My Father the Czar Copyright 1998 Library of Congress number: 98-96138 by AUTHOR22@aol.com All rights reserved Chapter Twelve + + + + + There was one daily newspaper in Russia that had a single subscriber: the Czar. The Ministry of the Interior published it and it consisted exclusively of information about the activities of the Okhrana, Russia's secret police. The content was information about domestic politics and activities that might affect foreign affairs; riots, assassination attempts, and projections of the activities and affects of both the "White" and "Red" Russian political groups. The sheet could potentially contain everything of importance known to the Minister of the Interior himself, but like every other newspaper in Czarist Russia it was heavily censored. The censoring was done, of course, by the policemen themselves --not officially, and definitely not at the top level. Their actions were more in the realm of keeping job security by protecting themselves from criticism. The Okhrana reported to the Ministry of the Interior, but was a law unto itself; decentralized, loosely organized, yet closely knitted by virtue of its members being part of a police force they worked together yet were definably individual. Many of its members belonged to other organizations: Police of the Imperial Court, Officers in military forces, secretaries to politicians to name a few. These "moles" were supplemented by spies, both foreign and domestic. To further complicate things, the Okhrana itself was highly decentralized. It had branches in several of the larger Russian cities and in foreign capitals, each with its own network of secret informants. It was one of their undercover men, Josef Stalin, who had heard the report of the Helium discovery in the Yekaterinburg district, even before the Secretary of the Interior had seen the memo from Nicholas Ipatiev. The fact that the trail of discovery had commenced with a seaman on board the Imperial Yacht had escaped practically everyone. Only the admiralty was aware of it. Because it was an embarrassment to the Navy, the matter was buried. In one form or another the Okhrana had existed since the days of Peter the Great, but its most spectacular proliferation started just 33 years before the time of the events of which I write, after the assassination of Alexander II in 1881. But, as police powers are likely to do when each seeks to be "ruler supreme" of its own empire, their activities were continuously escalating. The daily report was just the tip of the iceberg. There were more than twenty thousand officers and agents; yet, the official annual budget was only two million dollars. That meant that a police official was either poor or he used his office to raise his standard of living. There were no poor members of the Okhrana. 'Officially' the obtained funds, which went unaccounted for, came from various government agencies: the Army, the Navy, the Duma and even the Czar; yet, these hidden parts of the Okhrana swore allegiance only to themselves. Like other political police services in Europe, for example the French Surete Generate' the Okhrana tried to plant or recruit undercover informants in the various revolutionary organizations, both domestic and foreign. Its uniqueness lay in the scale of its operations and in its encouragement to these informants to play an active role within the groups they had penetrated --even when it meant breaking the law. General Guerassimov was the formal chief of the Okhrana and while he never 'stated' that a police officer could not break the law since he 'was' the law, it was a well-known fact that that was his point of view. Both the Red and the White Russian organizations, their publishing arm "Pravda" and primary senior executives of every important organization in Russia, whether Czarist or not, were secretly pledged to the success of the Okhrana --not to the government, not to the revolutionary forces, and certainly not to the people of Russia. One of the Okhrana's most remarkable undercover men was a florid, flashily dressed, one-time St. Petersburg metalworker and labor organizer named Roman Malinovsky, who first spied upon the Mensheviks and then, with police approval, joined the Bolsheviks where he soon became a special protege of Lenin's. His career in the party was spectacular; he was one of the "intelligent scoundrels" on the Bolshevik central committee and he rose to be the chief Bolshevik spokesman in the Imperial Duma --the Okhrana is said to have facilitated his election as a deputy by arresting his leading rivals. Lenin named him as the St. Petersburg manager and nominal publisher of Pravda and Malinovsky faithfully submitted copy for it both to Lenin and to his chiefs in the Okhrana. Thanks to Malinovsky, the Okhrana obtained invaluable information about the revolutionary plans and activities of the Bolsheviks; but, though it occasionally arrested undercover Bolshevik organizers, it made no use of its inside knowledge to cripple the party. On the contrary, it encouraged its growth, not only to build up its own agent, Malinovsky, but also apparently because it considered the Bolsheviks, with some justification, as a disruptive element in the ranks of the Russian Marxists; a divide and conquer approach. According to some sources, the Okhrana, at Malinovsky's suggestion, enabled Lenin to win a majority at a special party congress in Prague in 1912 by arresting three of his leading opponents. The Okhrana's relations with the out-and-out terrorist groups were no less equivocal than its relations with the Social Democrats. For many years the head of the Social Revolutionary assassination squads, a bearded, appropriately villainous-looking individual named Evno Azew, was the Okhrana's star undercover agent. Unquestionably he was strategically placed: the most formidable terrorist organization in Russia could not plan a murder without the Okhrana receiving warning in advance. There was, of course, one slight drawback to the arrangement: if Azew were not allowed a reasonable quota of assassinations his professional reputation might suffer and eventually the terrorists would replace him with a more efficient and reliable killer. On the other hand, there was a feeling in some circles that Azew had been allowed perhaps a little too much scope when in 1904 he helped plan the murder of his own employer, Minister of the Interior V. K. Plehve. The feeling grew sharper the following year when Azew's associates blew up the Czar's uncle, Grand Duke Serge in Moscow. It was said that Azew was not to blame for this outrage; he had reported it in plenty of time so that it could have been prevented. But the Okhrana, apparently fearing to expose a useful agent by being too explicit, had passed on to the local authorities a warning so vague as to be worthless. When Azew later reported a plot to assassinate the Czar, General Guerassimov decided that to avoid any further slips he would personally manage this talented but redoubtable agent. Thanks to this high-level supervision, the plot was eventually foiled without damage either to the Czar or to Azew. Employing terrorists as double agents is inescapably a tricky business; this was particularly true in Russia where the national temperament lends itself to complex and subtly shaded relationships drifting arbitrarily between absolute loyalty and total treason. There were Okhrana agents in the revolutionary organizations. Azew was such a case. They did not know themselves which side they were ultimately betraying the most. Thus, uncertainties were compounded. The issues were extremely complicated and one must ask how much of this the Czar was aware of, in how much of it was he an active participant and how he could equate this high degree of duplicity with his