“I think South East Energy has around $400 million invested in Blue Stream Pipeline B.V. Yana shrugged. “Would it benefit South East Energy if these licences were issued?” She raised an eyebrow.
Yana nodded. “Congressman Worden,” she said, “do you have a list of donors to your re-election fund? I do.” She slapped down a sheaf of papers onto the desk and smiled. “Let me see now. An energy company needs a licence. Funds for re-election are needed by a politician.”
“Just a min…”
“Let her carry on, Congressman,” said Marcia.
“A politician who can bring great influence to bear on the issuers of this licence. This is not a difficult thing to figure out. Not rocket science, as they say. Invest money in pipeline. Need licence. Politician need re-election. Funds for election. Get licence, make more money.” Yana picked up the papers she’d dropped onto the desk. “Money make world go round, yes? But for some people there is more than money; there is pride. There is honour. There is territory and influence. There is greater Russia. Russia has pride and honour; she wants territory and influence. She uses men with greed, men with their eyes on the chance, to get what she wants.”
“Yana, we take your point. There is something more important than money. We’ll close it there,” said Marcia to the camera. “Thank you my guests tonight: Mitchel Worden, Congressional representative for South Eastern Texas; Calori Mansor, senior Vice president of South East Energy; Journalist Yana Borisova from Ukraine. I’m Marcia Goldforli. This is NBC, and our eyes are on the world tonight.”
A studio employee carefully removed Yana’s makeup.
“Thanks.”
“No problem hon, you got your own make up? Borrow what you want, some good shadows in there.”
She applied the makeup and wondered about her place here. She’d been accepted as a foreign journalist, an expert on Ukraine — Russian affairs. Her apartment was simple but comfortable. Yana was paid to write and talk about the situation back in her homeland. But was it her? She’d been an Army Intelligence Officer in a past life. The past life hurt her. It was that which could not really exist. She suspected her father had cancer. How long now? She couldn’t go back, couldn’t see him. This duty to the motherland was a prison. She knew it had to be done. But why her? Why?
She left the studio, as she was heading for the door of the NBC complex a man approached her
“Ms Yana Borisova. You did well tonight, you gave them what they didn’t want. You gave them the finger.”
She looked at the ma;, he was late thirties and wore glasses, he was plain looking but he had a sharp edge to him.
“Thank you.” She frowned puzzled. Who was this?
“Can we have a talk? I know someone who’d like a word with you.” He showed her a badge; it wore the crest of the Central Intelligence Agency.
“I suppose I could, yes. Where?”
“I have a car waiting for us, Ms Borisova; we’re going to meet him at his favourite restaurant.”
Later that night the car dropped her at her apartment.
“Goodnight Miss,” said the plain, bespectacled man.
“Goodnight.” She opened the door to her apartment building, nodded to the building super and took the elevator to her floor. Yana showered and got ready for bed.
This had been a night. Her contact was a late middle-aged man. He could talk the small talk and cut to the chase.
“You’ll know me as Owen. It will do. Yana, I know you. I know you’re with The Kievan Unit.” She felt as though she’d been looked through. It felt like she was naked under an X-Ray. The men with him followed him, anticipating his every whim. They were at his disposal, she knew. The man was drenched in power and influence. Probably a CIA Director or someone akin to such a position. As she lay there in bed that night, she smiled; this must be her break.
USS NYC HAD MADE WAY below the waves for 12 hours; it was eighteen hundred hours. Now, it was time to get a fix.
“Planesman, trim for bow up. Up bubble ten degrees. Come to periscope depth.”
The boat took a bow up attitude.
“Periscope depth sir.”
“Pigeon. I’m going to raise the mast. Get a satellite fix.”
Franks set the controls on his Conn. The Photonic mast rose and did two 360 sweeps then lowered below the waves.
“Satellite positive acquisition sir, plotting position.”
Franks looked at his screen and did a full rotation. There, to the north, as expected, was the Crimean peninsula. It looked around ten miles away. He could have used the mast, it was carrying a AN/BPS-16 surface search and navigation radar, but he didn’t want to awaken any sensors the opposition may have in the area. Franks checked the Navigation Officer’s chart display. They were eight point six miles south of the port of Foros.
“Get us to the naval base, Pigeon.”
“Bearing three zero five sir.”
“Flood forward. Open and trim vents fore and aft. Make for depth. Planesman, down bubble 15, make your depth 160 feet. Three zero five degrees. Speed 12 knots.”
“Three zero five. One hundred and sixty at twelve, aye,” replied the Planesman. The boat dived and made her way to the northwest.
“Sir, come to zero degrees, we’re off the Khersonesskiy light.”
“Come to zero degrees.” The USS NYC turned to starboard.
“Starboard thirty sir.”
“Make your turn, Planesman. Eight knots.” They were approaching the breakwater barriers to the harbour inlet.
“Nosey, let me know about any traffic. Water flows too. Pigeon, give me updates from the inertial guesser.”
Surface traffic could act as a guide to navigable passageways, and water flows could give clues as to where they were. The Inertial system was three gyroscopes aligned precisely to each other. The system sensed the turns the boat had made, but did get less accurate the longer it was used. The boat slowly entered the Russian bear’s den.
SEVASTOPOL IS A NEAR perfect harbour. The inlet faces west with two large breakwaters jutting from north and south. The inlet is around four miles long and has side inlets entering the bay from north and south. Sevastopol offers many places and sub channels to moor a ship. The base itself is extensive.
“Make your depth 100, four knots.”
USS NYC entered the harbour at dusk. Franks had decided on three datum, each would be scanned 360 degrees.
“Traffic light sir,” said Nosey, “two small diesel vessels heading out to sea. Maybe fishing boats.”
“Approaching datum one sir,” said the Navigation Officer.
“Up bubble ten.” Franks set up for a scan. The scope raised, broke surface did a 360 sweep and retracted.
“Blake. Check out the scan, see if there’s anything you’d like to take a closer look at.”
The scan was in night view, harbour lights were visible at points north and south.
“Good scan sir,” said Blake, “several frigates. Two Destroyers. Kirvak class and Admiral Grigorovich class. Kashin class.”