Black Sea Affair (6 page)

"As you can see, Comrade President, our truck began its journey at our nuclear facility in Beslan, in the Russian Republic of North Ossetia. That is shown at point one on the map. They were headed to our storage facility at Prokhladnyy, in the Russian Republic of Kabardino-Balkariya, shown here at point three.

"Remember that this area is mountainous. The highest peak in Europe, Mount Elbrus, is located in this republic.

"The ambush occurred at an area along the road at point two. Our vehicle at that time was still in North Ossetia, and after the rebels murdered our driver and two military guards, they rolled our truck down the side of the mountain.

"Point four is the Chechen capital city of Grozny, which as you can see is due east of the ambush point. Considering the proximity of the attack to Grozny, we believe that Chechen rebels are responsible." Mutterings followed nods of heads around the table. "In fact, Comrade President, the ambush point is less than seventy-five miles from Grozny. Witnesses report a military truck going at a high rate of speed in that direction."

"I agree, " the minister of civil defense said. "I believe, sir, that the material was transported to the east, toward Grozny, the Chechen capital."

The defense minister spoke up again. "Imagine, Comrade President, if Aslambek Kadyrov and his traitorous separatists in Grozny developed a nuclear weapon with our materials."

"We should've taken out Kadyrov long ago, " one of them said.

"It is not too late for that, " replied another. Vitaly Sergeivich Evtimov rotated in his chair and gazed out the window at the bustling sea of humanity on Staraya Square. He folded his arms. What a public relations disaster this would create for Russia if the Western press caught wind.

"Excuse me, Comrade President, " the foreign affairs minister said.

"
Dah
, " Vitaly said.

"Should we notify the Americans?"

Vitaly faced the foreign affairs minister. "Notify them of what? That we are the first nation to lose track of weapons-grade nuclear fuel to terrorists? We have just started rebuilding our credibility as an alternative superpower to the Americans. If this gets out, we lose face in the international community. We must find this material and punish the thieves before there is mass hysteria."

Vitaly eyed the faces of the most powerful men on the Eurasian continent. They would all obey his commands without hesitation and on a moment's notice. He had selected them all because they had shown unflinching loyalty to him. He would need their loyalty in the midst of this crisis.

This would be a defining moment by which history would judge him.

He would act with sure-fisted power. "You know, " he said, "this may present the perfect opportunity for a final solution of the Chechen problem."

That statement brought intense stares.

"What did you have in mind, Vitaly Sergeivich?" Alexander Alex-eyvich Kotenkov, the Russian foreign minister, was the only member of the Russian Security Council close enough to the president to refer to him by his patronymic name.

Vitaly declared, "We shall mobilize the Russian Army. We shall descend upon Chechnya from our Volga-Ural and North Caucasian military districts. We shall punish them for stealing this material. We shall crush this opposition once and for all!" He pounded his fist on the desk. "And we must find this fuel before some Chechen lunatic builds a bomb that could vaporize Moscow." He swigged water. "Even if we have to destroy every square inch of Grozny."

CHAPTER 4

The
Alexander Popovich

Sochi, Russia

As the sun rose above the deep sparkling waters of the Black Sea, Captain Yuri Mikalvich Batsakov huddled on the bridge of
Alexander
Popovich
with the four officers immediately subordinate to him.

Batsakov was still, at heart, a ship's master -- although an increasingly wealthy ship's master. And the sea, for all his love of it, was a jealous mistress, capable of swallowing even the greatest of vessels. He must never forget, no matter how many American dollars were funneled into his bank account, that the sea could not be taken for granted -- that he was ultimately responsible for evaluating the readiness status of his vessel.

Getting a freighter seaborne was not as simple as cranking an automobile and taking a drive down Moscow's main street, Tverskaya
.

A series of performance checks between the bridge and the engine room needed to be performed, and certain actions would need to be logged before
Alexander Popovich
would be declared seaworthy for her return voyage into
Chourney Mara --
the Russian phrase for "Black Sea."

Batsakov instructed the four officers to expedite their respective reports, so that with any luck,
Alexander Popovich
and her twenty-eight crew members would be underway by sunset.

He was about to adjourn the predeparture meeting when a deckhand entered the bridge.

"Excuse me,
Kapitan
. You have two visitors at the quarterdeck, sir."

"Visitors?" Batsakov sipped a glass of vodka. "We are beginning our predeparture checklists, Aleksey. I am busy."

"They are with the Russian government,
Kapitan
."

Batsakov cursed.

If the government suspected what was in the belly of his ship, these men no doubt were FSB officers. Since the old KGB disbanded in 1991 with the fall of the Soviet Union, its domestic successor organization, the FSB, had proven just as ruthless. One of the many things he enjoyed most about being at sea was that the FSB was nowhere to be found.

What would he do if they wanted to search the bowels of the
Alexander
Popovich
?

Remain calm.

The ship's manifest showed the cargo to be several cases of Georgian wine. Perhaps that would deter them. If not, he would deny knowledge. Always deny. This would be a truthful response. After all, he did not know with certainty what Abramakov had brought on his ship. He would blame the whole affair on Abramakov and his men.

"Escort them to my stateroom, Aleksey. I will meet them there shortly."

"Yes,
Kapitan
." He left immediately.

