Three sharp rifle volleys were followed by the slow, melodic rendition of taps. His father's resting place joined the graves of thousands and thousands of others, all marked by white crosses.

That day, over protests by the Secret Ser vice, the president had insisted on taking a solitary stroll among the grave markers. The names all blurred together now, but the places… the places still stood in his mind. The markers did not always reveal where they had died, but the president knew the places well.

Verdun. North Africa. Sicily. Belgium. Normandy. The Solomon Islands. The Phillippines. Inchon. Vietnam. Grenada. Panama. Afghanistan. Iraq.

At least these men died with honor, recognized by their country, and were buried on hallowed ground where hundreds of thousands would pay tribute to their immortal sacrifices.

But now, the men that he was about to send on this dangerous mission would never be so honored. Their mission would be unknown outside of a small circle of Americans with a need to know. And if they died, which they probably would, their bodies would never be honored as his father's had. They would be swallowed forever in the black abyss of the sea.

Death was a risk every American sailor understood.

But how could he explain this to their families? At least he knew where his father was buried.

But what of the children of the officers and crew of USS Honolulu?

Would they wonder all their lives what happened to their fathers? To disappear on a clandestine mission. To be lost at sea and never seen again. To have no answers for them. To have no tombstone in a national cemetery on which to rest their hands.

Perhaps diplomacy could solve this impasse. Perhaps the secretary of state was right.

What would Colonel Williams say?

Never had the commander-in-chief felt so alone.

The Al Alamein

Entrance to the Aegean Sea

4 p.m. local time

Over the sea to the east, pillars of gray clouds danced on black streaks of rain. To the west, toward the jagged Greek coastline, the sun had started its downward trek, bathing the great ship in a luminescent orangish hue. But with the wind blowing hard across the flybridge from the east, Salman Dudayev did not have to be a man of the sea to know that soon the massive ship would sail through a torrential downpour.

"The islands are beautiful, aren't they?" Salman directed this question to the captain of the Al Alamein.

"Ever seen the Greek Isles before?" Captain Hosni Sadir asked.

"In photographs." Salman removed his sunglasses. "This is my first time at sea."

"The Island of Kalymnos is twenty-five miles to our east. To our north, twenty-five miles off our bow, is the Island of Patmos."

"Ah… the home of the apostate renegade, John, " Salman said.

"The author of that infidel propaganda they call Revelation."

Wind gusted hard across the bow. The freighter rolled from the pitching seas.

"We will pass Patmos in an hour." Sadir cupped his hand around a fresh cigarette and fired up a Zippo lighter.

Salman ignored the comment. "How far to the Bosphorus from here?"

The captain cursed when the wind blew out the tip of his cigarette. He fired up the lighter again, sucked in, and caught a burning ember at the end of the cigarette. "A little more than a day."

Wind whipped harder across the spacious open deck. Whitecaps rushed alongside the ship. Her bow plowed into the swells. The captain turned to Salman. "So what's in this for you?"

Rage welled within Salman. "The Russians stormed my house. They were looking for me. They raped my wife and daughter, then murdered them with their bloody bayonettes. When I reached them, the murderous Russians were gone." His lips froze. He squinted in the wind.

"And you, Captain? Why would you commit yourself and your ship to this mission?"

Raindrops splattered across the bridge. "Stalin deported my grandfather to Siberia with the entire Chechen population during the Great War. He never returned. The rest of my immediate family moved to Egypt. There, I fell in love with the sea. But we always kept in touch with our cousins, who returned to Chechnya in the fifties."

The captain stopped. He seemed caught up in his thoughts.

Salman studied the deep lines in his face. "And for that you would sacrifice your ship?"

Rain-darted wind stung their faces. The captain stared at the sea as he spoke. "When Maskhadov became president, we felt that there was hope for our homeland. When he introduced Islamic Law in 1997, we began the process of leaving Egypt to return to our homeland and families. I would retire from my role as a ship master. But they raided a mosque near Grozny and killed all of my aunts and uncles and cousins. And then they killed Maskhadov."

The rain was driving now, but the captain stood like a rock. "The Russians let all the other states go. Belarus. Ukraine. Moldovia. Georgia. But not Chechnya. They will never allow an Islamic state to exist on their borders." Rainwater drenched his black beret and his all-weather jacket.

"I was there when they killed him, " Salman said.

This brought the captain's eyes off the raging sea. Sadir raised his eyebrow.

"Maskhadov, " Salman said. "I was there when they killed the president."

"So we understand one another."

"Yes, " Salman said. "You sacrifice your ship for your family, and I help you sacrifice it for our martyred president and my beautiful wife and daughter."

The captain turned from the rain, ducked under the eaves of the flybridge, and fired up another cigarette. "I am prepared to sacrifice all for my martyred family, for our martyred president, and for our bleeding nation." He blew a cloud of smoke, but the wind carried it back into Salman's face. "Are you and your men ready to do the same?"

"All my men have stories similar to ours, Kapitan. They are the brightest sons of Chechnya. They are at work below even now. Get us the fuel, and we will deliver."

The captain dropped his cigarette on the deck and stamped it out. "Out there. Somewhere. We will find what you need. And when this is over, though we will never see it, there will be a new day for Chechnya and a new day for Islam."

CHAPTER 7

The USS Honolulu

Five miles east of La Maddalena

4:30 p.m. local time

A thick overcast hung over the aqua blue waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea, and the air was heavy with the smell of rain.

From the open bridge atop the sail of the USS Honolulu, Commander Pete Miranda surveyed the open waters through his binoculars. The horizon out toward the Mediterranean was open, except for the northeast-bound ferry that ran from Sardinia to the Italian port of Civitavecchia.

Lieutenant Commander Frank Pippen, Pete's executive officer, along with the officer of the deck and two lookouts joined Pete on the small open bridge area. All five men wore orange weather jackets and blue ball caps with USS Honolulu stenciled in gold.

Pete handed the binoculars to one of the lookouts standing behind him, then extracted two Montecristo cigars from his khaki shirt pocket under the weather jacket. He handed a cigar to his XO.

"Thank you, sir, " the XO said.

"My pleasure, Frank." Pete flicked a lighter and lit the end of Frank's cigar. Pete allowed himself a few drags, taking in the view for a few minutes without saying a word.

"Tell me about your family, Frank."

"Emily and I divorced several years ago. Never had kids."

"Anybody special since?"

"You know how it is. You meet women in bars." The XO took another puff, coughing as if he were choking on the smoke.

"You okay?"

"Yes, sir." Regaining his equilibrium, Frank continued. "Here today. Gone tomorrow. The Navy's a jealous mistress." Another puff on the Montecristo. More coughing. "How about you, sir?"