilian attorney. Is this your wish, Commander?"
"Yes, sir. I wish to exercise my right to counsel."
"Very well!" the army general announced. "You will be removed to your cell, where you will communicate your desire for counsel to your translator. This court will reconvene in forty-eight hours."
Three more gavel bangs rang out. The generals and the admiral exited the courtroom.
Armed guards clamped cuffs on Pete's hands. They hustled him back behind the bench area, through a small door, into a narrow corridor. A moment later, they slammed the iron doors behind him in the cold cell.
The ornate Russian Orthodox Church was nestled in a grove of trees across from the large, rectangular brick compound that surrounded the United States Embassy. She remembered visiting this place last summer, shortly after Carol and Eugene Allison had left Ukraine.
Then she had taken a stroll through the summer heat to find a peaceful courtyard just outside the chapel, and to try something that the Allisons had taught her to do. Pray.
Today's short walk from Red Square through the blustery wind to the church was for the same purpose. The leaves were gone now, and the church seemed colder and greyer.
She had tried telling her Russian interrogators about the cargo transfer. But they responded as if she were the criminal.
"Do you realize that Kapitan Batsakov was a hero of the Soviet navy?" asked the scruffy one, with a burning cigarette dangling from his mouth. "And you seek to impugn his name?" He blew a cloud of stifling smoke. "The entire world is watching this, and impugning the reputation of a Soviet naval hero gives propaganda to the Americans."
The second interrogator, the fat, balding one, had been more accusatory. "I hope you are not attempting to blackmail the kapitan's estate or the Russian government for money, Miss Katovich. Do you know that blackmail is a felony under Russian law?"
She had to get the truth out.
The Russians had threatened to prosecute her if she talked, and they wanted to cover the matter for propaganda purposes. She had only one option.
The Americans.
The Allisons had claimed that prayer was talking to God.
Softly, she spoke into the biting wind. "God, show me what to do and let it be right. In Jesus' name."
She looked around. No one was there. At least she saw no one in the immediate vicinity. Only the wispy wind blew leaves in a circle.
The Russians had told her to be back at the courthouse in forty-eight hours. She was to report in every two hours. The bells in the church steeple chimed eleven times. She had one hour. Once she did not report, they would search for her – if they were not already looking for her.
She glanced across the wide boulevard, past the zooming cars at the opening in the tall brick wall.
Behind that wall was America. Through the Internet and through the Allisons, she in many ways felt that she knew America already. But could the Americans be trusted with this information? After all, she nearly died because of their attack. Dima nearly died. Oh, Dima!
On the other hand, if the Americans had not attacked, Batsakov and his crew would have murdered her. And the Americans did not let her children die. The Americans rescued them.
But what if they did not believe her? Suppose they did not give her a chance to talk, but kicked her back on the cold streets of Moscow? Would she be interrogated for going to the Americans first?
If her request for asylum was denied, then what?