Batsakov crossed to a hidden compartment, where he retrieved his GSh-18 semiautomatic pistol. He worked the bolt action of the pistol, stuck it in the holster in the back of his pants, and left the bridge.

Five minutes later, Batsakov arrived at the stateroom. The young deckhand who had approached him on the bridge was standing in the passageway outside the closed door. The captain motioned for the deckhand to step closer and spoke in low tones.

"Are they inside, Aleksey?"

"
Dah
,
Kapitan
, " the young deckhand said.

"Shhh." The captain brought his forefinger across his lips. He patted the young man's shoulder. "Aleksey Anatolyvich, ever since you left the orphanage in St. Petersburg, I have given you a job and treated you as a son,
dah
?"

"
Dah
,
Kapitan
."

"And I have given you a home, here on the
Alexander Popovich
,
dah
? And you trust me no matter what instruction I give to you?"

"Of course,
Kapitan
. I have seen you in command on the bridge of our ship when she was rolling in twenty-foot swells. I trust you completely. You are the only father I ever knew."

"That's my boy." Batsakov allowed himself a smile. "Listen, Aleksey. Go down to the weapons locker room and get a sidearm. Load it. Thencome back and post yourself here outside my stateroom door. Let no one in without my permission. Understand?"

"Of course,
Kapitan
."

National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency
Fort Belvoir, Virginia

Kent Pendleton, a twenty-year veteran intelligence agent, loved working the midnight shift at the National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency's satellite interpretation center.

For one, the traffic wasn't so bad around the Capital Beltway at midnight. And since NGA had moved its headquarters from suburban Bethesda, Maryland, to Fort Belvoir, he could make the trip in less than an hour. The commute time would double during the day. Of course driving back to his home at eight in the morning was another story.

Download time. He typed in a few commands, ordering the computer to download the latest satellite feed from Volgograd. Then he got up from his desk and walked over to the kitchen. Another cup of steaming black coffee was what the doctor ordered to get the squints out of his eyes for seven more hours of staring at computer screens.

When he got back from coffee break, the last satellite photo of Volgo-grad was still frozen on the screen, and in the upper right of the screen, under the word
Volgograd
were the times the photo was snapped on the satellite's last pass approximately ninety minutes ago.
7:30 Local, 3:30
GMT/UTC, 23:30 EST.

The aerial photograph began scrambling in front of his eyes, and as the image scrambled, the word
Transmitting
appeared in the screen on red.

A moment later,
Transmitting
vaporized from the screen and was replaced with a new satellite photograph, taken one hundred miles above the area. Under
Volgograd
in the upper right corner, the new times were reflected showing that the image had just been taken and transmitted:
9:00 Local, 05:00 GMT/UTC, 01:00 EST.

Pendleton clicked each sector of the photograph, giving him enlarged images for closer inspection.

On his fourth click, along the main road leading south out of the city along the Volga River, he spotted something. He rubbed his eyes and squinted again. Was he seeing what he thought he was? He stared at the screen in disbelief. Yes. His eyes were not playing tricks on him.

Armored vehicles.

Hundreds of them.

Tanks.

Personnel carriers.

A massive convoy of the Russian Army was on the move.

"Hey, get a load of this!" The excited voice came from two cubicles over where another intelligence analyst and one of Kent's subordinates, Tommy DiNardo, was reviewing satellite photos shot over the Russian republic of North Ossetia. "I've got military movement -- army -- headed due east!"

Kent got up and rushed over to Tommy's cubicle. "Will ya look at that?"

"If those aren't armored columns, I don't know what is." Tommy spoke with excitement in his voice.

"I've got the same thing on my screen, " Kent said. "The Russian Army's on the move."

"The question is where, " Tommy mused.

"Good question, " Kent said, glaring at Tommy's screen. "My guess is Chechnya, if we're lucky."

"Why do you say that?"

"The main column from Volgograd is moving down the Caspian Depression, which is very low land between the Caucasus Mountains and the Caspian Sea. We've got to hope they stop at Chechnya, because if they don't, they can easily slip along the Caspian coast into Azerbaijan, and from there, Iran. And from there, it's a straight shot due south to Iranian, Iraqi, and Kuwaiti oil fields." That thought sent a fearful shiver through Kent's body. "And if the Russian Army invades the Middle East, the balloon goes up."

"You mean
kaboom
, " Tommy said.

"I mean
kaboom
, " Kent said.

"Should we wake the president?" Tommy asked. "I can get the codes for the White House hotline."

"Not our call, " Kent said. "But we've gotta move fast."

He reached over and punched in the line to the secretary. "Get G. B. Harrell over at the National Security Agency on the secure line. Yes, now." He replaced the phone.

"Tommy, come see my pics."

They both jogged over to Kent's workstation. Tommy's eyes bulged at the sight before him. "This force looks three times the size of the one on my screen."

"Volgograd is one of the biggest military districts in Russia, " Kent told the younger man. "The city was once called Stalingrad. The bloodiest battle in human history took place here in 1942. Over a million people died. This is hallowed ground to the Russian people. They feel that they whipped the Nazis right here, two years before the Normandy invasion. And they well may be right." He set down his coffee cup. "Strategic U.S. doctrine says any major Russian ground invasion of the Middle East would muster in Volgograd and follow this route to the south . . . the same route that these forces are following."