relationship with his family? The very idea that young Aleksey might soon be required to shoulder these kinds of responsibilities greatly depressed Nicholas. The idea of getting away from St. Petersburg was just short of being irresistible. + + + + + The Standart stayed in Algiers longer than had been intended. The departure of Piotr had created unhappy feelings among the Imperial family. Even Alex-P/Catherine missed the sailor. The Captain, having sensed the depressed feelings, had gone beyond his normal scope of responsibilities and, through contacts that he had on other ships and within the city, expanded the depth of their visit. This time, the Imperial family was treated to the real culture of the City and they were exposed to many of its elite citizenry. Even their trip to Tunis was at a pace much slower than nomral and was far more in-depth. The entire month of May had slipped by as well as almost half of June before the Standart departed for Athens. The Czar had suggested that they linger longer. There were unforeseen pressing matters in St. Petersburg and Moscow that demanded his attention. He was delaying his trip to Yalta until sometime in late June or early July. Captain Prokoshov had learned that the radio message which transferred Veliky had spread across the ship before it had been delivered to him. That violated his sense of proper procedures. In a heated discussion with the chief radio operator he had imposed some rather harsh restrictions. In the future, no radio operator was to speak to any one about anything that he had gleaned from the airwaves. The radio room was to cease copying general traffic that was not on the official Russian naval communication channel. When at sea they would monitor only the international distress frequency and the official Russian channel. The date was June 27th, 1914. + + + + + It had been a typically hot summer day in Sarajevo. The weather had been quite warm for more than a week. A slight breeze had stirred the evening air. Four teenage boys gathered around a table in one of the city's radical coffee shops. Vasco Cubrilovic had just turned seventeen. Trifko Grabez, also seventeen, was seated facing the door, his feet resting on one of the chairs. Nedjelko Carinovic had attained the ripe old age of eighteen and enjoyed the unquestioned advantage. Cvijetko Popovic had always been late for whatever meeting they had arranged. This evening had been no different. Unlike most boys of their age, they did not stare at girls, whistle, or display any interest in the opposite sex. Someone watching from afar would have noticed something a little odd: they would lean back in their chairs and talk boisterously then suddenly huddle together and whisper secretively. They came from vastly different backgrounds. Grabez's father was an Orthodox priest. He was the only one of the four who had a police record --he had been sentenced to two weeks in prison for striking his high-school teacher. Cabrinovic was the son of an Austrian police spy. He knew how his father made his living and, as sons are likely to do, he mimicked his father. This led to an unsettled and, at times, stormy life. His rebellious behavior did not make him a very good student. He often cut school. Numerous attempts on the part of both the authorities and his father had failed to stop his truancy. He was fourteen when, in total frustration, his father forced him to quit school and seek a trade. That didn't work either and for the same reasons. He was not a good employee. He had been given several opportunities and had tried his hand at plumbing, carpentry and typesetting, all to no avail. Cvijetko Popovic and Vasco Cubrilovic were close friends. Vasco's older brother had taken a strong liking to Popovic. On more than one occasion Cabrinovic had teased him about their being "ass hole buddies". Vasco kept his mouth shut, he did not want to incur the wrath of his brother. Of the four youngsters, only Cubrilovic came from a solid family. The four marked the times of their lives as bounded by: 'before' the four had met and 'afterward'. Before they met, their lives had marched more and more down the road of oblivion. They shared an awful common bond that drew public attention when anyone of them would begin to cough. If they breathed deeply, the attacks would become instantaneous. Shallow breathing lessened the problem and was thus the norm for all of them. They had been diagnosed as having tuberculosis; a most contagious and terminal disease. At the time of their meeting, each could look forward to no future other than a slow death. They had been deprived of the normal adolescent belief in one's invincibility. The second evening after they had first met, Cubrilovic had taken his three friends to his home. Vasco's brother had treated them like welcome guests, not tubercular lepers. Three days later the four teenagers had been loitering in the coffee house when Vasco's brother joined them. He was accompanied by a handsome man in his late thirties, Dragutin Dimitrijevic. The newcomer was friendly and entertaining. He began talking about political matters; how Serbia was being placed under the yoke of the German's and the Austrians. The boys had never had any interest in government, but Dragutin spoke with such enthusiasm that his energy sparked a fire in their lives which had never existed before. Eventually, after several such meetings, Dragutin had hinted that the boys might become national heros, famous through out their world. But the adventure would be dangerous and could demand of them the ultimate: self-sacrifice; but, if they did as they were told, their names would go down in history along with those of Napoleon, the Kaiser, and the Czar. The name of the organization that they were to become a part of added to the intrigue of this opportunity; it was called "The Black Hand" and Dragutin's code name was "Apis". The boys hoped that they too, would be given code names. Of course what they did not know was that Dragutin was actually Colonel Dragutin Dimitrijevic, Chief of Intelligence for the Serbian branch of the Okhrana. Above all, they sought the adrenaline rush of high adventure. As rebellious teenagers are likely to be, they were radical and stubborn, yet easily led. To label them as "militant nationalist Bosnian-Serbs" would be ridiculous. Certainly they had their own opinions on everything from their teachers, down to the food which they ate. To call them "political" would presume them to have had an interest in government. In reality, their major passion lay between their legs. At first it was just Vasco and Cvijetko who had discovered the pleasures of mutual masturbation, but on several occasions all four boys had gathered in an abandoned school house and held a circle jerk. They had just returned from one such sexual session and were meeting at the Coffee House when Vasco's brother stopped by with Dragutin and three others. They were thus introduced to: Danilo Ilic, -a twenty two year old school teacher, Gavrilo Princip and Mohammed Mehmedbasic. "These" three men would see that "The Plan" was put into operation. The boys were in awe of these new participants who were to be in charge of their project. The eldest was twenty-seven year old Mohammed Mehmedbasic; an ex-cabinet maker from Herzogovina. What surprised the four junior members of the organization was that every time Mehmedbasic would start talking about some of his prior activities in the Black Hand, he would get excited and become physically aroused. After Mohammed had left the group, the four boys laughed and commented on the size of the man's cock. When he had got up from the table, it had bulged out, pressing against the fly of his trousers. Vasco said he thought he could actually see the skin. In a