The major turned directly to Pete and pointed. "This, gentlemen, is Commander Peter Miranda. He is the captain of the American submarine Honolulu, and it is he who ordered the unjustified and indiscriminate attack on a civilian Russian freighter – a freighter which had no means of defending itself.
"This man is an international terrorist of the darkest order. He violated international laws and the law of the high seas by sailing his submarine through the Bosphorus submerged. He attacked a civilian ship, taking the lives of innocent Russians who were only doing their jobs on the sea to try and earn a living for their families."
Andropov turned back to the panel. "There are several people in this courtroom today that I would like to introduce. Ludmilla Batsakov, please stand."
Pete looked around. A stout, matronly lady with white hair and a severely wrinkled face stood in the row just behind the orphans. Andropov waved his hand grandly as he turned back to the panel. "This, gentlemen, is Ludmilla Batsakov – the mother of Kapitan Yuri Mikal-vich Batsakov."
Wailing and crying erupted from the woman at the mention of her son's name. Two Russian soldiers rushed to her aid, offering tissues and water.
"And I remind you, gentlemen, " Andropov said over the woman's dramatic wailing, "that Kapitan Batsakov was not the only innocent Russian to die. I present to you the family of the deceased crewmembers of the Alexander Popovich." They stood in the row just beside the Bat-sakov woman – an assortment of wives, mothers, and girlfriends – and children. More groaning and crying arose from the choir of the bereaved, as Andropov turned back to the panelists again.
"And finally, the most horrific part of all this: This terrorist tried to murder a group of innocent orphans on board the Alexander Pop-ovich." He turned and surveyed the first row behind counsel table. "Stand, children."
Pete caught Dima's eyes as the orphans, some of whom were trembling at all the attention, rose sheepishly as a group just behind the prosecution's table. "As a result of this man's acts, these little ones were subject to smoke and fire, to water and oil, were thrown into the sea, where they were rescued by one heroic Russian sailor, Aleksey Anatoly-vich. Please stand, Aleksey Anatolyvich." Aleksey stood there, looking down at his feet. "He single-handedly got them into lifeboats and saved them all.
"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."