"Blaming your incompetence on a dead man, are you?"
"No, Comrade President. My apologies…"
"… I was not referring to the Army's battle plan. I was referring to your plan for finding that plutonium that your subordinates lost, and your plan to find it before the rebels turn it into a thermonuclear device that could wipe out every troop we have in Chechnya!"
"Yes, sir. I understand, sir."
"Understand this. Someone… I do not know who… but someone was upset with Defense Minister Popkov for this whole plutonium affair. Now I have consolidated Popkov's power under my authority. You are second in command of the army. For your own protection, General, I expect this bumbling incompetence to end with Popkov's assassination. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"
"Perfectly, sir."
"Find that plutonium, and find it now!"
"Yes, sir."
Evtimov turned to his foreign minister, Alexander Alexeyvich Kotenkov. "Minister Kotenkov? You had something?"
"Yes, Comrade President, we have a communique from your old friend Mack Williams."
Evtimov folded his arms across his stomach and leaned back in his chair. "I suppose the cowboy president wants his submarine back?"
"He has not said that yet, Vitaly Sergeivich. He has, however, proposed a prisoner exchange."
"Ahh. And what sort of exchange does President Rambo have in mind?"
"Our fighter pilot for his submarine crew."
Evtimov unleashed a belly laugh, then tried containing his laughter by swigging down ice water. "Tell Williams that we will give them the lowest enlisted member of their sub crew when they return our pilot."
The foreign minister chuckled. "The Americans have also said that a Lieutenant Commander Brewer is available to defend their submarine commander."
"Brewer?" Evtimov was sure he had heard the name. "Is he the JAG officer that prosecuted the Muslim chaplains?"
"Yes, Comrade President."
Evtimov thought about that. "What do you think of this, Alexeyvich?"
"I believe we should allow this, Comrade President."
"Interesting. Why do you say this?"
"Public relations. Remember our purpose. We allow military counsel from an accused's home country because our system appears fair to the international community. Brewer's presence will not change the outcome, only call attention to what the Americans have done and make us look fair."
"Yes, " Evtimov said.
"We let them bring their best counsel. Points for our side. Then he loses."
"Intriguing." Evtimov scratched his chin.
"Not only that, Comrade President, but I recommend that we move this trial from Moscow to St. Petersburg."
"St. Petersburg? What is wrong with Moscow?"
"Nothing is wrong with Moscow. But again, remember our overall strategic objective. The world will be watching this. Members of the international press will request to be present.
"St. Petersburg is our most beautiful city. We received rave reviews when we hosted the 2006 G-8 Summit there. Think of the symbolic power with the world media if we were to move this trial to St. Nicholas Naval Cathedral."
"Interesting, " the president mused. "We prosecute this crew in the cathedral that has hallowed the loss of brave Russian sailors since thetime of Peter the Great. Hmm. Perhaps we can erect a memorial there to the crew of the Alexander Popovich."
"A splendid idea, Comrade President. Plus if we try this case in Moscow, because the city is our capital, I fear that the trial will appear more political to the international community. It is not absolutely necessary that we move this trial, but in a public relations war, every small advantage helps. St. Nicholas Cathedral, a building that honors the brave dead lost at sea, would be the perfect backdrop for this war crimes trial. That is my recommendation."
The president thought about that for a moment. The foreign minister was correct about St. Petersburg. The city was Russia's most beautiful. And not only that, it was the home city of the president of the Russian Repubic.
"Very well. We shall move the trial to St. Petersburg. Meanwhile" -the president turned his attention to General Alexander Ivanov, military chief of the Russian Air Force – "I want the Americans to understand that we are not going to back down militarily. What is the status of our strategic bombers in Vladivostok?"
"We have thirty-nine Bear bombers operational and ready to fly, sir. In addition to that, we have another forty Backfire bombers at your disposal."
"Very well. Get the planes in the air. Send them north, and then east. I want them to buzz the coast of Alaska, just as far south along the coast as our fuel supplies will allow. Refuel them midair. Do whatever you need to do. But I want a show of strength against the Americans."
"Do you want them armed with nuclear warheads, Comrade President?"
Evtimov thought about that for a moment. "We have no assurances that the American planes flying near our border over Georgia have only conventional weapons, do we?"
"No, sir."
"Very well, arm the bombers with nuclear weapons."
Residence of Captain Bill Callahan Canberra, Australia
Zack Brewer gripped the horseshoe, vicing it between his thumbs and fingers. He stepped forward with his left foot and pitched it underhand.
Clang.
Great. Another ringer.
He had gone from prosecuting the most high-profile court-martial in the history of the U.S. to tossing ringers in seclusion on the world's most remote continent as legal aide to the United States Naval Attache. Despite all the typical "detailer talk" about how the billet would help his experience in international legal matters, Zack knew the reality of why he was here.
Death threats had been made against him, and Australia was the safest place for him. In other words, he'd been "put out to pasture" by the Navy for his own protection, but he was ready to get back to the fleet.
"Zack."
Oh no, not another offer of lemonade and cookies.
Shielding the sun with his right hand, he looked aross the lush grass to the back screen porch of the attache's quarters.
"Right out here, Mrs. Callahan."
"Bill's on the phone, Zack. He says it's urgent."
Zack broke into a slight jog toward his hostess. She handed him the cordless phone.
"Yes, sir?"
"Pack your bags. Washington's got a high-profile assignment for you. I'll pick you up in one hour and brief you on the plane."
Zack's heart jumped. Finally, a ticket back into the action. Right now, anything sounded good. "Aye, aye, sir! I'll be ready!"
CHAPTER 27
British lookout post
The Rock of Gibraltar
Lieutenant Jeremy Tomlinson, Royal Navy of the British Empire, swung his telescope down into the broad channel separating the north wall of the Rock from the Spanish coastline.
The telescope swept the waterway. The bow of the long, low-lying freighter sailed into view.
The ship was churning from right to left. Tomlinson flicked the telescope just to the right to keep the ship in view.
The stern came into full view. From it fluttered a horizontally divided red-white-black flag with the so-called eagle of Saladin in the middle of the white stripe.
Tomlinson picked up the phone. "Gibraltar Lookout to HMS Sabre."
"HMS Sabre. Go ahead, Gibraltar."
"We've got an Egyptian freighter entering the channel. Can't make out the name on the stern. I'll leave that one to you, ole boy."
"Roger that, Gibraltar. We are on it."
HMS Sabre
The Straits of Gibraltar
Lieutenant Stephen Stacks, commanding officer of the HMS Sabre, scrambled his four-man crew. Within minutes, the patrol boat was cutting through the waters at Gibraltar Harbor.
Flash message traffic indicated that Britain's closest ally was on the hunt for an Egyptian freighter, the Al Alamein, and that such freighter might try escaping the Mediterranean either via the Suez Canal or the Straits of Gibraltar.
Stacks pushed down on the throttle, and the fifty-two-foot Royal Navy patrol boat planed out into the open water at more than thirty knots.