"At that point this man" – Andropov pointed again at Pete – "came up with another sinister idea. Seeing that the orphans surviving could be a witness to what happened, he did what terrorists do as a matter of routine. He took these young orphans hostage. He surfaced, captured them all at gunpoint, then dove under the sea again, where he made a run south, trying to escape through the Bosphorus.
"Ah, but it was not to be." Andropov wagged his index finger back and forth like a windshield wiper in a rainstorm. "For you see, the Navy of the Russian Republic, the Black Sea Fleet, put a noose around the terrorist's neck and forced him to the surface. And only because of the heroism of our Navy do these children live today!"
Applause broke out in the courtroom. Andropov waited for the applause to subside, then continued.
"But today we can right the wrongs committed by the terrorist and his crew. That this… this… man committed these crimes is indisputable." Andropov turned around and shot Pete an evil glare. "The only real issue is what shall we do about him? Hmm?"
He turned back to the three senior officers. "Miranda must be convicted and he must be executed. Miranda's crewmen likewise must be executed. This must be done swiftly and efficiently.
"Thank you."
Pete had watched Zack Brewer on television during the Quasay court-martial. Zack had the reputation for being one of the best trial lawyers not only in the Navy, but in the world. But this was different. These rules were skewed. Surely even Zack was now in over his head.
Zack strode over to the podium, displaying a confident air, without a single note.
"General Prokofiev" – he looked at the officer in the middle of the tribunal – "distinguished officers of this court-martial, and the great citizens of the Russian Republic, I bring you greetings on behalf of the people of the United States of America.
"Although we stand here this day in disagreement over the facts surrounding the sinking of the Alexander Popovich, we choose to first embrace something that we do not disagree upon. We choose first, gentlemen, to embrace the common heritage of our peoples. It is a common heritage that came together in the twentieth century to suppress the most vicious threat to freedom ever imposed by man. The great and noble sacrifices of your armies on hallowed ground at places like Stalingrad – and our armies on the beaches of Normandy and in the terrible blizzard of Bastogne – was blood spilled, Russian and American blood. Our blood was spilled in a common and eternal effort to rid the world forever of the oppressive Nazi jackboot.
"We had our differences in the so-called Cold War – yes – but never was a shot fired. And in the end, we came together to fight yet another enemy."
Zack paused, looked at the prosecutor, and then resumed. "That common enemy… was radical Islam." Zack paused once again, this time to sip a glass of water. "Muslim terrorists brought our buildings down in New York in 2001, and Muslim terrorists murdered 186 of your children in the Beslan Massacre in 2004.
"The airliners that crashed into the World Trade Center were registered as American airliners. They became weapons of mass destruction in the hands of Muslim terrorists, yet the American flag was painted on them all.
"And likewise, gentlemen, the Alexander Popovich, though flying under the great flag of this great nation, I am sad to say, had also become a weapon of mass destruction whose captain had sold out to Muslim terrorists for money."
A half second delay for the translation. Then murmuring arose in the courtroom. Then loud, angry voices. The woman identified as Lud-milla Batsakov, Captain Batsakov's mother, was standing, shaking her fists at Zack, and screaming something in Russian.
"Come to order." General Prokofiev, the chief judge sitting in the middle, whapped his gavel. "Sit down or you will be arrested and put on trial for public disorder!" Another whap. Russian soldiers moved towards pockets of standing protestors. "Commander Brewer, I warn you that in Russia, slander is a felony. You are a guest in this country at the invitation of the Russian government. But be forewarned that you may not violate our laws without running the risk of arrest and prosecution yourself. Do you understand?"
Zack Brewer looked squarely into the eye of the general. "I respect your laws, General Prokofiev. But we will prove what I have said is true. Our government believes that the freighter was carrying plutonium – weapons-grade plutonium that was illegally stolen from your Army by Islamic Chechen terrorists in the Caucasus Mountains. In the end, we are confident that Commander Miranda and his crew will be acquitted."
That translation brought another eruption in the courtroom, followed by more whapping from the general.
Zack turned and walked to the counsel table and sat. Pete did not know how Zack planned to proceed.
But this he did know.
Zack Brewer had nerves of steel.
Office of the president of the Russian Republic Staraya Square, Moscow
Three hours later
President Vitaly Evtimov wanted to scream and yell. His problem at the moment, however, was that the man he wanted to choke, former Defense Minister Giorgy Alexeevich Popkov, was already dead.
"How do the Americans know about the missing plutonium?" President Evtimov slammed his fist on the large wooden desk. "We took every precaution against releasing this information! Now Brewer makes this announcement in the court-martial for the entire world to hear! Someone must have leaked. I demand to know who."
"Perhaps Brewer is bluffing!" the president's chief of staff noted.
"How could he bluff about such a thing?" the foreign minister asked. "He was right about the plutonium missing, he was right about who stole it, and he was right about where the theft took place."
The president sipped vodka. "But if he is right about what happened, could he be right also about the plutonium being on a ship?"
Foreign Minister Kotenkov addressed that. "We were assured by Giorgy Alexeevich that the plutonium had been taken to Chechnya."
"Giorgy Alexeevich!" Evtimov thundered. "He was useless as a defense minister. And he's useless as a dead man. He was useful only in delivering Aslambek Kadyrov the materials he needs to build a Chechen bomb."
"Perhaps the Americans are right, " Kotenkov added, "perhaps the plutonium is at the bottom of the sea. If they are right, then we must know."
Evtimov turned to his chief of staff. "Contact Admiral Voynavich. Tell him I want the Black Sea Fleet to find this ship on the bottom of the sea, and then find out if it has plutonium on board."
"Yes, Comrade President."
"And issue a statement denying that any plutonium is missing."
The Al Alamein
100 miles south of Gotland Island The Baltic Sea
Captain Sadir looked around the bridge at the men who had volunteered for this mission – the men who had eagerly volunteered for martyrdom. Sadir looked over at Salman Dudayev and nodded.
Dudayev nodded back.
It was time.
"Gentlemen, I bring you here today to the bridge of this great ship because each of you has volunteered to give your lives in what will be the greatest act of jihad in history."
He relished their fierce, piercing eyes. These were the eyes of true warriors.
"You all know that we sailed into the Black Sea and took valuable cargo from the Russian freighter. You all know what that cargo was, and you all know that there is a great weapon to be used to Allah's glory in the belly of this ship.
"What you do not know, at least not yet, is our final destination. I know that all kinds of rumors have floated around the crew. Some have hoped for New York. Some thought London. And believe me, when we sailed through the English Channel, I felt tempted to change our mission and pay back the British for being America's footstool in their satanic war against holy Islam."