spirit of high adventure the seven had left Sarajevo on a training mission. They had left the city by train, carrying only their camping gear and a change of clothing. The trip had taken 24 hours. It was late in the evening when they reached the village which was their destination. Mohammad led the way into the nearby woods, then over several hills to a totally isolated area. After clearing a space for their camp, they enjoyed a small meal and went to sleep. Vasco woke up early; birds were greeting the morning sun with a song which had awakened him. As he lay in his bedroll, he tried hard to go back to sleep but the oppressive morning heat and his overactive brain conspired to deprive him of the extra hour or two he needed. His thoughts kept racing back to what Cvijetko had told him the previous evening. His new, best friend had admitted that he enjoyed the jerk off sessions! Vasco looked over at Cvijetko lying in his bedroll. He had tossed his blanket away from his naked body and lay face down on his roll. Cvijetko didn't look any different; his tanned body in its unconscious state was still muscular and athletic. Vasco was not sure why so many sexual stories talked about the angelic look of a person in sleep. With his sweaty hair sticking to his scalp and saliva dribbling from his open mouth, his best friend looked like anything but an angel; yet, on this particular morning Vasco saw him as a totally new person. This fellow had risked everything by admitting the deepest secret which anyone could hold. In his heart he saw a glow around Cvijetko which hadn't been there before; as he lay there asleep, he seemed almost ethereal despite his actual physical state. Impossible as it seemed to Vasco, he suddenly realized that he loved him more than anyone on earth and Cvijetko's admission the night before proved the affection was mutual. He couldn't believe that anyone could trust another person that much. Vasco also thought about himself. While his heart swelled thinking about his friend's feelings for him, he found that he could deflate those feelings when he thought about himself still hiding his own secret inside of him. Quite suddenly he wanted to prove his love, but immediately realized he could not risk it. The night before he hadn't had the courage to admit it; apparently, while asleep, his subconscious self had appraised the situation presenting him with a dismaying situation. Years of practice had made it easy to keep the truth hidden even from himself. He had closed his eyes briefly and upon opening them again realized that he must have actually fallen asleep again because, when he looked over, Cvijetko was no longer in his bed. He heard noises coming from the campfire just beyond a clump of bushes. He quickly got up and found a secluded spot, released his stiff cock from his underpants and let go with a much need piss. Even though Cvijetko could not see him, he had a good view of Cvijetko from the chest up and it looked to him like the boy was naked as usual, although the shrubbery blocked the view of his lower body. "'Morning' Cvijetko!" he whispered across to him. "'Morning Vasco," was the quiet reply given while looking at what he could see of his friend Vasco; also from the waist up. "What's for breakfast?" "Whatever you want to get for yourself. Same rules as always," he said. With that, Cvijetko walked from behind the bush. It had not been Vasco's imagination. Cvijetko was as bare as the day he was born. Vasco shook the last remaining drop of urine from his stiffening cock and, after tucking it back in his shorts, joined his friend and poured himself a hot cup of coffee. They seated themselves on a log and sipped the hot brew without too much conversation. "Looks like another hot one," Vasco said, realizing his opening gambit was a pretty lame comment, but he rationalized that one of them had to say something. "Mmmm," was the only answer he got. Vasco continued to sip his coffee without saying a word. The only sounds came from the birds and a steady south wind which rustled the leaves of the forest. Again he broke the silence. "What are we gonna be doing today?" "I suspect Mohammed and Ilic have that pretty well planned. It's not like we are out here on holiday." This time it was Vasco's turn to reply: "Mmmm." They had almost finished their second cup of brew when Mohammed came into the clearing. It was obvious that he too need to take a leak as his cock was huge. While still somewhat restrained by his underpants, the head had worked its way clear. The large, uncircumcised instrument glistened in the morning light. Cvijetko nudged his friend, but then glanced at his buddy. Vasco's cock had also hardened. "Interesting." They worked without much talk all morning long. The task was hard and the humid, high temperature didn't make things any easier. The fact that Vasco had so much trouble going back to sleep that morning made things even worse. He was in no mood to work hard neither was there any way out of it. If it wasn't Mohammed that demanded unreasonable activity, then it was Ilic who presented a new skill for them to hone. "Fuck!" Vasco shouted when his axe had slipped out of his sweaty hand for the tenth time. He quickly picked up the offending tool and threw it as hard as he could into the woods. He heard it bounce off a tree after it had disappeared from sight. "That a was stupid thing to do!" Yelled Ilic. "Hey, asshole!" Cvijetko shouted at him. "Those things cost fucking money. Now go get it before Mohammed whips you with his pole." Cvijetko's comment stung Vasco. His friend had never said a mean thing to him before. He was unprepared for the fury in his voice. Without a word he turned and walked into the woods in the general direction of his throw. It took him almost twenty minutes to find the tool, half hidden under the brown leaves that had fallen in the wind. He was afraid to go back, but even more afraid not to. He didn't want to risk any more of Cvijetko's anger. When he returned to the clearing Cvijetko was still chopping, but with even more vigor. He watched his naked, sweat-covered body as the muscles glinted in the hazy sunlight. From the side he could see the clear silhouette of Cvij's perfect penis and loose balls swinging with each long, deliberate stroke of his axe. Vasco watched wood chips fly, some landing on the moist body and drenched dark pubic hair as Cvijetko continued chopping. Somehow, this time, the magic he felt whenever he saw Cvij like that wasn't there. Instead, he looked away, hoping he wouldn't incur too much anger. Cvijetko turned to look at Vasco as he returned. "Sorry," Vasco said in a small voice. "I won't do it again. I'll work during lunch to make up for the time I lost." "No you won't. I'm the one who should be sorry. There's something eating at me and I don't know what it is. I shouldn't take it out on you," he said. He returned to his chopping without saying anything more. They continued to work in silence the rest of the morning. The wind picked up steadily as they felled and chopped kindling. By noon, the limbs of the standing trees were thrashing back and forth. After a quick lunch break they continued to work, knowing a storm was coming. Sure enough, at about 3:00 p.m. they heard the distant rumbling of thunder rolling towards them from the south. As the sky darkened, they quickly gathered their equipment and covered it with their as yet unused tents. Then the first raindrops began to fall. After the initial thunderstorm, a driving rain fell throughout the rest of the afternoon. The forest had hidden the extent of the storm from their view. After half an hour of pouring rain, they erected their four, small tents, then huddled in pairs under the canvas shelters. The heat and the humidity made the closeness