Authors: Don Brown
"You think this may be it?"
Kent hesitated. "I pray not. We'll know more at our next satellite pass around two-thirty."
The phone rang. "Kent, Mr. Harrell from NSA is on the secure line, " the secretary said.
"Thanks." Kent waited for the connection. G. B. Harrell was Kent's counterpart at the National Security Agency at Fort Meade, the duty supervisor for monitoring Northern Caucasus activity. The NSA was the U.S. government agency tasked with intercepting communication signals of potential enemies worldwide.
Harrell's voice came on the line. "Kent, what's up?"
"Our one-thirty satellite pass shows Russian ground forces on the move, south out of Volgograd and east out of North Ossetia."
"What size?"
"Too early to tell, G. B. Maybe two, three divisions. We'll know more when our bird passes over them again."
"Hmm." Harrell paused. "We'd been picking up traffic from that region in the last few hours indicating that a movement of forces was getting underway. But the usual questions -- from where to where, and when -- have been a puzzle. This helps fill part of the puzzle. Are our birds showing other Russian force movements anywhere in the world?"
"Negative, G. B. Not yet. I'll be meeting with our other Russian action officers here in just a few and I'll call you if that changes. But as of now, Moscow, St. Petersburg, Vladivostok . . . all seem quiet."
"Okay, " Harrell said. "I'm calling this an urgent matter for top-secret classification that needs immediate attention up the chain-of-command. The national security director and the secretary of defense will need to be roused. They can decide whether to wake the president."
"I concur, " Kent said. "I'll notify the NGA director. You can handle NSA and the secretary of defense. I'm sending these photos over now. Let's touch base in thirty to get these reports meshed together. Sounds like we're going to have a busy one."
"Concur."
"Talk to you soon."
The secure line went dead.
The
Alexander Popovich
Sochi, Russia
9:05 a.m. local time
Captain Batsakov waited just long enough for Aleksey to return with a loaded pistol before entering his stateroom.
Two men, both appearing to be in their mid to late thirties, sat at his dining table. The men rose as Batsakov closed the door. "Ah,
Kapitan
!" The man on the left spoke in the smug tone of a know-it-all bureaucrat. "I am Agent Fedorov. This is Agent Sidorov." Their identification badges featured the light blue globe surrounded by a gold ring, sitting on a gold pedestal, and back-dropped by the familiar sprawling five-pointed star rising above wreaths of wheat -- the terrifying symbol of the FSB.
"Welcome to the
Alexander Popovich.
"
"
Spaceeba
,
Kapitan
, " Fedorov said. "May we sit?"
"Please." Batsakov motioned the two visitors to resume their places at the table. "Would you gentlemen care for something to drink?"
"Vodka, " Fedorov said.
"Vodka for me also, " Sidorov added.
Batsakov retrieved two glasses from the cabinet above the sink. "So, gentlemen, how may I be of service to the FSB?" Clear vodka flowed into the glasses. Batsakov handed one to each of the agents.
"
Kapitan
." Fedorov sipped the vodka. "Rumor has it that you have become, shall we say, a handsomely paid ship's master."
"And why is the FSB concerned about my compensation? I have always paid all of my taxes."
"Yes, of course, " Fedorov said. "Well, I suppose as your taxes support the motherland, and you do not use your ship in any way that would embarass the Russian Republic, your compensation
would
be a personal matter, no?"
Batsakov ignored the comment. "So, gentlemen, as I asked a moment ago, how may I be of ser vice to Mother Russia?"
"Hmm." Federov exchanged glances with his partner. "Perhaps,
Kapitan
, the more pertinent question is, how can your ship be of service to Mother Russia?"
Bataskov sipped his vodka and studied the piercing eyes of the two FSB agents. "Agent Federov, undoubtedly you reviewed my governmental file before boarding my ship. Therefore, you know that, despite my fondness for occasionally earning a few extra rubles, my loyalty to the motherland is unflinching."
"Yes, your file indicates, shall we say, a
consistency
in your line of work."
Talking in circles.
Batsakov hated this about bureaucrats, and especially FSB bureaucrats. If they wanted to search his ship, why not just say so?
"Gentlemen. As you know we are preparing to get underway later today. I must return to the bridge to oversee all this."
"Why in such a hurry to sail,
Kapitan
? You have a date with some beautiful mermaid in the Black Sea?" Federov chuckled at himself.
His pal Sidorov sneered, then spoke up. "You do realize, do you not,
Kapitan
, that it is a privilege, and not a right, to sail your freighter under the registration of the Motherland, and that your ability to fly the flag of Mother Russia on the high seas affords you certain" -- he hesitated and scratched his chin -- "shall we say,
privileges
not ordinarily afforded to ships flying the ensigns of other nations?"
"Yes, of course I know it is a privilege not only to fly the flag of our country, but also to be a Russian citizen."
"Hmm." This was Fedorov again. "Then you would undoubtedly volunteer your ship for a diplomatic mission on behalf of the president of the Russian Federation?"
Where were they headed with all this? "Yes, of course. To the extent possible I would do everything I can for our president."
"Good." Federov downed his vodka. "Have some more of this stuff,
Kapitan
?"
"
Dah
, of course." Batsakov refilled the agent's glass to the brim.
"You are aware, are you not, that President Evtimov has been concerned about Western influences undermining stability in a number of the former republics of the former Soviet Union."
"I know what I read in
Pravda
."
"You are aware that over the past few years, beginning with the election of Victor Yushchenko, that Ukraine has drifted closer to the Americans' camp."
