"We'll piggyback under the freighter through the Sea of Marmara to the entrance of the Bosphorus. If we slip though, they cut us loose about twenty miles into the Black Sea, and we go hunting." Frank looked at Pete. "Skipper?"

Pete rose as Frank returned to his seat. "Gentlemen, we have several complicating factors. First, we're in a race against time. Alexander Popovich could get out of the Black Sea before we get in. Now one advantage we have is speed. We're three times faster than the freighter.

"Also, intel now believes that this freighter is scheduled to make a port visit to Odessa in Ukraine before leaving the Black Sea. If that's true, that could be our lucky break. This means that if we clear the Bosphorus, we'll sail due north and set our patrol area off the Ukrainian coast, in the waters off Odessa. Hopefully, we'll spot her and sink her before she ever makes that port visit.

"Now if we miss her, then the USS Charlotte is on submerged patrol in the northeastern sector of the Aegean Sea. Charlotte is Honolulu's backup, just in case. If she gets that plutonium past both subs, we've lost this game."

A new round of concerned glances.

"Any questions?"

There were none.

"Be ready. Be on your toes. And pray that God's will be done. I'll be in my stateroom for about thirty minutes. Until then, the XO has the conn."

Vandenberg Air Force Base Near Lompoc, California

Kent Pendleton brought the binoculars to his eyes and adjusted the focus into full view. The vertical tower sitting atop the launch pad was two miles downrange from the observation platform, but the powerful binoculars brought the sight into full focus.

White steam spewed from the base and sides of the illuminated Delta II rocket, as the countdown echoed from loudspeakers blaring in the observation area and flight control rooms.

"Ten… nine… eight… seven… six… Ignition sequence started…"

The rocket shook on the pad under the igniting combustion of its boosters.

"… four… three… two… one… We have ignition!"

Orange fire and white smoke mushroomed from the base of the launch tower.

"We have liftoff!"

The Delta II lifted into the sky… first slowly, as if a giant, invisible hand was gently raising it off the ground, and then rapidly gaining speed, shooting through the sky like a blazing rock shot from a slingshot.

Streaking a ghastly white mark across the heavenly twilight, it turned on a trajectory headed into the southern sky, growing smaller, smaller, and finally disappearing behind its wispy jet stream.

Five minutes later, a second Delta II burst into the sky, blazing across the heavens to the south, seemingly in pursuit of its predecessor.

Kent checked his watch. Good. Ahead of schedule.

His job here was done. Sure, it was a long shot, but a long shot was better than no shot. Barring computer or mechanical malfunctions, Redwoods I and II, the satellites sitting atop the Delta rockets, would reach their destinations before he got back to Washington. Now, if the cameras on board those satellites could just get a lucky shot at the Alexander Popovich.

The USS Honolulu The Aegean Sea

The captain's stateroom on board a Los Angeles – class nuclear submarine was not much larger than a walk-in closet. Even so, considering the sardine-can berthing arrangements available to the rest of the crew, the captain's quarters was a haven of luxury.

Once the Honolulu rendezvoused with the freighter Volga River, there would be no time for sleep. From that point on, the skipper would need to be as well rested as possible.

In drill after drill throughout the years, Pete had learned the importance of sleeping when one could. Clarity of thinking would be required for dozens of decisions with dangerous implications that could mean the difference between success and failure or life and death. Of course, in the Cold War and the uneasy peace that followed, Pete's naval career was a series of drills and high-stakes war games.

But this mission was no game. Torpedoes would be fired in defense from a larger threat. Real people would die. His boat would become the most hunted warship in the world.

For the benefit of his crew, to insure that their captain was fresh, Pete Miranda positioned the pillow under his head, flipped off the small lamp, and lay faceup on his rack.

Darkness was never complete on a submarine. Light streamed under the hatch separating his stateroom from the passageway. Sounds of sailors passing by outside, though muffled, constantly reminded him of his surroundings.

Pete flipped the lamp back on, then reached down into the locker under his rack and felt the blue photo album that he always kept there. Other than his U.S. Navy uniforms, the album was about the only thing he'd gotten to keep following the divorce.

His daughter Hannah had taken gold, glittery paint and written the word Memories on the outside. Inside, she had arranged a panorama of photographs that told the colorful story of his life with Sally and the kids in the years before the divorce.

The first photo, an eight-by-ten image of Pete as a slim, young lieutenant j.g., in his summer dress whites, showed him holding Hannah in his arms in front of the pink and green bougainvillea vine in their front yard at their home in California. She first came home from the hospital that day, and the photo taken on that August morning revealed the head of black hair.

The commander drank in the sight of his baby girl. She was the most beautiful little baby ever born. And she was his little girl.

Until the divorce.

The blare of the 1MC shocked him out of his daydream.

"Alert one! Alert one! Incoming emergency action message! Alert one! Alert one! Incoming EAM!"

Pete dropped the album on the rack and swung his feet onto the deck.

"Captain Miranda, report to the conn, please!"

Pete picked up the phone line connecting to the control room. "CO here. On my way."

He scrambled out the hatch, turned right, and sprinted along the steel grated floors. Sailors stood back, clearing a pathway for their commander.

Pete stomped up a short aluminum stairway to the second deck, and then stormed into the control room, where Frank Pippen stood in the middle of the room, under the periscope mount. He was holding a white sheet of paper and barking orders to the officers and enlisted men.

"Attention on deck!" the chief of the boat shouted.

"At ease! I have the conn!" Pete said. "What is it, Frank?"

"New EAM, Captain." The XO handed the message to Pete. "Looks like Turkey's heating up, sir."

Pete whipped his reading glasses out of his front shirt pocket, then looked down.

EMERGENCY ACTION MESSAGE

FROM: NATIONAL MILITARY COMMAND CENTER – WASHINGTON, D.C.

TO: ALL U.S. SHIPS AT SEA AND U.S. NAVAL SHORE FACILITIES

SUBJECT: ACTION MESSAGE – TURKISH – GEORGIAN MILITARY

SITUATION

REMARKS:

President of Turkish Republic has requested NATO ground and air forces reinforcement in NW Turkey in response to massive Russian military buildup in Caucasus region.

President of Republic of Georgia has requested NATO military aircraft overflights in response to same.

U.S. National Command Authority has endorsed Turkish and Georgian request to NATO Secretary General under codename Operation Fortify.

British government has concurred in endorsement.

Elements of 82nd and 101st Airborne Divs ordered deployed effective immediately to NW Turkey.

Set DEFCON 3 by order of National Command Authority.

Pete crumbled the message in his hands. "Great. Just great."

"What do you make of it, Skipper?"

Pete held his hand out, signifying later. "Mr. COB, " he said to the chief of the boat. "On the 1MC."

"The 1MC, aye, Captain." The COB flipped a switch on an overhead control panel and passed the microphone to Pete.