uncomfortable. Their drenched clothing was adding to their discomfort. Cvijetko dug through his knapsack and pulled out a pair of dirty, but dry undershorts, then toweled off. Vasco followed suit. It wasn't until both boys were naked that they realized just how much they had come to enjoy being bare. It had been days since they had both had the chance to be totally unclothed. Now this was a luxury. But there was more: they realized how much they enjoyed seeing each other's naked bodies; not in sexual terms but simply in every aspect of life. Vasco's smaller penis didn't compare to Cvij's bigger equipment, but there was a contentment he felt in just being able to be himself around his buddy. But was he "really" being himself? Cvijetko had admitted to the most terrible secret imaginable; he in effect said that he preferred males. --Or had he? No. What he had said was that he preferred "Vasco's" company to anyone else's. Vasco regretted that he had not had the courage to tell his friend that he felt the same way. With the noise of the driving rain, they hadn't heard Mohammed approaching their tent. Drenched and without warning the leader pulled back the tent flap and forced his way into the tiny enclosure. "Ugh! It's stifling in here. I hate being cooped up during these storms. How come you kids are naked. Did I interrupt something interesting?" Mohammed's remark was made in a tone of voice which suggested that he was joking, yet still serious. Then he backed out of the tent. Cvijetko said, "Fuck the rain, I'm going outside too." "Naked?" Vasco asked. "Why the fuck not. Makes more sense then getting our clothes wet or staying in this steam room." Ilic stuck his head out of his tent and saw the unclothed boys romping with each other. Soon the entire group was frolicking like kids in the shower of a high school gymnasium. Eventually the rain ceased just as the sun went down. But the party did not bother to dress. They stood around their campfire cooking dinner, totally ignoring their unadorned state. Exhausted from rising so early that morning, together with the hard work before the rains came, Vasco went to sleep early while Cvijetko continued to talk with the others. Vasco climbed into bed naked. It was still too warm to get under his blanket so he lay as still as he could, listening to pieces of the conversation outside, while hoping he could cool off. Just like that morning, though, his overactive brain would not let him relax. He kept reviewing the events of the day. Cvijetko's angry words to him, when he had thrown the axe, played through his head over and over again, each time hurting more than before. "Yeah, I was stupid for throwing the damned thing, but his cutting words and his puny apology only made me feel worse." To top everything off, the day had started out great, but had quickly turned to shit. He remembered how his heart had pictured Cvijetko as an angel. Here was someone to whom he felt close enough to confess his deepest secrets. Now, at the end of the day, they were barely talking to each other. The day began as one of the happiest in his life and now all he wanted to do was to go home and get away from them all. He wanted to cry out loud, but instead stifled a sob. He heard Cvijetko approaching the tent and quickly turned toward the canvas wall, not wanting Cvijetko to see the tears in his eyes and he tried to hold back his sobs. He was relieved when he heard someone say something to his tent-mate, delaying his entry, giving him time to compose himself. Then he heard Cvijetko slip into the darkened tent. Vasco was able to control himself and his breathing. He listened to closely Cvijetko, waiting to hear the steady breathing which signaled 'sleep'. As he waited, those terrible angry words crept back into his mind. "Hey, asshole! Those things cost fucking money. Now go get it!" Despite his efforts, he let out a sob before again gaining control. "Vasco?" Cvijetko called out quietly. "What's wrong?" Vasco didn't reply; he pretended to be asleep. "I heard you, Vasco. Don't fake being asleep. We gotta talk. I heard you!" Vasco still didn't say anything. Then he heard his friend move toward him, his bare feet padding against the canvas floor. Then he felt Cvijetko's hand on his shoulder pulling them toward each other as Cvijetko sat down at the edge of his bedroll. He could smell the rain- soaked body and hair. "Vasco," he said quietly. "I'm sorry. I fuck up everything I do. I wish we could go back to the way things were Tuesday afternoon at the school." Vasco thought about that for a short time. 'Why did he think he had fucked up? I was the one who threw that thing in anger. I was the one who was too chicken to tell him I was as attracted to him as he was to me. I was the one who did everything wrong. Why was he saying he was fucked up?' "Look, Vasco, I heard you. I messed things up between us and I am sorry. I am so fucking sorry." Cvijetko's naked body, sitting along side him started shaking as if he too were crying. Then Vasco heard a sob escape. That's when the anger and frustration of the day took over. Vasco could no longer hold back the tears and cried as quietly as he could. Between the sobs, he tried to speak. "N-n-no," he said. "I'm the fuck up. I shouldn't have gotten so mad. I woke up too early this morning -and I was tired -and it's hot -and I hated having to work so hard -and I did stupid things -and you should be mad at me." The words poured from his mouth as he finally allowed the day's frustrations to pour out. "I promise I won't be stupid like that again. At least I'll try not to." "Vasco, I fucking heard you. Don't you understand? I heard you and it's my fault!" "It's not your fault, Cvijetko," he replied. "I'm just tired. Sometimes I cry when I am tired." "No!" he said. "I heard you last night! You said 'Me, too.' when I told you I liked being with you." Now Vasco understood! Then he felt a sudden rush of shame. The person he admired most in the world shared his dark secret. He wanted to curl up and die right there. The blood was pounding in his head. He was so confused. On the one hand, he had admitted to being different; on the other, it was a secret he had held onto for so long --he didn't want anyone to know, especially the one person he cared for so desperately. Vasco continued. "I tried so hard to keep it in when we were doing it at the school. I didn't want you to know about me. I tried not to make you be like me. I'm sorry. I fucked up." Now it was Cvijetko's turn to be confused. "What are you talking about?" he asked. "You didn't make me the way I am." "Yes I did! It's my fault. I turned you into a man-lover," Vasco said. "I fucking pranced around naked and forced you to be naked, too. I kept trying to hold it back --but it got worse and worse. I laid down next to you, holding you, --and beat off in front of you --and massaged you and... I tried so hard not to, but I am a fucking pervert! I guess they are right when they say queers are out to recruit everyone. I am such a fuck up!" He then began crying openly. Cvijetko was seeing a new side of his friend. Cvijetko reached over to him but Vasco pulled away. Suddenly Vasco grabbed his wrist with all his might and pulled Cvijetko back. He reached up and wrapped both of his arms around him and pulled the still naked, still damp body down onto the bed. In his totally unstable, confused state, Vasco reversed himself and said, "D-d-don't. You shouldn't be doing this. I'm a fucking pervert." "Shhh," Cvij replied quietly, holding his warm body tightly. Once Vasco's body relaxed a bit, Cvijetko continued, speaking in a hushed tone. "You haven't turned me the way I am. How can you turn the sky blue? It already is. You haven't done anything but be yourself. The only thing you have forced me to