"Agreed, Mr. President, " the secretary of defense chimed in.
Secretary Mauney grimaced.
"Therefore, Secretary Mauney, I want you to open talks with the Russians on the release of that pilot, but as a condition, there must be some acknowledgment on their part that our pilots did not fire into their territory and that their pilots were over Georgian territory."
"They won't like it, sir."
"I don't care if they like it or not. Put some face-saving language in there if you want, but that's the way it's going to be."
"Yes, sir, " the secretary of state said.
"Now, Secretary Lopez."
"Yes, Mr. President."
"I have three directives I want to underscore. First, all activities in Turkey and Georgia will continue as previously directed, until otherwise ordered by me."
"Yes, sir."
"Second, I want you to organize a press conference at the Pentagon this afternoon to get the facts out about what happened in that dogfight over Georgia."
"Will do, sir."
"Finally, there is to be no change – repeat no change – in the operational orders for Operation Undercover. We've come this far. We've gotten our sub into the Black Sea. We're going to find that freighter, sink her, and keep that plutonium out of the hands of terrorists. We're going to do this because it's the right thing to do."
Mack surveyed the room. Stone silence and electric tension dominated the atmosphere.
"Any questions?"
There were none.
"Very well, let's all get to work. This meeting is adjourned."
CHAPTER 17
The USS Honolulu
The Black Sea
Commander Pete Miranda walked around the control room, sipping black coffee and checking his watch. Now they were in a waiting game.
But submariners were good at that. Just waiting.
All the training, all the drills, all the practices, the repetitions, the checklists, etc. It all came down to this.
Running silent, running deep.
Waiting.
"What's our position, Chief of the Boat?"
"Forty-five degrees north latitude; thirty degrees, thirty minutes east longitude. Depth one-five-zero. Hovering at ground zero, Skipper."
"Very well, Mr. COB, thank you."
"Aye, sir."
To be a hunter. A predator. To kill from the depths of the sea and return silently back to ports unknown. This was the duty of the submariner.
Even still, in the serene silence of it all, Pete hoped they would never have to launch a torpedo.
Pete was unafraid of dying. Nor was he afraid of the naval dragnet that would sweep the area soon after the freighter's sinking.
None of that drove this feeling. There was just a hope that somehow, some way, the crisis could resolve itself in another way.
They'd already made history by entering the Black Sea. But beyond a tiny handful of Americans in the Navy and at the very upper echelons of the United States government, this moment would never be known.
It would never exist in the history books. Not that Pete cared about making the history books. He did not.
But his children, Hannah and Coley, the son and daughter he had not seen for a year, were weighing on his heart.
All his life's regrets flashed through his mind. His marriage to the Navy. Christmases gone by when he was alone, without his children to open presents under the Christmas tree.
He closed his eyes and saw thirteen-year-old Hannah. Her hair was wavy and black as coal. Her skin was fair and her eyes were a deep, haunting blue. She was his Snow White, a princess always in his heart.
And her smile when she sat on his knee and put her arms around him made every part of his soul melt.
Coley was born a year after Hannah. He too had inherited Sally's wavy, jet-black hair. While Hannah was sugar and spice and everything nice, Coley was all boy.
The kid got into everything, and Pete thought he was going to burn the house down from one of the many "chemistry experiments" Coley conducted in his room. To keep Coley's mischievous streak in check, Pete insisted that the boy play sports. Coley experimented with baseball and basketball, before settling on soccer, in which he excelled as the fastest, most agile and lithe forward on the team.
That thought brought a proud smile to the captain's face.
The history books could fall off a cliff as far as Pete was concerned.
Most of them were revisionist anyway. But his heart's desire was for Hannah and Coley to know what their ole pop sacrificed here, in the Black Sea, and to know that he had done it for America – that he had done it for them.
If only some way they could know.
But his death, should it come, would kill a last chance to hug his little girl or play catch with his boy. God forgive me for my poor choices.
Forgive me for letting this time slip away.
How surreal it all was. To be here, yet in the eyes of millions and the eyes of his children, to vanish into oblivion… never to be heard from again.
The cacophonous static of the ship's communication speaker broke the serenity of the moment.
"Conn. Radio! Receiving emergency action message!… Recommend alert one. Recommend alert one!"
Pete barked at the officer of the deck. "Officer of the deck, on the 1MC, sound alert one!"
"Aye, Skipper! Sounding alert one!" The OOD picked up the microphone and switched the frequency to the 1MC, broadcasting the alert all over the ship.
"Alert one! Alert one! Incoming emergency action message! Alert one! Alert one! Incoming EAM!"
Pete looked at Frank Pippen, who was now wearing his battle-ready game face. "XO, follow me."
"Aye, Skipper."
"Mr. McCaffity, you have the conn!"
"Aye, Skipper, I have the conn, " replied Lieutenant Darwin McCaf-fity, the officer of the deck.
In the midst of warning buzzers sounding off and on, like a buzzing alarm clock without the snooze button, Pete bounded down the steel, grated decks to the radio room, which was on the same deck as the control room. The radio officer, Lieutenant Walt Brown, had already printed a hard copy of the EAM and was holding it out for the captain.
"Looks like we've got a target, Skipper, " the radio officer announced. Pete snatched the message from his hand. He spread the sheet on the charting table.
EMERGENCY ACTION MESSAGE
FROM: NATIONAL MILITARY COMMAND CENTER – WASHINGTON, D.C.
TO: USS HONOLULU
SUBJECT: ACTION MESSAGE REMARKS:
Be advised U.S. reconnaissance satellites have spotted Russian freighter Alexander Popovich operating in vicinity of USS Honolulu current patrol area.
Alexander Popovich last spotted 1030 hours Zulu time at 44 degrees north latitude, 33 degrees east longitude on course bearing 340 degrees.
Carry out battle plan. Seek and destroy.
Pete handed the message to Frank. "Lieutenant Brown, pass me the microphone."
"Aye, Skipper." The radio officer complied.
"On the 1MC."
Lieutenant Brown punched a button. "You've got the 1MC now, sir."
"Thank you, Lieutenant." Pete pressed the broadcast switch and spoke into the microphone. "All hands, now hear this. This is the captain." He paused for a moment as his voice echoed in all the passageways and compartments of the three-hundred-sixty-foot submarine. "We've just received an updated EAM from Washington. Alexander Popovich is in our area, and she's coming our way. When we find her, we're going to sink her.
"Torpedo Room, be prepared. All departments and all personnel, be prepared. Be alert. Be ready to go to battle stations at a moment's notice.
"When we sink her, I expect that within an hour, we will face a naval dragnet covering the entire western sector of the Black Sea from the Russian, the Ukrainian, the Romanian, and the Bulgarian navies." He looked at Frank Pippen, who slowly nodded his head. "This is dangerous business, people. But you know that. Stay on your toes.