Don Brown - Black Sea Affair

Before I order this attack, I need to know that our intelligence is solid."

President Mack Williams folded his arms and turned his back on the small cadre of high-powered advisors gathered around him in the Oval Office. He looked outside. Dew drops on several dozen rose bushes sparkled in the morning sunlight. Out on the South Lawn, lush grass sprawled like a glowing green carpet from the Oval Office, under the black iron gates to the Mall, out to the Washington Monument.

They had told him that the office would impose itself upon him. And in the five years since he had come to the Oval Office, the trim, fifty-five-year old Kansan had seen his hair transformed from pure brown to salt-and-pepper. More salt than otherwise.

Lines of worry had begun to subtly cross his tan forehead, which the First Lady had said gave him a more distinguished look. But Mack Williams knew better. And in a post-9/11 world where the traditional rules of war and peace had become a distant concept of the past, it was inevitable that the weight of the great office would be heavy upon any man.

Still, someone had to bear this weight. For the sake of freedom. For the sake of America. To defend the Constitution against all enemies, foreign and domestic. This was his time and place. He would bear this burden alone.

Mack turned away from the peaceful view of the South Lawn. He folded his arms and gazed at the members of his National Security Council.

"Where are we on all this Russian troop movement?"

"I'll take that one, Mr. President, " Secretary of Defense Erwin Lopez spoke up. He extracted multiple copies of reports from his briefcase and handed them out. "Eight hours ago, NGA noticed satellite photos of the first movement of Russian ground forces. We've had four more satellite passes since then. At two-thirty a.m., four o'clock, five-thirty, seven, and eight-thirty. Photos from each of these passes are included in your packets."

Mack began thumbing through the satellite photos as the secretary of defense continued.

"We have massive troop movements from Volgograd, and also some troop and armored vehicle movement from North Ossetia. The divisions driving east from North Ossetia have stopped at the Chechen border.

"The divisions sweeping south from Volgograd are not there yet. At this point we think, sir, that Chechnya is their destination, although there's a danger that they could be headed farther south, into the Middle East. We've intercepted radio traffic which corroborates our theory that this is a massive move into Chechnya, and I'll defer to the director of Central Intelligence for that portion of the briefing."

"Very well." Mack turned to his CIA director, Mitch Winstead. "Mr. Director?"

"Thank you, Mr. President. I'm sorry to say that ground intelligence in the North Caucasus area in the last forty-eight hours has brought about more alarming news, sir."

"Talk to me, Mr. Director."

"Well, sir, from what we've heard on the streets, the Russians seem to have misplaced several pounds of weapons-grade plutonium."

"What?" Mack raised his voice slowly. "Repeat that, Mr. Director."

"Sir, the Russian government, like the Soviet government before it, is stone-faced and tight-lipped, but their subordinates on the street don't do a very good job of guarding state secrets."

Lord, please don't let this be true. "Mr. Director, I want to know exactly what you've been hearing."

"Approximately eighteen hours ago, around midnight Caucasus time, rebel forces, probably Chechen, ambushed a Russian military truck in the Russian Republic of North Ossetia. Our sources say the truck was under guard and carried weapons-grade plutonium 239. The driver and the two guards were killed. The plutonium is gone."

"How much is missing?"

The CIA director whipped out a handkerchief and patted his forehead. "Mr. President, bear in mind that we do not know the precise amount, but we believe that at least fifty pounds was taken."

"Fifty pounds?"

"Yes, sir."

"So how much firepower is that?"

The director cleared his throat. "That's more of a military question, Mr. President. I think I should defer that question to the secretary of defense."

The president glared at the secretary of defense. "Well, Mr. Secretary? How much firepower are we talking?"

Secretary Erwin Lopez met the president's eyes. "That's enough to build four or five small thermonuclear devices or…" SECDEF's voice trailed off.

"Out with it, Mr. Secretary."

"Or, Mr. President, they could package the fuel to build a small hydrogen bomb of approximately five megatons."

"So what would five megatons do, Mr. Secretary?"

The secretary of defense hesitated. His brows furrowed. His eyes shifted around the Oval Office.

"Out with it, Erwin, " the president said.

"Five megatons, if they were able to build such a device, would vaporize" – the secretary looked down – "any major city on the entire Eastern seaboard, and then some."

Shudders swept Mack's body. Only the ticks and tocks of the grandfather clock near the entrance of the Oval Office punctuated the respite of silence.

"Lord, help us, " the president said.

"We think the Russians believe that Chechen rebels smuggled the plutonium to Chechnya to build a nuclear device. But frankly, sir, we think the Russians are wrong."

"Go on."

"As you know, Mr. President, you directed the CIA and Department of Defense to develop contingency plans to sink the Russian freighter Alexander Popovich, the ship used in the kidnapping of Jeanette L'Enfant."

"Yes, I remember that directive. Go on."

"We've recently traced a five-million-dollar transfer from the radical Islamic organization the Council of Ishmael to the captain's Caribbean bank account. Mr. President, that had to be a payment for something – transportation of stolen plutonium would be worth that kind of money."

"Any other reason to suspect the Alexander Popovich?"

"Sir, we've maintained surveillance on Alexander Popovich. It's home-ported at Sochi, Russia, which is not that far from where we believe the nuclear fuel was heisted. About three o'clock in the morning, just three hours after the attack, a truck showed up with a delivery for Alexander Popovich."

Mack mused on that. "Two questions, Mr. Director. First, how did we just happen to have someone in place to see this delivery, and second, how do we know that this mysterious truck that showed up in the middle of the night was carrying the plutonium?"

The CIA director and the secretary of defense exchanged glances, and then SECDEF spoke up. "I'll take that one, Mr. President. First, we've been watching Alexander Popovich as a result of your directive to devise a secret battle plan to sink it. Since we believe it is connected to terrorist activities, we've had agents on the ground there keeping a close contact on the ship's in-port activities.

"In addition to our CIA operatives on the ground in Sochi, NCIS special agents in Sochi report that Alexander Popovich is in port taking on supplies. That report is corroborated by satellite photos. She could be ready to sail in weeks or even days."

SECDEF continued, "Our agents personally watched all this last night from a remote point with binoculars."

Mitch Winstead, the CIA director, spoke up. "In other words, we've already tracked this ship to terrorist activities, and we believe that this ship is being retained for another mission."

Another brief moment of silence followed.

"And I suppose that mission is to take this weapons-grade plutonium that nobody has actually seen, then sail off with it so that some terrorist group can blow up the United States?" This was the voice of Secretary of State Robert Mauney, who sat cross-armed to the president's left.

"Mr. Secretary, " Winstead shot back, "in the intelligence world, we can never be one hundred percent sure about anything. What you have said is true. Nobody – at least nobody that we have in our intelligence camp – actually saw what was in that crate hauled on the ship. But mathematically speaking, given the intelligence data we currently have, I'd say that odds favor that, sir."