do is to try to be myself. Can't you see that I'm the fuck up? Everything you do is so natural. You don't hide things. I'm the fuck up. I couldn't even tell you, of all people, about the real me." They lay together quietly for a long while, listening to the patter of the restarted rain as it continued to splatter against the canvas roof. Finally Vasco broke the silence. "We're both a couple of fuck ups, I guess." He looked up into Cvijetko's eyes, a smile on his face. "Are you sure I didn't make you weird?" "Nope. As long as I can remember I have preferred my own kind!" They laughed quietly and lay together face to face. They could feel their hard, throbbing cocks hot against each other's abdomen. The underside of their Chlens dug into each other. Cvijetko's hair smelled of rain as his head rested on Vasco's chest. They listened as the last few drops from the storm spattered against the canvas. Cvij looked into Vasco's eyes and saw the glistening of tears on his cheeks. He brought his face down and they gently kissed with a quick movement. Even though it was just a quick, shy peck, Cvij could taste the saltiness of tears. They stayed in each other's arms like that for another half-hour. Finally, they began to squirm a bit and released their hold on each other. "We gotta get some sleep or Mohammed is gonna be pissed," Vasco said. "Thanks for everything. Sorry I broke down on you." "That's okay," Cvij said. "You're pretty nice, even if you are a bit odd." With one more quick hug, Cvij got up from Vasco's bed and crawled back to his own. Vasco watched the familiar contractions of his ass muscles as he moved across the short space. The rain had lessened. Vasco sat up, reached over and opened the flap of the tent. They could feel the cool air rush into the room. The storm had replaced the stifling heat with cooler, dry air. He was more comfortable than he had been in days, or maybe even in his whole life. During the next week Ilic assumed the role of weapons instructor. He showed the boys how to load, aim, fire, and clean a pistol. Each boy was "issued" a gun of his own. Then they spent many hours in target practice. Mohammed was the expert in assembling and using bombs. He showed each boy how to pack gunpowder into a short length of iron pipe; how to make fuses from strips of paper rolled around thin trails of the same gunpowder, then they practiced throwing bombs. Within a few days they had blown up several trees and created quite a few holes in the ground. Vasco and Cvijetko worked together as a team. Cvijetko was quite mechanical and was better at bomb assembly, but Vasco surprised everyone at how well he could throw. In more than a dozen throws, he had consistently hit his target at distances as great as 100 meters. They had practiced hard most of the day. Supper was just an hour away and a break was declaired. The two boys stripped down to their undershorts and lay on their bedrolls. Whenever they were alone together their thoughts drifted towards lust. This afternoon was no different. As they lay there, their Chlens began to stiffen. They hadn't moved toward each other ...yet. But that would have been the next thing. Without warning, Mohammed stuck his head into the tent and said: "Cvijetko, go cut me some kindling. I want to start dinner." The boy grabbed his trousers and began crawling out of the tent, holding them so as to conceal his hardon. However, Mohammed had already seen his condition and smiled to himself inwardly. As soon as the boy had disappeared into the forest Mohammed crawled back into the tent. Vasco looked surprised at the older man's presence. But was completely shocked when Mohammed asked:, "You ever fuck a girl?" "Yes, I fucked my next door neighbor twice," he lied. "So, I've got me a real lover in my group," Mohammed teased. "Well, show me what you can do," the man said as he lay back on Cvijetko's bedroll. Vasco swallowed hard, took a deep breath and started to protest; but Mohammed cut him off. "I know you and Cvij are getting it on. And if you want to get ahead in the Black Hand you'd better do what I tell you. You've got a cute ass and I want some of that." Vasco had not moved fast enough and Mohammed quickly crossed to the boy's bed, grabbed his undershorts and yanked them down to his knees, then in a quick flip he had the boy on his stomach. He looked down at the puckered brown ring. Before Vasco could flip over, Mohammed had straddled him, resting his heavy weight on the boy's buttocks. The boy could feel the man's cock resting in his crevice. The unwanted organ was moving back and forth along the length, dispensing a slippery, wet substance that flowed between his cheeks. He could feel Mohammed's finger rubbing the precum deeper into his crack. When the probe touched his anus he almost went into shock. The feeling was a cross between outrage and an equally strong passion. His cock throbbed under him while, at the same time, he started to scream for help. Mohammed was still a jump ahead of him. As the first small sound commenced he felt the man's hand push his face hard into his bedroll. "Shut the fuck up. You have been waving that gorgeous thing in my face for more than a week. So now I am going to enjoy it." He touched the head of his dick to the brown hole and pushed forward, the head disappearing from view. "Oh!," Vasco cried, "Pull it out you asshole." Instead Mohammed leaned forward and his long piece of meat slid complete inside Vasco. The pain was unbearable. Vasco's throat was sore from the screams that were being muffled by his own bedroll. "You little bastard!" Mohammed cried. Tears were pouring down Vasco's face, soaking his bedding. He begged his rapist to stop. Mohammed grabbed Vasco's hair and pushed his face harder into the bed. "Would you rather suck it? Cause if you don't shut up and enjoy this, that's what's next." Vasco was trapped. He could do nothing except let Mohammed continue the rape of his no-longer virgin butt. It only took a few seconds before Mohammed announced that he was going to cum. "Take that you slut!" the man screamed. Mohammed continued ramming his man-sized cock into the tight young butt, slapping his ass cheeks as he exploded in the boy's body, screaming obscenities as his hot load filled Vasco's rectum. Vasco could not change the commands of his own genitals and he simultaneously pumped his load deep into his bedroll. Spurt after spurt shot into the blanket. Mohammed collapsed onto Vasco's back, as the throbbing of his orgasm slowly subsided. He slowly recovered, then whispered: "You tell anyone about this and you are dead meat. I'll tell everyone you asked for it. And the way you and Cvijetko have been looking at each other, they'll believe me." The fact that Vasco had pumped his load into his blanket during his rape made him feel ashamed. He did not tell Cvijetko. That last night in camp the two slept nakedly together, Vasco luxuriating in the security of Cvijetko arms. On the third of June they returned equipped and trained in the use of pistols and bombs. They were each given a small envelope containing cyanide; if they were caught they must kill themselves. + + + + + Archduke Franz Ferdinand, Inspector General of the Austrian army and heir to the Austrian throne, was on summer maneuvers in the area. June 28th was a Serbian holiday: St. Vitus Day. Diplomacy ordained a visit to Sarajevo as necessary. It seemed fate had decided what history was to be. On June 26th, The Okhrana had leaked the possibility of a major assassination attempt on the Archduke. Diplomatic teletypes had been busy clicking out warnings from consulates all over the world. The messages were clear: 'the Archduke would be wise to cancel his planned visit to Sarajevo'. In Vienna, Serbian ambassador Jovan Jovanovic (acting on