Don Brown - Black Sea Affair

Another hand shot up. "Yes, petty officer?"

"Skipper, are we going to try and transit the Bosphorus submerged?"

"A freighter has been retrofitted and is somewhere out there right now." Pete nodded his head to the south, toward the open waters of the Mediterranean. "The plan is to come up under the bottom of the freighter and surface, partially. We'll bring the sub's sail into a watertight compartment under the bottom of the freighter, where large O-Rings attached to the hull of the freighter will retract around the bow and stern of the sub.

"We'll have the element of surprise going in. Hopefully, no one will suspect what we're doing. Coming back out, that won't be the case. When the freighter goes down, every ship in the Russian Black Sea fleet will be hunting every inch of water looking for the vessel that attacked it. If we stop under the Volga River to reattach, every Russian and Turkish chopper in their respective air forces will be on the freighter like white on rice. We'll try to get out, but we may have to scrap the sub.

"A moment ago, I said that this crew will be moved to rubber lifeboats as the sub sinks. Speedboats will be deployed from obscure ports in Turkey, Bulgaria, and Romania to search for our crew. If we are found, we will be taken back to the shorelines of those respective countries, where the plan is to smuggle us ashore, circumventing customs, and then we will be transported to the United States embassies in those respective countries.

"If we are fortunate enough to make it that far, we could be in for a long stay within the sanctuary of those embassies. We would be evacuated under diplomatic immunity, in very small numbers to avoid suspicion, over a long period of time. In other words, by bringing only two or three of us out per month, it could take up to three years before they can get us all home.

"Now all that is true if they find us out there in our floating rafts before our food and water supply runs out."

Pete ran his hand through his hairline. "Of course if they don't find us…" He let that sentence trail off. "Well, as you know, it is a pretty big body of water out there. And with the currents and the weather…"

He let that comment hang. A cloud floated across the sun.

He pulled the Garrison cap from his belt, adjusted it on his head, donned a pair of shades, and spoke with the sharpest military bearing he could muster.

"Gentlemen, with no pressure, and no obligation, and no dishonor if you say no, I say to you this day that your country needs you. If you're prepared to go with me on your last voyage, understanding that there will be no glory, and finally, understanding that the price for saving thousands and perhaps even millions may be your own lives – then signify your acceptance of your responsibility by taking one step forward."

There was a pause. For a frozen moment in eternity the wind swirled in the silence. There was no movement in the line.

And then, on the far left, a step forward.

Two steps forward in the left center.

At the right end, and right center, the clicking steps of leather soles echoed against the concrete.

Wind whipped into the American flag at the end of the pier, energizing it with a fury. Then the Italian flag flying beside it came to life. Perhaps even the wind recognized that Old Glory was still the leader of the world.

They stepped forward, one by one, in the front and back lines. And when the wind had subsided, the movement of the four human lines was finished.

Every single man, now standing at crisp attention, had stepped forward.

Pete struggled for his words, but choked on the lump welling in his throat. He gripped the podium, squeezing it. A sub commander must not show tears to his crew.

"Never have I witnessed such bravery as is displayed in the sight before me." He inhaled deeply, then exhaled. "I thank each one of you for what you have done."

"Thank you, Skipper!" one of them shouted.

"We're with you to the end, sir, " another called.

He held his hands out, palms down, signaling that no more public comments were necessary.

"We'll get underway at sixteen hundred hours. That's two hours before sundown, gentlemen. Our orders are to sail, to submerge, and then to await orders from the president."

Each man stood at attention, eyes forward.

"Any questions?"

There were none.

"You are dismissed."

The White House

11:00 a.m. local time

Douglas MacArthur Williams, having been raised at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, and named for one of the greatest generals in American history, was the son of a career Army officer.

From the anteroom just beside the Oval Office, that same Douglas MacArthur Williams, now president of the United States, let memories of his father wash across his mind.

The lifelong dream of Colonel Manchester Elliot Williams was to see his son follow three generations of Williams men in the long grey line at West Point. The old tank driver had called his boy "Douglas" since his early days to remind both father and son of the great general who had proclaimed that "in war there is no substitute for victory, that if you lose, the Nation will be destroyed."

The old man's dream would not be realized. Mack attended the University of Kansas, where he had gone to law school, and then took a commission in the U.S. Navy as a JAG officer.

This Navy compromise seemed to assuage the colonel's disappointment in Mack's shirking West Point and the Army. The colonel did, at least, drive from Leavenworth to Lawrence to watch "Douglas" sworn in as an ensign, United States Naval Reserve.

Still, Mack never saw the pride return to the old man's eyes until that cold Tuesday in January, three years ago.

The old warrior donned his Army dress uniform and stood just ten feet away on the inaugural platform at the Capitol overlooking the National Mall, as his son was sworn in as commander-in-chief of the Army that the colonel loved so much.

"Son." There had been a pause as the two locked eyes. "I'm proud of you." And the old officer, standing on the sidewalk in front of the United States Capitol, did what officers do in the presence of their commander-in-chief. Colonel Manchester Elliot Williams stood as erect as any boot camp recruit, and with as sharp a precision as his eighty-two years could muster, shot the smartest, crispest salute that the young president would ever see.

Three weeks later, in the family's living room in Fort Leavenworth, Colonel Williams' cold body was found faceup in the middle of the floor. His eyes were open, his face frozen in a beatific smile, and in his hand they found a small green New Testament published by the Gideons. Inside the New Testament, at the third chapter of Romans, a wallet-sized photo of Ensign Douglas MacArthur Williams, JAGC, USNR, served as the old man's bookmark.

Three days later, across the river from the Lincoln Memorial, they buried the old warrior in the frosty ground of Arlington National Cemetery with full military honors. The president, who had never known his father to crack open a Bible, prayed that the colonel's eyes had finally been opened to the truth. By presidential directive, both the Bible and the photograph were buried with the old soldier.

Three sharp rifle volleys were followed by the slow, melodic rendition of taps. His father's resting place joined the graves of thousands and thousands of others, all marked by white crosses.

That day, over protests by the Secret Ser vice, the president had insisted on taking a solitary stroll among the grave markers. The names all blurred together now, but the places… the places still stood in his mind. The markers did not always reveal where they had died, but the president knew the places well.

Verdun. North Africa. Sicily. Belgium. Normandy. The Solomon Islands. The Phillippines. Inchon. Vietnam. Grenada. Panama. Afghanistan. Iraq.