"We've got another torp out there!" Pete screamed. "Keep turning! Keep turning!"

Honolulu held her tight loop to the left.

"Conn! Sonar! Second torpedo incoming! It's going to be close!"

The second explosion rocked the submarine with a vengeance and sustained shaking unmatched by the first. Honolulu shook and rattled as if a giant jackhammer were pounding it from the inside out. The pounding continued. Men flopped to the steel decks and bounced about like ragdolls.

"Conn. Sonar! The Kilo's disappeared in the thermal, sir!" The shaking began to subside. Then it was over.

For now.

Alarms chimed throughout the submarine.

"All ahead standard, " Pete ordered. "Rudder amidships!" The helmsman brought the steering wheel to a straightaway position.

Pete pulled himself off the deck. Alarm lights were blinking all throughout the control room. He went back on the 1MC. "All stations. Report damage. Report damage."

"Engine room reports number two ASW pump failed."

"Contol. Torpedo room. It's like someone's turned on the showers in here. We got two feet of water in the bilge and she's rising fast. Request a team of personnel to assist in flood containment."

"Chief of the Boat." Pete looked at Master Chief Sideman. "Grab a team and get to the torpedo room to isolate that flooding."

"Aye, Captain." Sideman rushed out of the control room.

"Sonar. Conn." Pete said. "Report hostile contact."

"Conn. Sonar. We lost him, sir."

"Keep your eyes open. He's not gone away."

"Aye, sir."

"Torpedo room, how's that flooding?"

"Still flooding, Captain. Two-and-a-half feet in the bilge, sir."

Pete wiped his forehead and uttered a quick, silent prayer. "Can you shut off the valves and isolate the water?"

"Negative so far, sir. But we're working on it."

"Let me know of any change in status, either positive or negative."

"Aye, sir."

"Sonar. Conn."

"Sonar, sir."

"Any sign of the Kilo yet?"

"Negative, Captain. He probably thinks he got us, sir."

"Let's pray to God he's wrong."

"Conn. Torpedo room." This was the voice of Master Chief Sideman.

"Go ahead, torpedo room."

"Good news, Captain. We've stopped the water for now. I think we should be okay, unless we take another hit. If we do, I don't think we can keep the water out, sir."

Pete exhaled. "Good work, Master Chief. Leave your team down there for a while in case that flooding starts again. But I need you back in the control room on the double."

"Aye, Captain."

"All right, gentlemen, let's get on with it. All ahead one-third." That was followed by two bells to the control room. "Steady as you go." Pete breathed out. "I'll be in the galley. XO, you have the conn."

"I have the conn, aye, sir, " Frank Pippen parroted.

"Mr. Jamison, come with me."

"Aye, Captain."

Pete stepped out of the control room and headed for the galley. The master at arms guarding the passageway stepped aside and opened the door for his captain. Half the lights had gone out in the second explosion. The twelve orphans were huddled in one corner of the room. All were shaking and crying.

The woman, who had a large bruise on her left cheek, was wiping blood from a little girl's face. The young, scruffy-faced Russian sailor was tending to a little boy who had been badly bruised.

The woman – he had been told her name was Miss Katovich – looked up at him with tears in her eyes. "Pazhalsta, Kapitan! Nam nada pamo-ach. Pazhalsta."

"What's she saying, Mr. Jamison?"

"She's asking for help, sir."

"Tell her we will get someone down here as soon as we can."

"Yes, sir." Jamison relayed the message in Russian.

Pete picked up the microphone. "This is the captain. Get two corpsmen to the galley. Now."

He looked back down at the girl, whose fearful eyes were locked on him. "Ask her why they were on board the ship."

He waited for the translation.

"She says the orphans were to meet the presidents of Russia and Ukraine in Sevastopol, but the ship's captain tried to kill her."

Pete exchanged a startled glance with Lieutenant Jamison. "He what? Why would he want to do that?"

More Russian, then the translation. "She says the ship was carrying some kind of illegal cargo."

Pete raised his eyebrow. "Plutonium?"

"She doesn't know what the cargo was, Skipper. I asked. Claims she overheard a conversation on the bridge through the ship's loudspeaker system. Something about a rendezvous with an Egyptian freighter to transfer expensive cargo."

"Hmm, " Pete mused. "The part about the expensive cargo sounds credible. The rest of it" – he scratched his chin – "I don't know."

A loud ping shot through the submarine. Then another. Ping. Then two more. Ping. Ping. The children looked up. Their eyes widened. Another round of fear washed across their faces.

"Galley. Conn. Skipper, are you still down there?" This was the XO, Frank Pippen.

"This is the captain, " Pete said.

"Sir, I'm sure you can hear, but we're getting active sonar pings."

Ping, ping. Ping, ping.

"Yes, we hear 'em." Pete said. "They've probably dropped a thousand sonobuoys up there."

Pete looked at the faces of the children. He was prepared to die. His men were prepared to die.

But these innocent children?

This was not part of the bargain. He had no way of communicating with Washington. He briefly considered floating the radio buoy, but the transmission signal could be traced to the point of transmission by the Russians. Plus, if there were a hitch in unwinding the winch, that could be picked up on the enemy's passive sonar. Too risky, he thought. Floating the radio buoy was out of the question.

"Your orders, Captain?"

"Until further instructions, steady as she goes. I'll be in my stateroom."

"Aye, sir."

Odessa International Airport Odessa, Ukraine

The presidents of Russia and Ukraine set up their war room in the VIP suite of the Odessa Intenational Airport. The heavily armed suite was quickly equipped with secure telephones, computers, and direct lines to Sevastopol. This allowed the presidents instant access to information coming from the Black Sea.

President Evtimov had hoped that his trip to Odessa would reso-lidify relations with Ukraine. But this was not what he had envisioned.

If the Americans were behind all this, and Evtimov suspected that they were, then Mack Williams had just delivered Ukraine back to Russia, all sealed and gift-wrapped in a surprise Christmas package.

Instead of working with President Butrin on some sort of useless humanitarian effort about beefing up orphanages, the president of the United States had united Ukraine and Russia in a common military goal – to seek out and destroy the submarine that had murdered Butrin's precious orphans.

Ukraine would fall back to the Russians even more swiftly than France had fallen to the Fascists. Evtimov thought of the photo of Hitler doing a jig when the Fascist Army captured Paris so easily in 1940. Evtimov might try the same thing in Kiev, but he needed to bridle his enthusiasm in front of Butrin.

Mustering a solemn face, the Russian gazed across the table at his Ukrainian counterpart. "Comrade President, I've just received word that one of our submarines, the Alrosa, has spotted what her computers classified as a Los Angeles – class submarine. The submarine was diving deep and heading south, on a projected course toward the Bosphorus."

Stunned silence.

"So it is true?" Butrin's eyes widened in disbelief.

Of course it was true. But Evtimov did not answer the question. Better to keep the Ukrainian guessing. "Alrosa fired two torpedoes. We believe we damaged it, but the sub got away. Alrosa tracked her for a few seconds heading west after the second explosion. Then she dropped off our sonar."