orders from the Prime Minister) visited the Austrian Minister of Finance to warn that if the Archduke should visit then: "some young Serb might put a live round instead of a blank cartridge into his gun and fire it." The Minister replied: "Let us hope nothing happens," Jovanovic's warning was never passed on. It was also a special day for Archduke Franz Ferdinand -- it was his 14th wedding anniversary and he wished to make it a "special" day for his wife Sophie. In Vienna she, not being of royal enough blood, was denied the privilege of riding in the same car with her husband during high affairs of state. However this was Sarajevo. Here, on their anniversary, she would be afforded all of the royal treatment which she was denied at home. "The Duchess of Hohenburg would most certainly ride in the car with her husband today." Despite all of these pleas and warnings, the Archduke not only insisted on going to Sarajevo, but he also put the city off-limits to his nearby Austrian army for the day. The motorcade consisted of four cars; the Archduke and his wife riding in the second car. On their way to city hall they were to cross the Miljacka River at Cumuria Bridge. Mehmedbasic and Cabrinovic were waiting. A policeman suddenly appeared and stood directly in front of Mehmedbasic; wisely, he did not throw his bomb. Cabrinovic's path was not blocked and he threw his explosive package at the second car. It was a good shot but the Archduke, protecting Sophie, deflected it backward onto the street behind them. A fragment from the explosion hit Sophie in the face. Passengers in the third car -- Count Boos- Waldeck, Colonel von Merizzi and Sophie's attendant, Countess Lanjus were also wounded. The surrounding crowd closed in on Cabrinovic. He quickly swallowed his cyanide and jumped into the river; but everything went wrong. He vomited up the poison and found that the river was only a few inches deep. A policeman waded out into the water, grabbed him by the ear like an errant school boy and took him into custody. The first two cars continued on their way to city hall. Franz Ferdinand joked that the would-be assassin would probably be given the Medal of Merit in Vienna. The noise of the motorcade had drowned out the bomb. The mayor of Sarajevo rode in the first car and was unaware of what had transpired at the bridge. The motorcade now passed Cubrilovic, Popovic, and Ilic who did nothing. There were only two chances left and they went to Grabez and Princip. When they arrived at City Hall the furious Archduke interrupted the mayor's welcoming speech. He seized him by the arm and boomed: "One comes here to visit and is received with bombs. Mr. Mayor, what do you say? It's outrageous!" Having had his say, he regained his composure and added, "All right, now you may speak." The Archduke calmed down during the mayor's speech and gave the diplomatic closing words: "I assure you of my unchanged regard and favor." Franz Ferdinand announced his wish to visit the hospital to check on the other bomb victims. He suggested to his wife that she stay behind. However Sophie was still shaken by the event and did not want to leave her husband's side. Oskar Potiorek, Military Governor of the province, assured the still provoked Archduke: "Your Imperial Highness, you can travel quite happily. I take the responsibility." And with that they were off. The Archduke's chauffeur was following the mayor's car. They passed the sixth assassin, Grabez, at Imperial Bridge. He merely watched as the car sped by. The mayor's driver made a wrong turn; where he should have taken the Appel Quay, he turned onto Francis Joseph Street. Potiorek, riding with the Archduke and Sophie, cried out: "What's this? We've taken the wrong way!" The driver applied the brakes and the car came to a stop not five feet from Gavrilo Princip. Unlike his cohorts, Princip acted quickly and precisely, drawing his pistol and firing twice before the car could complete its turn. The shots made little noise and the car sped off. The Archduke opened his mouth to warn his wife to move down in the seat. A stream of blood poured out. Sophie, who had been startled by the sudden activity cried out: "For heaven's sake. What has happened to you?" She was in shock and unaware that she too had been shot. She then lost consciousness. In gurgling gasps Franz Ferdinand said: "Sophie dear, Sophie dear, don't die. Stay alive for our children." He then keeled over whispering: "Es ist nichts, Es ist nichts..." (It is nothing, It is nothing...) They were both dead by 11:30 that morning. Meanwhile, back at Francis Joseph Street, Princip had tried to kill himself first with his gun and then with cyanide. The gun was knocked from his hand and the cyanide, as was the case with Cabrinovic, only made him retch. The throng closed in and began beating him. He was, astonishingly, taken into custody alive. + + + + + It had been a long reach from Tunis to Athens. It was the morning of the 29th of June when the Standart, now approaching the coast of Greece had radioed the port authority for docking instructions. There was an exceedingly long delay; in fact so long that the Captain had ordered the wireless operator to repeat the request. Finally there was a reply. It read, "Due to political unrest, we cannot guarantee the safety of the Imperial Family. Unless this is an emergency we suggest you depart our waters." The reply astounded the Captain. The Imperial Yacht was not accustomed to being refused entry. This sudden change in their itinerary needed to be brought to the attention of the Czarina. But before doing so he instructed the radio operators to monitor all frequencies in an attempt to find out what the "political" problem was. He did not order the radio room to advise St. Petersburg of their change; at least not right then. A snippet of foreign traffic, dated 28-Jun-1914, read, " - Assassination in Sarajevo. The Archduke and Sophie arrived in Sarajevo. 'Some damn foolish thing in the Balkans!'" + + + + + A sense of high adventure descended upon those onboard the Standart as she steamed south away from Athens. Captain Prokoshov had been attempting to get through to naval headquarters in St. Petersburg, with little success. A radio operator had been assigned the task of scanning the airwaves, logging all information with frequent reports to the Captain. Much of the material was just "talk" between radio operators at sea and on land. Occasionally radio signals originating in America came through louder than those from Athens. Among the most strident were those from Germany. They were promoting the assassination as being the handy work of Serbian nationalists, suggesting that Russia was behind the plot. The ship had turned east and then north, heading toward the Black Sea. All thoughts of further sightseeing had evaporated. Two hours after the ship had entered the Aegean Sea she received a short coded message; it was marked "Top Secret". It was addressed to "The Commanding Officer Standart". The single page of apparently garbled message was delivered to Prokoshov, who immediately retired to his cabin, withdrew a tiny book from his wall safe, sat down at a table and began decoding. When he was finished, he re-read it for the second time and began to wonder about the future. "Okrhana advises likelihood of war with Germany. You are to proceed to Yalta as fast as possible. Consider the Imperial Family in great jeopardy. Do not allow contact with German vessels. Advise your exact position. Will have Yaroslav intercept and escort you. Good luck. Ivanov." An after thought had been added which made the Captain smile. "Admiral met Veliky; fascinating fellow. Temporarily assigned this office pending commencement of next class at the Academy." He replaced the code-book in his safe, burned