The sonar officer's voice boomed into the tension-filled control room. "Conn! Sonar! We have a possible freighter, single screw. Bearing three-four-zero. Speed ten knots. Designate contact master two-eight!"

Pete looked at his XO, then took the microphone.

"Sonar. Conn. Aye! On the 1MC. Man battle stations!"

"Man battle stations! Aye, " the OOD said, then picked up the 1MC. "General quarters! General quarters! Man battle stations! Man battle stations!"

All over the ship, men in blue jump suits ran to their positions as the general quarters alarm sounded throughout the submarine. "Battle stations! Battle stations! Man battle stations!"

"Mr. McCaffity. Report."

"One moment, Captain, " the officer of the deck said. "Departments still reporting in, sir." Five seconds passed. "Captain, all departments have reported in. All personnel are at battle stations awaiting your orders, sir."

"Very well, " Pete said. "Torpoedo room! Rig for ultra quiet! Rig tubes one and four, fully ready."

"Rig tubes one and four, fully ready. Aye, sir, " the officer of the deck parroted.

"Conn! Sonar! Contact maintaining course three-four-zero degrees. Range two thousand yards."

"Captain, torpedo room reporting tubes one and four are rigged and fully ready."

"Very well. Let's have a look at the target. Diving officer, take us to periscope depth."

"Aye, Captain, take us to periscope depth."

The depth meter, a black screen with a red light, showed 150. As the diving officer blew compressed air into the hull, the number got progressively smaller. 140, 130, 120.

The numbers began slowing in their descent. 90, 80, 70, 60.

When the number stabilized at 60, the diving officer spoke. "The ship is at periscope depth, Captain."

"Very well. Up scope."

"Up scope."

The OOD hit the button on the Type 18 search periscope on the starboard side of the sail. There was a click, click, click noise as the electric motor within the tubing extended the scope above the surface.

"Scope's up, Skipper, " Lieutenant McCaffity said.

"Very well." Pete brought his eyes to the ocular sockets, rested his hands on the grips, and began a slow, three-hundred-sixty-degree sweep of the horizon above.

Green water lapped the bottom of the lens, and clear blue sky dominated the top. Pete stepped another quarter to his left, carefully sweeping the horizon in a counterclockwise direction.

The view in the scope showed a panoramic display of blue and green water against sky. As the scope swept the horizon, a wedge rushed by in the water. Pete stopped the scope and slowly turned it back to his right.

Bingo. The grey wedge was a ship headed this way.

"Target's in sight!" Pete said. "She's heading this way. Let's get to her broadside for a better shot. Ahead one quarter."

"Ahead one quarter."

"Right full rudder."

"Right full rudder."

Through the periscope, Pete watched his submarine close the distance to the freighter. His only problem – the freighter was headed north and Honolulu was going south.

Pete waited until the sub had passed alongside the freighter, then ordered a full turning maneuver to bring Honolulu alongside headed in the same direction.

"Left full rudder. Make course three-four-zero degrees."

"Left full rudder. Making my course three-four-zero degrees, " the helmsman said.

The submarine closed the distance with the freighter and was soon off to her side.

"Make your speed ten knots."

"Making my speed ten knots, aye, Captain."

The underwater turn and speed adjustment now had Honolulu running parallel with the freighter, out to her port side, at a distance of about 1800 yards. Through the scope, Pete saw the freighter from bow to stern. She was low in the water, which Pete found a bit odd. But was she Alexander Popovich? He wanted a better view.

"Raise the attack scope."

"Raising attack scope, aye, Skipper." The OOD hit the button raising the second periscope on the submarine, the Type 2 attack periscope, giving the captain ultra-high magnification power for viewing the target.

"Mr. Jamison."

"Aye, Captain."

"Did you bring those intel photos of Alexander Popovich?"

"Got 'em right here, Captain."

Pete swung the attack scope around in the same direction as the search scope. When the moving freighter was in sight again, he hit the magnification trigger, producing an up-close, full-screen view of the ship, churning water and moving from right to left.

"Mr. Jamison, let me see those photos, please."

"Aye, Captain." The intelligence officer handed the captain three glossy, eight-by-ten, black-and-white photos of Alexander Popovich taken from broadsides. Pete studied the photos, then looked through the scope at the ship again, then at the photos.

"XO, take a look."

"Yes, sir." Lieutenant Commander Frank Pippen looked in the attack scope, then looked at the photos. "We've found our target, Captain. Exact same contour lines."

"I concur, " Pete said. "Right full rudder. Turn into her broadsides. Close to within one thousand yards. Prepare to attack."

The Alexander Popovich

The Black Sea

Captain Batsakov stepped out from the superstructure in the rear of Alexander Popovich onto the main deck of his ship. He saw Masha Katovich, in white shorts, a light green sweater, and wearing sunglasses. She stood near the starboard gunwale about one hundred yards away with her arms crossed, watching those children of hers play a stupid game of volleyball with Aleksey.

He could shoot her from here, but he would have twelve little talking witnesses. And he could not toss the little rats overboard with her, not with the presidents of Russia and Ukraine waiting for them.

Batsakov needed to think this through.

He looked at his watch. It was just past two o'clock.

He would distract the little rats by throwing them a big ice cream party tonight. Perhaps Aleksey could dress as a clown or something. They would be told that Masha was sick, that she would join them back at the orphanage.

He would instruct the ship's chef to fill their ice cream with powder from sleeping pills taken from sick bay. Because the powder had no taste, they would not know they were being drugged. They would be told that if they finished the first bowl, the second bowl would have chocolate on top!

The first bowl would make them drowsy. The second would knock them out like sleeping dogs.

They should be completely groggy in the morning from their ice-cream induced hangovers. So groggy, hopefully, that no one would mention the absence of Masha Katovich.

His only worry was the little rat they called Dima. The hideous-looking scarback seemed to cling to her like she was his mother or something.

He would shoot Katovich and toss her overboard. And then, he would have Aleksey bring Dima to the back of the ship where no one could see. They would toss the little rat overboard too, and then tell the others that Dima was seasick and Masha was taking care of him.

Yes, that would most certainly work, especially since Masha and Dima were always together. Then they would report this tragedy to the authorities. Poor Dima, who was at play on the deck, was running, got too close to the edge, and fell into the sea. Masha, a wonderful and heroic woman who would give her life for her children, dived into the sea after him. They circled the area looking for survivors, but found no one.

Yes, that would be the perfect alibi. That would work.

Now was the time.

"Miss Katovich!"

She looked up at him and waved.

He motioned her toward him. "Come over here! I need to see you for a moment."