"Chief of the Watch, prepare for boarding by our guests."
"Aye, Captain, " the chief said. Within minutes, the portable floating ramp was deployed from the back of the submarine into the water. Pete, Frank, and Jamison headed back toward the stern of the ship. The boat closed within a few yards of the stern. Its engines were idling.
A crew member from the boat held up a megaphone. "Ahoy the submarine." The crewmember spoke in broken English.
"Mr. Jamison, take the megaphone. Tell them that they may board, that our intentions are not hostile, and that we mean them no harm."
"Aye, Captain." Jamison complied.
"Bashoya spaceeba." The reply came.
"He thanks us, Captain."
Lines were tossed back and forth between American and Russian sailors on the sub and on the boarding craft. A few minutes later the first Russian officer was making his way to the back of the submarine.
The Russian threw a salute at Pete, and Pete returned the salute.
"Tell him I am the commanding officer of the USS Honolulu, and tell him that he and his men are welcome aboard."
Jamison translated Pete's statement, then translated the Russian's reply. "He is the commanding officer of the Russian corvette Suzdaltec. He has orders to take this submarine and its crew into custody. He says that the helicopters surrounding the sub and the two ships out there are all armed with torpedoes which he will order to be launched at the sub if we do not peaceably surrender."
Pete pulled out a Montecristo, fired up a Bic lighter, and took a puff.
"Ask him if he wants a cigar."
Jamison translated.
"Nyet. Spaceeba."
"He says no thank you on the cigar. He wishes to know if we are going to voluntarily surrender."
Pete took another puff before answering. He looked up at the sun, now about to set over the water in the direction of Romania. "Tell the captain that I present to him the United States nuclear submarine, the USS Honolulu."
Russian corvette Suzdaltec The Black Sea
The full moon hung low over the sea, painting a rich, luminescent carpet across the water and illuminating the silhouette of the Honolulu, which was in tow perhaps one hundred yards behind the Suzdaltec.
The orphans had been taken inside the Russian warship, but the American submarine crew was corralled on the fantail. Armed Russian sailors guarded Pete and his crew.
Pete stood in the middle of his crew, checking his watch. Standing next to him, Frank Pippen was doing the same thing.
Their eyes met. Neither spoke.
Thirty seconds passed. Two loud booms echoed across the water from the direction of the submarine. Two more booms. Pete caught the grin on Frank Pippen's face. The XO gave his skipper an unobtrusive thumbs-up.
Russian sailors scrambled to the fantail, waving their arms and yelling phrases that Pete could not understand. Flames burst in the open bridge area of the Honolulu. The submarine started sinking in the water.
Honolulu was taking on torrents of seawater, undoubtedly from the holes in her hull caused by the SEALs' handiwork with plastic explosives. She was going under, slowly, and her weight was pulling on the back of the Suzdaltec. Pete ordered his men to stay put.
Pete felt the Suzdaltec's engines shift from ahead to neutral. This was to loosen the tension in the lines between the ship and the submarine. Even still, the fantail was listing, and water was starting to lap up over the stern.
Suzdaltec's commanding officer had come down from the bridge and was walking about the fantail, barking orders. Were they not going to cut the lines to the sinking sub? Would they let the waterlogged sub capsize and sink the corvette? Pete had heard about Russian inefficiency. He had surrendered his sub to save the orphans. But now, if the corvette went down, they could all wind up dying anyway.
"Mr. Jamison, what's going on?"
"The captain's talking about sending a boarding party back to the Honolulu to investigate."
"A boarding party? The idiot is going to wind up sinking his own ship."
"To be honest, sir, I think he and some of his officers were in the galley celebrating the capture of the Honolulu with a little too much vodka, sir."
"Great." The Russians would wind up getting them all drowned. "Lieutenant Jamison. Tell the Russian skipper that the sub is sinking, that it cannot be saved, and that he should cut the tow lines."
"Aye, Captain, " Jamison said. He called out to the Russian skipper. "Eezveneetzyah, Kapitan!" Lieutenant Jamison got the Russian skipper's attention and translated the message as instructed.
The Russian captain walked over to the center of the listing fantail, waving his hands and frantically waving and yelling at Pete.
"What's he saying?" Pete asked.
"He's steamed that we sabotaged the sub, sir. Lots of cursing. Says we will be shot for it."
"Tell him he'll never live to see us shot if he doesn't cut those lines and cut them now!"
"Aye, sir."
Jamison relayed the message. More screaming from the Russian skipper. The ship's stern lapped lower into the sea. A moment later, however, Russian sailors cut the lines attaching Suzdaltec to the sinking Honolulu. The ship's stern rose back up to normal level.
Armed sailors broke through the perimeter and approached Pete. The barrels of their AK-47 assault rifles jabbed his neck and the back of his skull. They were yelling something in frantic Russian.
"What are they saying?"
"They want you to go with them, Skipper."
"Okay, I'll go."
The men pushed Pete at gunpoint into the ship's superstructure. Once inside, they forced him down a ladder, then into a windowless space somewhere below deck. They turned off the lights and locked the door.
The room was pitch dark, except for the faint light seeping under the passageway.
Pete kneeled in the dark and prayed for the safety of his crew.
The White House Situation Room
Emergency meeting of the National Security Council
Is it true?" President Mack Williams stood at the end of the long mahogany table, staring out over the members of his National Security Council. Most of them wore somber faces.
"Have the Russians really captured our submarine?"
Silence.
"Can no one answer my question?"
Mitchell Winstead, CIA director, spoke first. "No one can confirm seeing the Honolulu, at least not yet, Mr. President." The slim mathematician swiped sweat from his thinning hairline. "But we trust our sources on this one, sir. It doesn't look good."
The president buried his eyes in his left hand. "Secretary Lopez, where's our submarine? Does the Navy know?"
"Mr. President, we've not heard from them in six hours. Our last contact was an extremely low frequency signal indicating they had spotted the Alexander Popovich. We think that they attacked the freighter… sunk it… And then… nothing, sir."
Mack stopped drinking years ago. He vowed to abstain while in public office. But now… if he had a gin and tonic… He dismissed that thought. "Director Winstead, what about this claim that the Alexander Popovich was carrying orphans?"
"Yes, sir, " Winstead said. "We've tracked down those claims. They're true, Mr. President."
"It just keeps getting better and better."
"Mr. President, " Secretary of Defense Lopez said.
"Secretary Lopez."
"Sir, the Russians have raised the alert levels of their nuclear forces to levels comparable to the Cuban Missile Crisis levels, sir. I recommend that we raise our level to DEFCON 2, sir."
Another knot twisted Mack's stomach.
"Mr. President, " the secretary of state spoke up.