the message and returned to the bridge. He asked the duty officer when he had last noted their position. He checked the last two entries, did a little calculation and changed their course for a more direct route across the Aegean Sea. If the weather stayed calm they could be off the coast of Istanbul by late tomorrow. + + + + + At 2 AM, the door to Alex-P/Catherine's cabin quietly opened. A small figure slipped into the darkness and closed the door behind it. Alex-T raised the blanket and slid in besides the sleeping occupant. The boy did not awaken, but wiggled back against the invader, snuggling into the offered haven. The Tsareviche's arms encircled his friend, pulling him even closer. His hand, which had rested just below the chin, drifted downward. It paused for what seemed to be an eternity, then descended just an inch or so. Alex-P sighed in unconscious response. His hand moved to cover the one at his waist and then moved it so that it now enveloped his stiffening petooshock. He lay there but a moment before whispering, "I hope it's who I think it is." The Tsarevich kissed the back of Alex-P's neck, then moved so he could nibble the back of his earlobe. "I've missed you." "Yeah! Me too". He pushed back in response, and squeezed the servicing hand. "But you'd rather be with Piotr." The quiet sound of breathing was all that could be heard in the small cabin. Then the odor of awakening sex added a subtle influence to the mood. The pace of breathing increased as passion bridged the gap of neglect. "I'm frightened." "Oh! About what?" "I heard one of the crew say the Captain had posted extra lookouts. He is worried that the German's might try to capture us." The two boys paused in silent retrospect. But the trip up the mountain had commenced. Passion was not to be belayed. + + + + + There is a thing about naval forces, regardless of nation and regardless of time, that distinguishes them from other military organizations. Each ship is an autocratic entity whose captain is the supreme ruler. Once the ship is at sea, and that is where ships belong, it is an isolated community only loosely connected with the people who commissioned her. If the Czar wanted to take control of an army, he simply arrived at the military installation and demanded that he be obeyed. Not so with the Navy. First, one must find the ship, then one must seek permission to come on board and only then might the head of a nation actually take control of a naval vessel. But even then, the entire ship is a mass of technology that only a trained expert might expect to be able to command. This "isolation" disturbed the senior members of the Okhrana far more than it did the visible government of Russia; it was the one place that they could not exercise their peculiar brand of control. The only vulnerable points for the navy were its few land based facilities. At the top of that list was the Admiralty; but, gaining control there was almost impossible. The admiral was used to those autocratic forces under his umbrella. He and his second officer had been friends all of their lives and he knew it was highly unlikely that he would betray the navy. The office staff was constantly being rotated from the fleet through his office. It was from this rather lofty view that the admiral had met seaman Veliky. The boy had an interesting personality which fact had formed an almost instant bond between the two. The trust that was inherent between members of the naval forces added much to the sailor's acceptance. Piotr was surprised when he arrived at Naval Headquarters. The idea that he would actually speak with the supreme commander had never entered his mind. Had he been aware of the thick dossier bearing his name, residing in the bottom drawer of the admiral's desk, he surely would have been embarrassed. Had he read the detailed report of his bedroom activities at Pena Palace, he surely would have blushed from head to toe. But it was a combination of his youthful "coming of age" and the ingenuity which he had shown in loosing his virginity that warmed the cockles of the admiral's heart. Those attributes, when directed toward a military organization, would be most valuable. Yes! Veliky had the qualities from which the Academy could build a good naval officer. The recent events in Serbia had disturbed the entire nation, but the admiral was more concerned with the vulnerability of the Standart than anything else. He had heard the reports of the likelihood of war with Germany. If that were true then the Imperial Yacht being in the international waters of the Mediterranean placed the Imperial Family at great risk. If they were kidnapped by the Kaiser, Germany could exert great pressure on the Czar. He raised his voice, ordering his secretary to send a messenger up to the radio room and find out whether the Yaroslav had intercepted the Standart. Then he asked that Piotr report to him immediately. CNOP military personnel were quartered in barracks at the naval base. Veliky was just beginning to unpack his seabag when the duty messenger found him and told him to report to the admiralty. It was close to 1700 hours when he was escorted into the inner office of the Chief of Naval Operations. He saluted and stood rigidly at attention. "Sit down Veliky, sit down. "I am greatly disturbed by the Standart being alone in the Mediterranean. We have ordered the Yaroslav to escort her to Yalta. I wanted to ask you about the morale of the Imperial family, and whether you can add anything to what we already know about the Kaiser's feelings for the Czarina. They are cousins you know?" "I never heard her speak of him, other than immediately after she returned from her visit in Hamburg." "Well, how did the Tsarevich react to the German visit?" "I don't think he had any reaction. Neither he nor his sisters were allowed to leave the ship. About the only thing I can add to that is that Aleksey was impressed by the German submarines and airships he saw when we left Hamburg." The admiral couldn't resist his next comment, "I suppose that is where the rumor of our having discovered Helium began?" Piotr sat there dumbfounded. His white face turned a crimson shade of red. "No sir." The admiral laughed heartily. "That rumor really pissed off the Kaiser. He believes we did find a supply --fact is most of the world believes it. But we will keep that our little secret. Yes?" + + + + + The radio operator who was standing the midnight-to-four A.M. watch had been assigned that late hour because the traffic was at its lowest. The man was the least proficient of the 5 radiomen the ship had been given. His main talent lay in his knowledge of languages. But, as a radio operator, he lacked the one attribute that would make him a good communications officer; he had no sense of rhythm. It was a little after 1:30 in the morning when he left his post to find the Captain. He had intercepted something between two German ships. The transmission must have been between two experienced radio telegraphers. He was sure it was at least twenty-five words a minute... far more than he could hope to copy. But he had caught pieces of it. The word "Standart" had been repeated several times and so had the word "Istanbul". Also there had been something about the way the message had been sent and replied to that bothered him. It had been rapid fire, it had been specific; it was not idle chat between bored operators in the wee early hours of the morning. Captain Prokoshov had had little sleep that night so, when the radioman gently tapped on his cabin door, he had opened it almost immediately. He motioned the man into his cabin and looked at him questioningly. "Yes?" The man described the rapid fire transmission, the language had been German, it was definitely not idle chat between