"Kapitan, I urge you, remain calm, " Joseph said. "We are but two hours off schedule. We had to investigate. They were Egyptian. It appeared that they had come looking for us."

Batsakov grabbed the open bottle of vodka on the charting table. He brought the bottle to his lips, turning it bottoms up.

"We will sail to the original rendezvous area, Yuri Mikalvich, " Joseph said. "You will lead us there, my kapitan. We will deliver our cargo. Then we will be rich men!"

Batsakov was unsure if the hot vodka was mollifying his anger or fueling it.

"Think about it, Yuri Mikalvich, " the first officer said, patting him on the back. "Two-and-a-half million American dollars in your pocket!" A greedy tone permeated Joseph's voice. "A full million for me and the crew divides the rest! Our lives will never be the same at the end of this voyage, Kapitan."

Batsakov finished the vodka. His first officer was right. Their lives would never be the same. This was no time for temper tantrums. He had to focus. A fortune was on the line. He was a good sea captain. He would find this freighter, deliver the cargo, eliminate the Masha Katovich problem, and drop these bratty orphans off in Ukraine to satisfy the politicians. Then he would sail the Alexander Popovich to the Bahamas, where he would collect his fortune and wait for another assignment. Or perhaps collect his fortune and simply retire.

Batsakov's eyes met his first officer's. "You are right, Joseph. Let us go find the Egyptian!"

"To the Egyptian!" Now Joseph was raising his own glass of vodka. Batsakov held up his bottle and clanked it against Joseph's glass.

"To the Egyptian!" Batsakov repeated the comment, pretending to drink from his now-empty bottle.

"Allah would be pleased!" The first officer laughed, swilling his own vodka.

That comment ignited a volvanic guffaw from within Batsakov's belly, bending him over double. "Yes, Allah would be pleased, " he said, cackling at the notion. The captain regained his composure, stood erect, and issued his next order.

"Resume course two-seven-zero. All engines ahead full!"

The Al Alamein

The Sea of Marmara

Captain Hosni Sadir watched the armed boarding party from the Turkish Navy walk across the main deck of his ship for what seemed like the hundredth time.

The Turks were an inexplicable oddity, Sadir thought. They were 98 percent Muslim. But since the 1940s, they had been allied with the Americans. Many Arab Muslims could not understand this unholy alliance.

But his Muslim brothers in Chechnya understood it.

Fear of the bloodthirsty Russians drove this alliance. The more than a quarter of a million Chechen martyrs who had gone to paradise since 1994 would approve of their Turkish Muslim brothers doing whatever was necessary to halt the expansion of Russia, even if that meant sleeping with the infidel Americans.

Sadir watched as the party, consisting of two officers and three Turkish marines, looked in crates, opened hatches, and poked around in areas where there was nothing significant. It would take weeks for such a small group to search every inch of this ship, and if they stopped every ship trying to get through the Bosphorus, they would effectively shut down one of the world's busiest shipping arteries. The economic superpowers would not let that happen.

As long as the Turks did not go below and discover the lead-walled laboratory and the silver radioactive suits waiting for Salman Dudayev's team, he had no worries. And even if they did, he still had no worries. This was Allah's mission, and he was Allah's servant.

One of the inspectors approached. "I am Lieutenant Baghadur of the Turkish Navy. Our party has completed its inspection. You are free to pass, Captain."

"A pleasure having you on board the Al Alamein." Captain Sadir accepted the Turk's salute, then watched the boarding party climb down the ladders into their patrol boats. When they were safely away at a distance of two hundred yards, he headed down the main deck to the ladder leading back up into the bridge. Thirty minutes later, Al Alamein passed north, steaming at eight knots under the first bridge spanning the Bosphorus.

The USS Honolulu The Aegean Sea

The officer of the deck, Lieutenant Darwin McCaffity, had just completed a final sweep on the scope. It confirmed a dark image of the freighter's hull against the lighter water through the periscope head window. A quick check of the side-scan sonar to confirm the ship's position showed all was ready.

"Captain, the ship is ready to vertically surface." McCaffity's voice came from just a few feet away in the dimly lit control room.

"Very well, Mr. McCaffity, " Pete said. He stood in the center of the darkened control room, watching the ship's control party maintain the seven-thousand-ton submarine completely motionless at 160 feet under the surface of the Aegean Sea.

"Commence ascent."

"Aye, sir, commence ascent."

Good plans were often as good as the paper they were written on, Pete thought, as his crew began blowing air into his sub's ballast tanks to raise her up toward the giant freighter floating just above them.

Good plans often got people killed. Especially during military operations.

Commander Pete Miranda knew of good plans gone awry. He'd attended a dozen military funerals over the years. Most involved accidents from high-risk plans that had never been tried before.

Pete wiped sweat from his forehead as his chief of the boat, Master Chief Jack Sideman, called out changes in the submarine's depth during its ascent. Sideman was serving as the Honolulu's diving officer.

"Passing one hundred feet, Captain.

"Passing ninety-five.

"Passing ninety feet."

Honolulu was executing a stealth procedure never tried or even practiced by another submarine in the history of naval warfare. This was a potential recipe for disaster.

Pete would prefer to have drilled this procedure with his crew. The efficiency and precision of a submarine in a deadly environment – and every dive into the depths of the ocean could turn deadly with one mistake by one of the hundred crewmen – was crucial. The Navy's response: Practice. Practice. Practice. The urgency of this crisis would not allow for that.

"Easy. Easy. Bring her up slow and easy, Mr. COB, " Pete said.

The procedure that they were attempting was delicate and dangerous.

Hovering underneath the Aegean Sea at a depth of ninety feet, just below the freighter Volga River, Honolulu was blowing incremental amounts of compressed air from her air flasks into her ballast tanks. This tedious process was making the sub just slightly lighter and bringing the top of her sail closer to the bottom of the drifting freighter.

The Honolulu was 360 feet long. The Volga River at 1065 feet long and weighing over sixty tons was a giant in comparison. Because of Volga River's size, an ascent that got out of control had the potential to reek havoc on the submarine, like facing the punch of a heavyweight boxer.

A mistake could sink the submarine.

Pete glanced at the docking schematic devised by Naval engineers back at Newport News. It was mounted on a table next to his position.

The plan was to raise the sub gently through the water, inch by inch, until finally, the top of the submarine's sail surfaced into the mammoth watertight compartment that had been cut into the ship's hull.

One problem was movement by the freighter. The Volga River had disengaged her propellers, but she was not entirely still in the water. All ships, even the mightiest aircraft carriers and the largest oil tankers, were prone to drift in the sea.

The process of docking a 6100-ton submarine with a 40, 000-ton surface ship left no room for error.