"The Russians know only strength. You'll get Evtimov's attention if we're at DEFCON 2. He'll know we mean business. And if someone other than Evtimov is running their military, whoever is in charge will know that we mean business too."
Mack stood, crossed his arms, and paced back and forth across the front of the ornate conference room. The secretary of defense was right. The Russians had for generations only understood and responded to strength. But the secretary of state was right too. This whole thing was spinning out of control. The thunder of war – of nuclear war – boomed in the distance.
The president stared at the red telephone on the table. In theory, he was supposed to pick up that phone, get the president of Russia on the line, and immediately defuse the specter of nuclear holocaust.
That was the theory anyway.
But there was theory, and then there was reality. Someone had murdered the man, who next to the Russian president himself, was directly in charge of Russia's deadly nuclear arsenal.
On top of that, nuclear warheads were being targeted at American cities again.
What to do? If rogue forces controlled the Russian military, failing to raise the level of United States forces could invite a preemptive strike. But raising the level of American forces could further provoke the Russians. A miscalculation either way could cost the lives of millions.
Lord, help me. We must remain so strong that no potential adversary will dare test our strength.
The words of Ronald Reagan rang in the back of his mind.
"Mr. Secretary." He looked at the secretary of defense. "Order United States nuclear forces to DEFCON 2."
CHAPTER 25
FSB Headquarters
Lubyanka Square, Moscow
The Russians had kept him in isolation for several hours, Pete assumed, first in a holding area onboard ship, and then at a holding facility in Odessa. But because they had taken his watch, and because he could not see outside, he could only estimate how much time had passed.
He saw sunlight again when they chained his arms and legs and led him out of an armored car across the tarmac to a plane at Odessa Airport. He was grateful for a few minutes of fresh air. He was also grateful that they had placed him in a seat by the window, which allowed him to at least enjoy the daylight, a welcome respite from the deadly silence of the armed guards accompanying him on the flight.
He had assumed they were taking him to Moscow, and his suspicions were confirmed when he spotted the spirals of the Kremlin through a break in the clouds.
A few minutes later, the plane touched down on a large, concrete runway.
At gunpoint, the guards rushed him to an armored jeep, and they sped away out of the airport with blaring sirens and whirling lights of police escorts both in front of and behind the armored jeep.
About thirty minutes later, the armored jeep sped down a large boulevard, heading straight up toward the multi-colored bulbed spirals towering into the overcast sky.
This world-famous sight looked more imposing in real life than it had in the pictures. But to be in an armed vehicle approaching St. Basil's Cathedral in the heart of Red Square, thousands of miles from home, Pete realized that he was about to be held accountable for his actions as commanding officer of the USS Honolulu.
A light rain fell as the jeep turned right just in front of the Kremlin. The driver swung around the perimeter of Red Square, turned right again, and headed into an underground parking deck of a large grey building with Stalinesque architecture.
Pete did not remember his geography of downtown Moscow all that well, but he assumed that this was Lubyanka Square, the former headquarters for the old KGB, and now its successor, the FSB.
The jeep stopped near an underground freight elevator shaft, where half a dozen armed Russian soldiers were waiting.
One of them opened the door. A younger man, wearing a dark suit, spoke in perfect English. "I am Special Agent Vasily Borvich. I am a translator working for the Russian government. Come with me and these men, please."
A soldier pushed a button and the elevator doors swung open. All six soldiers stepped in, surrounding Pete with their guns. The translator stepped in and closed the doors, then pushed the button. The elevator started rising.
"Where's my crew?"
"It is not for you to ask questions."
The elevator stopped. The doors swung open into a large corridor with fluorescent lights and antiseptic-smelling tile floors.
"Step out of the elevator and follow me."
They stepped across the hallway from the elevator, their boots clicking and echoing down the corridors. They walked through two ornate double doors.
The doors swung into a large, chandelier-filled courtroom. The courtroom was packed with people who turned and stared at Pete.
"Walk forward."
Pete stepped down the center aisle, through a wooden gate.
"Sit here." The translator pointed at a table to his left.
At the table to his right, a grim-faced Army officer stared him down with angry eyes.
Something was said in Russian. Three high-ranking military officers, one each from the Russian Army, Navy, and Air Force, stepped through the door behind the big benches in front of Pete. All three looked to be in their fifties. With a solemn face, the Army officer in the middle nodded at a clerk.
A clerk began reading in English.
"This Russian Military Tribunal, convened to hear the charges of war crimes against this officer for attacking a civilian Russian ship with a civilian crew, is now in session. Please be seated."
The Army officer in the middle, a general, grunted something, and the translator spoke.
"Are you Commander Peter Miranda of the United States Navy?"
Pete stood. The Geneva Convention required him to provide his name, rank, and serial number.
"I am."
"Commander Miranda, you are charged with the following crimes, for which if you are convicted, could result in your being executed by firing squad or being sentenced to life in prison."
There was a pause, as the English translation was followed by more Russian.
"You are being charged with twenty-five counts of crimes against humanity, to wit, in that you commanded the United States submarine USS Honolulu on an illegal and secret military mission into the Black Sea, wherein you subsequently ordered your vessel to attack a civilian freighter, to wit, the Russian freighter Alexander Popovich, and that your actions have caused the untimely deaths of at least twenty-five known innocent civilians on board that ship."
More Russian. A murmuring rose from the courtroom. Pete looked around and caught the eyes of a young brunette woman sitting in the front row just behind him to his right. His eyes lingered on her for a moment, and then he recognized her as Masha Katovich, the young lady he had rescued.
"You are also being charged with conspiracy to destroy and destruction of property of the Russian Republic, to wit, in that after having surrendered the said USS Honolulu to the Navy of the Russian Republic, thus transferring ownership of said vessel to the Russian Republic, you did conspire to, and did in fact instruct certain subordinates to destroy said property by the use of explosive devices, which led to the sinking of such vessel in the Black Sea in waters west of the Crimean Peninsula."
More translation.
More astonishment from the crowd.
Pete looked around again. Masha Katovich was gone. He felt strange disappointment at her absence.
He'd sensed a sympathetic look on her face. Or so he thought. Then again, he had nearly killed her precious orphans. Perhaps his imagination had shifted into overdrive. She was probably the prosecution's star witness.