He had swallowed Russian pride by using diplomatic rather than military force in reponse, and supposed that the proposed UN condemnation proposal was the best solution. But if the Americans fired on any other Russian targets, he may not be so apt to respond diplomatically.
Next time, he would respond with the hammer and the sickle. That thought brought some degree of satisfaction.
"Pardon me, Comrade President."
Evtimov looked up and saw his chief of staff, Sergey Semyonovich Sobyanin, standing in the entrance to the presidential cabin. He wore a grave look on his face.
"What is it, Sergey Semyonovich?"
"It is the orphans, sir. We believe that the freighter they were on has sunk."
"Sunk?"
"A distress call came on a VLF frequency from Alexander Popovich, the freighter carrying the orphans. The distress call claimed that the freighter had been hit by a torpedo and was sinking."
"A torpedo? Who? How?"
"We don't know. A Ukrainian airliner that heard the signal is reported to have flown over the area and seen a submarine on the surface near where the freighter was last believed to have transmitted."
"What submarine? One of ours?"
"The pilot believes that the submarine could be of the U.S. Los Angeles class."
"Impossible!"
"I would think so also, Vitaly Sergeivich. But the airline pilot is a former ASW pilot in the Ukrainian Navy. He could be mistaken, of course. But something is not right."
The president stood, crossed his arms, and walked back and forth down the aisle.
"Does President Butrin know?"
"Yes, sir. Butrin knows."
"And?"
"He wants an emergency meeting with you at the airport as soon as you land."
Evtimov let that sit for a minute. "I have a feeling the Americans will help us get Ukraine back despite ourselves."
"Perhaps, " the chief of staff mused.
"Notify the commander of our Sevastopol naval base. I want every ship and plane we have scouring that sector of the sea. If the Americans are responsible, we will find that sub and sink her. And then we will kick them out of Georgia, and kick them wherever else we need to kick them! Every ship and plane. Do you hear me?"
"Yes, sir, Comrade President."
Lifeboat
The Black Sea
The rubber boat churned through the water, towing the lifeboat in its wake. It approached the stern of the submarine.
Men stood on the top of the submarine, in orange jackets, waving directions at the rubber boat. A small, floating ramp extended from the back of the submarine into the water.
The children's fear had transformed into a fixated fascination, at least for now. For that, Masha was grateful. At least they had calmed down a bit. Aleksey, however, still sitting in the front of the boat, was strangely subdued, as if he had turned into a ragdoll. Perhaps he was exhausted from getting them off the ship and fighting the whirlpool.
One sailor tossed a rope into the lifeboat from the submarine while another crouched down the ramp and stepped into the boat. He tied the rope to the boat. Others on the submarine pulled the bow of the boat up onto the floating ramp.
The man spoke in perfect Russian. "I am Lieutenant Phil Jamison, United States Navy. Welcome aboard the USS Honolulu. But we must hurry. Come, children!"
Inside, Masha cheered. Americans!
Aleksey went up the ramp first. The children scampered up the ramp in a single-file line, and the men were lifting them up and passing them to other men who were inside the hatch of the submarine. Finally when Sasha headed up the ramp, Masha left the boat.
"This way, ma'am." The Russian-speaking lieutenant directed her to another orange-jacketed sailor, who stood beside the open hatch. The sailor took her hand and helped her climb down a ladder.
An officer stood at the bottom of the ladder. At least, she assumed he was an officer. He wore a dark blue jump suit and had gold oak leaves on his collars. The name Pippen was written across his chest.
This officer spoke no Russian. He put his hand on her shoulder and led her down a very dark, narrow hallway in the submarine. He directed her into a room off to the left, where the children were congregated. It looked like some sort of a dining room and had fluorescent lights hanging overhead.
He pointed to a seat at the end of one of the long metal benches at the table.
She sat and exhaled.
And then, it hit her.
Dima!
"Dima! Dima! Where is Dima?" She stood, screaming. "Dima! Dima!
Dima!"
"Settle down, ma'am! Settle down!" some of the Americans were saying.
"Masha, calm down!" Aleksey said. "I am sure he is fine. We did what we had to do!"
"No! You said there were other lifeboats!"
"Get a corpsman in here! Now!" one of the Americans said.
"Prepare to dive! Prepare to dive!" Alarms sounded all over the submarine.
"No! We cannot leave Dima! No! No!"
"Dive! Dive!" the loudspeaker was saying.
One of the American sailors, a big man with muscular arms, pinned her to the table now. She felt the submarine begin to sink under the water.
"Nooooo!"
Another sailor wearing a blue jumpsuit walked in, carrying a syringe with a long, silver needle that sparkled under the lights.
"Jesus! You said you would help me! Please help Dima!"
The sailor stuck the needle into her arm.
"No!"
Fluorescent lights overhead started spinning. Sleep overpowered her.
The White House
President Williams was sipping tea with the Honorable Jack W. Davis, the Irish ambassador to the United States. They were accompanied by Robert Mauney, the United States secretary of state.
Mack liked the Irish, liked their temperament, and had even joked with Ambassador Davis that he was a Notre Dame fan, at least when Notre Dame was not playing Kansas.
This was good small talk, Mack thought, especially since he was not comfortable discussing the ambassador's true agenda. The Irish wanted America to press Britain on the issue of independence for Northern Ireland.
Personally, Mack did not care whether Northern Ireland was part of Ireland or Great Britain. And while he liked the Irish, America needed Britain's power, influence, and prestige, especially at a time when antiAmerican sentiment was at its highest point in history.
"I know it is a very delicate situation, Mr. Ambassador, and I will voice your concerns to Prime Minister Anthony." He was referring to his close personal friend British Prime Minister Anthony McMillan.
"My government appreciates your consideration, Mr. President."
"I cannot promise anything, except that I will speak to him."
"That is all we can ask."
The phone buzzed on the president's desk as the ambassador took another sip of tea. Thank goodness.
"Excuse me, Mr. Ambassador."
"But of course."
The president picked up the phone for his appointments secretary, Gale Staff. "Yes, Gale?"
"Mr. President. I'm sorry to interrupt, but the secretary of defense and chairman of the Joint Chiefs are on the line. They say it's urgent, sir."
"Patch it through to the ante room."
"Yes, sir."
The president hung up. "Mr. Ambassador, my apologies, but the secretary of state and I are needed for an urgent phone call."
"By all means, sir. I was just leaving."
"No, we can take it in the next room."
The Irish ambassador smiled. "No reason to displace the most powerful man in the world. Please take your call here in the Oval Office. I will show myself out. Perhaps we can speak later, Mr. President."