"You put a reasonable proposal on the table, and they respond with moving Bear bombers full of atomic bombs into Cuba, " Secretary of Defense Lopez said. "Not only that, but they're getting ready to put our submarine crew on trial for the world to see, claiming that we kill women and children. This is a public relations bonanza for them, sir. We must be firm. We cannot back down. And we cannot give ourselves away to that Egyptian freighter in the middle of the English Channel. "

"But, sir, " Secretary Mauney jumped in. "We're playing Russian roulette with nuclear weapons. I know they haven't responded, sir. But please, forget the American pride thing. Call them again. Anything but this."

Images of Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane rushed into Mack's mind. For a flash, he felt some of the heavy weight that the Savior had felt that night. Mack Williams was facing a possible nuclear confrontation, a confrontation that could desroy the world, and he did not know how to get out of it.

"Have we heard from Brewer?"

"Yes, sir, " Admiral Ayers said. "He's in St. Petersburg. He'll do his best, I'm sure, but their system's rigged against him."

"What's the good news?" the president asked. Admiral Ayers and Secretary Lopez glanced at each other. Lopez nodded at Ayers.

"The good news, Mr. President – the freighter did not turn toward London."

"Where is it?"

Ayers unfurled the navigation map again.

"The tip of the arrow shows the position of the freighter. She's headed into the North Sea, Mr. President."

"The North Sea? What's up with that?"

"Don't know, sir. Britain's three naval bases, at Portsmouth, Devon-port, and Clyde, are on the south and east sides of the island. Maybe they're going to disrupt North Sea oil supplies, or maybe they'll turn west when they clip the top of Scotland and head to the east coast of the United States."

"Okay, " Mack said. "I want hourly updates on that freighter's position, and more often than that if she does something funky. I want fighter intercepts of any bomber flying off the U.S. coastline. Ride 'em like white on rice. If one of 'em turns inland at all, splash 'em. Also, Secretary Lopez, I'm ordering full mobilization of United States Armed Forces. Call up all reserves."

"But, Mr. President, " Secretary Mauney pleaded.

Mack raised his palm. "Those are my orders."

St. Nicholas Naval Cathedral St. Petersburg, Russia

At least they had removed his handcuffs and let him get into uniform, Pete thought as he rode in the back of the black Mercedes with Zack Brewer to the courthouse. Captain Ann Glover, the U.S. Naval Attache, sat in the front seat, along with the driver, who was also a U.S. embassy employee.

Zack had warned him that everything was possibly bugged, including the car used by U.S. embassy personnel. Pete wondered how Zack would handle his case without a chance to prepare for whatever awaited.

The armed Russian military jeep swung to the right, and the Mercedes followed. The car stopped. An army of photographers, television cameras, and press types were waiting along the sidewalk.

"Just wait on the Russians, " Captain Glover ordered. "They're supposed to provide an armed escort inside."

"And remember, sir, " Zack added, "don't answer any press questions. If any answer is needed, I will handle it."

"Right, Commander." Pete looked out the window at the huge light blue baroque building with its white columns, a green roof, and golden spires reaching into the wintry sky. "That is an impressive courthouse."

"It's the courthouse for your case, " Captain Glover said, "and it's also the St. Nicholas Naval Cathedral. It dates back to Peter the Great. It's the most hallowed naval site in all of Russia."

"So this is St. Nicholas, " Zack said. "I've read quite a bit about it. Talk about media-orchestrated imagery."

"I don't follow, " Pete said.

Captain Glover said, "St. Nicholas is a cathedral turned into a naval shrine. They have memorials to many Russian sailors lost at sea over the years. The locals call it the Sailor's Cathedral. One of their subs, the Komsomolets, went down off Norway in 1989, and there's a memorial to the forty-two dead sailors there. There's been talk in the last couple of days about erecting a memorial to the crew of the Alexander Popovich here."

"That's just great, " Pete said. "Sounds like they're planning a fair and impartial trial."

The door opened. A Russian soldier motioned them to get out.

Pete stepped into the biting cold.

"Commander Miranda! Commander Brewer!" Members of the press shouted at them from both sides of the walkway leading into the building. "Is it true that you torpedoed a civilian ship carrying orphans?… What were your orders, sir?… Have you defected to Russia?"

"The commander has no comments at this time, " Zack shouted over the barricade of Russian soldiers as they walked swiftly toward the doors of the building.

Soldiers opened the doors of the main entrance of the cathedral. Naval art commemorating the history of the Russian Navy adorned the walls under the ornate chandeliers, and spectators jammed the pews on both sides, as if they had come for an Easter Sunday ser vice. Camera strobes popped like lightning in a summer thunderstorm. Spectators murmured at the presence of the American naval officers.

The soldiers nudged Pete and Zack down the aisle to the chancery, which had been transformed into a courtroom. They pointed the officers to an empty, ornate table to the right, which had several headsets plugged into a console panel.

A Russian naval officer, who looked to be in his thirties, walked up and spoke in English.

"I am Lieutenant Vaslov of the Baltic Sea Fleet. I will be sitting at counsel table to assist you with the intricacies of Russian military law should you desire. The headphones will give you a translation of the proceedings."

"Thank you, Lieutenant, " Zack Brewer said.

"I know who you are, Commander Brewer. Let me make this clear. I did not volunteer for this assignment. I was ordered to take it."

"Thank you anyway, " Zack said, then turned to Pete. "Let's have a seat, sir."

Zack sat on the left of the table, Pete in the center, and the angry Russian officer sat to the right. Pete turned around to scan the large crowd. He hoped to see Masha Katovich. Something about her seemed comforting.

Instead, he saw faces that looked pale and angry. His eyes caught a familiar face. His executive officer, Frank Pippen, was seated two rows behind counsel table. To Frank's right, Lieutenant Darwin McCaffity, and to his right, Lieutenant Walt Brown.

How had he missed them when he walked in? His entire crew sat in five rows behind the defense table, heavily guarded by Russian soldiers on each side. Pete and Frank exchanged subtle smiles and nods. Then he remembered what the angry admiral told him in Moscow.

Your crew's fate will be tied to yours. If you are convicted, they will be convicted. And if you are acquitted, then they will be set free.

Pete broke eye contact with his exec. He looked at the still-empty prosecution table. Just behind it, a young pair of innocent eyes reached out and froze him.

Dima. The orphan on my sub. And beside Dima, all the other orphans sat in the row. They had other chaperones now. Masha Katovich was nowhere in sight.

"Put on your headset, Commander, " Zack Brewer said.

Pete complied.

"All rise!"

There was a shuffling in the pews of the cathedral. The three old officers he had faced in Moscow walked in. Two younger army officers carrying briefcases, probably military lawyers, stood behind the prosecution table.

"Everyone may sit except the accused, his attorneys, and the crew of the USS Honolulu." The general sitting in the middle banged his gavel, then looked over at the admiral.