"Frankly, she seems to have nerves of steel. Said she was relieved to be aboard."

"Skipper, " the OOD said. "The SEALs are finished. They're back in the sub now."

"Very well, Mr. McCaffity. Prepare for emergency surface maneuver."

"Aye, aye, sir."

Ka-27 Chopper Number 3 Above the Black Sea

Junior Lieutenant Igor Pavalov dropped his last depth charge into the sea, then waited several minutes for a visual confirmation that the bomb had exploded. Unlike his last two charges, which exploded at one hundred fifty feet, this baby would sink twice as deep, to three hundred feet, before sending a wave of explosive concussions and sound waves through the water.

Pavalov waited another minute or two. Another white mushroom rose to the surface of the water. Perhaps this one had struck the target. Perhaps he would get credit for sinking the American submarine. He would stand in Red Square before President Evtimov and receive the highest award bestowed on a Russian citizen.

He would be declared a "Hero of the Russian Federation." The honor had been bestowed to several military members fighting in Chechnya. So why not bestow it upon the Navy helicopter pilot who sunk an enemy submarine – an American submarine – which had somehow infiltrated the Black Sea?

He lingered a bit longer over the surface of the water, hoping to see debris from a submarine floating to the surface.

Nothing.

But he had expended ordnance and he was rapidly losing fuel. He would need to start heading back within the next fifteen minutes or be prepared for a long swim.

Pavalov rotated the chopper on a stationary, midair axis, pointing the nose on a course of ninety degrees – due east – then called his squadron leader and announced that he would be flying back to Sevastopol for refueling and reloading.

A large cylindrical nose burst through the sea like a whale leaping through the surface. The long, dark object shot above the water and then splashed down onto the surface.

This was no whale.

This was a submarine!

A Los Angeles – class submarine! It had broken the water perhaps a quarter of a mile just east of his position. And his depth charges had forced her to the surface!

If only he had a torpedo or more depth charges… he would go in for the kill right now.

"Light Blue Three to Light Blue Leader!"

"Go ahead, Light Blue Three."

"I have got it!"

"Got what?"

"The American submarine! My depth charges have forced her to surface!"

"What is your position?"

Pavalov gave the latitudinal and longitudinal coordinates.

"Maintain visual for as long as your fuel will allow. Your relief is on the way."

"Very well, " Stavinskiy replied, fuming that someone else could get credit for the kill that he was responsible for.

"Maintaining visual, " Pavalov said again over the radio. "Please allow the record to reflect that the submarine surfaced as a result of my depth charge."

He waited for an answer. No response. Pavalov inched the chopper forward, closing to within a hundred yards or so in front of the American submarine. He brought the chopper's altitude down to one hundred feet, so low that the prop blast was blowing a round circle on the water's surface.

The pilot brought his binoculars to his eyes for a better look. He studied the conning tower. Could the sub have surfaced to fire a missile? Of course not. It could have fired a missile from under the water. It had surfaced for one reason and one only.

The hatch on top of the sub swung open. Men stepped up onto the open bridge. They brought up an American flag. The murderous pigs. He thought for a moment of directing machine-gun fire at the men standing on the bridge.

But what glory was there in that? Shooting men standing on the top of a submarine would not make him a hero of the Russian Federation. The president wanted the sub sunk. This was his path to glory.

The men waved at him, like he was their best friend. How odd, these Americans. And then someone brought another flag to the bridge.

This was not an American flag.

This was a white flag! They waved it back and forth through the air! The Americans were surrendering!

His depth charges had forced the Americans to surrender! After he became a hero of the Russian Federation, there would be speeches and parades and parties in his honor.

Igor picked up the microphone again.

"Light Blue Three to Light Blue Leader! The American submarine is surrendering to me right now! Repeat, the American submarine is surrendering to me!"

The USS Honolulu

The Black Sea

Pete stood on the open air bridge of his sub, his orange jacket flapping under the wind blasts from the five Russian ASW helicopters hovering in the late-afternoon sky. The choppers circled the Honolulu.

Two corvettes, naval vessels just smaller than a U.S. Navy destroyer, plowed through the water from the east.

Pete peered through his binoculars at the sharp, angular, grey ships churning toward his position. One had a hull number of 053 and the other was 071. "Well, well. More guests joining the party."

"Our taxi into Sevastopol?" Frank Pippen mused.

"Or wherever else they decide to take us, " Pete said.

"Looks like they're making about fifteen knots, sir, " Lieutenant Jamison said.

"Mr. Jamison, go check your registry of Russian naval vessels for hull numbers 053 and 071."

"Aye, sir."

A minute later, Jamison reappeared on the open air bridge. "053 is the Povorino and 071 is the Suzdaltec. Both are ASW corvettes."

Now a small craft was speeding toward the submarine from the Suzdaltec. Through the binoculars, Pete saw a boarding party which consisted of three officers and eight armed sailors.

"Chief of the Watch, prepare for boarding by our guests."

"Aye, Captain, " the chief said. Within minutes, the portable floating ramp was deployed from the back of the submarine into the water. Pete, Frank, and Jamison headed back toward the stern of the ship. The boat closed within a few yards of the stern. Its engines were idling.

A crew member from the boat held up a megaphone. "Ahoy the submarine." The crewmember spoke in broken English.

"Mr. Jamison, take the megaphone. Tell them that they may board, that our intentions are not hostile, and that we mean them no harm."

"Aye, Captain." Jamison complied.

"Bashoya spaceeba." The reply came.

"He thanks us, Captain."

Lines were tossed back and forth between American and Russian sailors on the sub and on the boarding craft. A few minutes later the first Russian officer was making his way to the back of the submarine.

The Russian threw a salute at Pete, and Pete returned the salute.

"Tell him I am the commanding officer of the USS Honolulu, and tell him that he and his men are welcome aboard."

Jamison translated Pete's statement, then translated the Russian's reply. "He is the commanding officer of the Russian corvette Suzdaltec. He has orders to take this submarine and its crew into custody. He says that the helicopters surrounding the sub and the two ships out there are all armed with torpedoes which he will order to be launched at the sub if we do not peaceably surrender."

Pete pulled out a Montecristo, fired up a Bic lighter, and took a puff.

"Ask him if he wants a cigar."

Jamison translated.

"Nyet. Spaceeba."

"He says no thank you on the cigar. He wishes to know if we are going to voluntarily surrender."

Pete took another puff before answering. He looked up at the sun, now about to set over the water in the direction of Romania. "Tell the captain that I present to him the United States nuclear submarine, the USS Honolulu."