"I sail into Ukraine. I hear stories about this debate."
Federov sipped more vodka. "Yes, well, President Evtimov is none too happy about it. And since the Americans lost some of their popularity after the Dome of the Rock attacks, our president has been courting Ukraine very hard."
"Tell me, comrade. How can I help?"
"There is an orphanage near Chernobyl. In fact, the Ukrainian president -- Butrin -- spent time there as a boy. He visits there often, and holds the place dear to his heart."
"I've heard of it."
"A group of orphans spent summer holiday here in Sochi. President Evtimov has been on the phone with President Butrin of Ukraine. As a gesture of friendship, our president has offered to find a Russian ship sailing for Odessa for the children to ride back on. When the ship arrives in port, President Butrin will be waiting for the children at the docks along with President Evtimov, at which time Russia will offer significant money to Ukraine to upgrade its orphanage facilities. We see that your ship will be sailing for Odessa, and we want you to host these orphans on your voyage."
"How many children wish to ride on my ship?"
"Twelve. Plus their adult counselor. Plenty of room for you to accommodate,
Kapitan
."
"Are you crazy?" Batsakov threw his arms in the air. "What am I? A babysitter? My ship is a dangerous place for children. There is cargo sliding around and there is no one to watch them. They could easily fall overboard. Besides, why not just use a Russian navy vessel?"
"Because President Evtimov wants to deemphasize military ties and emphasize peaceful civilian cooperation. This will only delay your departure twenty-four hours."
Great. Another twenty-four hours for someone to discover the
cargo for which I will be paid five million dollars for delivery. But what
can I say?
"Please tell President Evtimov that
Alexander Popovich
is pleased to be of ser vice to the motherland."
United States Naval Support Activity
La Maddalena, Italy
A JAG officer will be right out, Commander. If you'd like to have a seat here in the lobby, sir, feel free."
"Very well." Commander Pete Miranda looked up at the legalman chief, who had just walked through the double doors leading from the back of the spartan offices that served as the Navy Legal Ser vice Office in La Maddalena.
An updated will was long overdue.
He should've done it when he and Sally divorced five years ago. But the kids were well taken care of back in Norfolk, and there was plenty of life insurance should something go wrong.
Plus, commanding a
Los Angeles
- class nuclear submarine provided no free time. His men, his boat, and the United States Navy were all-consuming.
But the dangerous, top-secret mission ordered by Sixth Fleet had caused him to rethink his will. Certain things should go to his twelve-year-old son, Coley, he had decided: his two Navy Commendation medals; his three Meritorious Service Medals, the bronze "dolphins" worn on his uniform signifying his elite status as a member of the silent service; and his "command" medallion, showing that he was the captain of the USS
Chicago.
To his thirteen-year-old daughter, Hannah, he would leave his wedding band, which he had saved since the divorce, his watch, his family Bible that his grandparents gave him on his graduation from college, and his officer's sword, which he had carried when he and Sally were married all those years ago.
None of this meant much to the kids right now. But one day -- if this mission went south -- they just might come to appreciate what their daddy stood for.
Residence of the secretary of defense
Arlington, Virginia
1:08 a.m.
The cacophonous buzz from the telephone on the nightstand brought the bed's only occupant to a stiff, upright position. Unlike the personal telephone on his other nightstand, which rang in softer, more pleasant tones, the tortuous noise from the phone on the left could be from only one of four sources -- the White House, the NSA, the Pentagon, or the CIA -- and the caller on the other end was calling to discuss an issue of immediate, pressing, national security.
"Secretary Lopez here."
"Mr. Secretary, this is G. B. Harrell, the action officer for Russian affairs at NSA. Sorry to bother you at this time of morning."
"I know you wouldn't call if it wasn't urgent. What's up?"
"Sir, we're picking up significant movement of Russian ground forces."
"Talk to me."
"Several dozen divisions so far. Mostly moving south out of Volgograd. Plus several divisions moving east out of North Ossetia. Most likely destination, Chechnya. But at the strength level we're seeing, at this point we have to be concerned about them moving farther south, sir."
"I'll call the president. Send your report to my office at the Pentagon. I'm headed over there right now."
"Yes, sir, Mr. Secretary."
The White House
9:20 a.m.
Before I order this attack, I need to know that our intelligence is solid."
President Mack Williams folded his arms and turned his back on the small cadre of high-powered advisors gathered around him in the Oval Office. He looked outside. Dew drops on several dozen rose bushes sparkled in the morning sunlight. Out on the South Lawn, lush grass sprawled like a glowing green carpet from the Oval Office, under the black iron gates to the Mall, out to the Washington Monument.
They had told him that the office would impose itself upon him. And in the five years since he had come to the Oval Office, the trim, fifty-five-year old Kansan had seen his hair transformed from pure brown to salt-and-pepper. More salt than otherwise.
Lines of worry had begun to subtly cross his tan forehead, which the First Lady had said gave him a more distinguished look. But Mack Williams knew better. And in a post-9/11 world where the traditional rules of war and peace had become a distant concept of the past, it was inevitable that the weight of the great office would be heavy upon any man.
Still, someone had to bear this weight. For the sake of freedom. For the sake of America. To defend the Constitution against all enemies, foreign and domestic. This was his time and place. He would bear this burden alone.
Mack turned away from the peaceful view of the South Lawn. He folded his arms and gazed at the members of his National Security Council.
"Where are we on all this Russian troop movement?"