operators and he repeated his discovery that both the word "Standart" and the word "Istanbul" had been repeated several times. The Captain asked about the strength of the radio signals, but the man told him that even though the transmission had come in loud and clear, he could not be certain that the originator was close by. At that time of night signals from half a world away sounded like they were next door. After sending the man back to his station, the Captain went to the chief radio operator's quarters. His voice hit the man's ears much harder than did the shaking of his shoulder. The man's eyes fluttered open. He was on the verge of cussing out the source of this disturbance, but his eyes focused on his commanding officer just in time to prevent an insolent remark. "I need you in the radio room right now. There is no time to delay." The man rolled out of his bunk and started to put on his trousers. "No time for that, bring em' along. I think we may have an emergency on our hands. I need for you to raise the Yaroslav. Tell her that I think we are in danger. Then I need for you to start monitoring as much German traffic as you can find." During the next three hours the airways were suddenly clear of all traffic that could be pinpointed as German, but at 2:30 in the morning the chief operator managed to contact the Yaroslav. The message that was passed had been encoded, so there was a delay of close to an hour before the Yaroslav replied. The coded message was passed to the Captain. The sun was on the rise when Prokoshov was finally able to read the transmission. It read, "Suggest you delay entry into Istanbul until we intercept you. It appears that the Turks have joined with the Huns. Uncle Willie is looking for you." + + + + + When Piotr entered the CNOP office for his first day of duty the place was in a turmoil. The Admiral was already at his desk and his secretary looked at the new comer in dismay. Then a flicker of recognition flashed across his face. "You're Veliky, right?" The boy had dressed in his best seaman's uniform, the one that he reserved for inspections. He had expected a quiet, sedate place for his first day on the job. But what met his eye was so different from what he had seen just the day before that he was flabbergasted. Adrian, the Admirals secretary was a senior enlisted man. He had been with Captain Ivanov when he had been second in command and the Admiral was the Captain of Russia's largest battle ship. The Admiral had always intimidated him but still he had a warm spot in his heart for the gruff old bastard. It came as something of a surprise when he was told that Piotr would be working for him. The new sailor was quite handsome ...just his cup of tea. Of course he knew that the boy had come from the Imperial Yacht and he had heard that he was a friend of the Tsarevich. He wondered just how close their friendship was. He also knew the boy was to attend the Naval Academy in September. Well, that would give him plenty of time to feel him out. Caution must be the key word, --but the boy certainly was cute, and he radiated sexuality. "Veliky, we think the Standart may be in trouble. I need for you to act as a messenger for me today. Mostly it will be to move messages between this office and the radio room." Piotr turned pale. A sinking feeling hit his stomach. He turned toward the man. "What has happened? Are the passengers safe?" "We don't know. We received a message from the Yaroslav that the Standart had radioed that two German ships were on either side of her and she was being refused entry into Istanbul. The Yaroslav should be there soon. We have instructed her to point her guns at the Turkish fort and fire a salvo just short of the breakwater. In the meantime we have a telephone call into the Kaiser and are calling the German move an act of piracy." Adrian had noticed the sailor's reaction to the news and filed it in the back of his mind. It suggested that, if he played his cards right, he might seduce the boy. But now was not the time for such thoughts. "Captain Ivanov is with the Czar at Tsarskoye Selo, but we think he probably will move into the Winter Palace. Have you met the Czar?" Piotr shook his head in the affirmative. "Tatiana introduced me." "Hmmmm. 'Tatiana', not 'the Grand Duchess Tatiana'." The thought passed through his mind. "There is more to this lad than meets the eye." He needed to take a peek at that dossier in the admiral's desk. "Veliky. Tonight would you join me for a beer after work? I'd like to discuss some of the do's and don'ts of the work you will be given." Piotr said: "Fine. But I can't stay out too late, I still need to unpack my sea bag." As a senior enlisted man, the secretary had his own room in a building reserved for senior personnel. It was just two buildings down from the base beer hall. He hoped the boy might drink a little too much and ...well, who knows. He chastised himself. Here his country was on the verge of war and all he could think of was getting that cute little Polish lad into bed. + + + + + Alex-P lay in the arms of Alex-T as the sun began to rise, flooding the small cabin with light. There was the sound of commotion coming from the open deck. Pieces of conversation could be heard. Then they noticed that the Standart was still in the water. The Tsarevich uncurled himself from his partner and whispered, "You had better put on your wig. Something is going on outside I want to see what it is." Alex-P responded: "You should put on the wig and stick your head out in the passageway to see if anyone is there." Alex-P handed him the hairpiece. The Tsarevich opened the cabin door just enough to give him a clear view of the passageway. The steward was sitting in his accustomed position, looking anxiously toward the outside exit. Alex-T quietly closed the door and whispered: "I think we need to change roles. The steward can see me leave." The Tsarevich picked up the light brown dress that Alex-P had been wearing and moved into the bathroom. Moments later Catherine returned to the room. "Do I look all right?" Alex-P laughingly replied, "Oh Yes. I'm tempted to throw you on the bed and toss that stupid skirt over that lovely head of yours." Then he waved his hardened Petooshock at the girl, "See!" "Lord I don't know how you can get it up again after last night. You must have cum at least four times." "Five if you really want to know." Just then they heard the sound of a gruff voice, amplified by a megaphone. The words were German. Both boys immediately looked at one another, then Catherine (Alex-T) said: "I'll send the steward on an errand so you can leave without being observed." Then he slipped out of the room. There was a crowd leaning over the rail as she stepped onto the outer deck. Everyone was talking excitedly and pointing toward a gray vessel a few hundred yards off the Standart's port side. The ship was less than eighty feet in length. Nevertheless the two cannon's that were pointed directly toward the Standart looked huge. Captain Prokoshov was on the bridge. A crewman handed him a megaphone. He put the metallic cone to his mouth and shouted across the open ocean, "We are a Russian Naval vessel in international waters. What do you want." The reply was: "We are going to board you. Will you assist us or do we need to do this the hard way?" Prokoshov's reply was: "We are establishing contact with the Kaiser. It would be in both of our interests to wait till that contact is made. At the moment you are committing an act of international piracy." It was then that Prokoshov looked down to his main deck and saw the Imperial family along the rail. He said something to one of his officers and, moments later, the Czarina and her children disappeared into the aft salon. Catherine/Alex-T was one of the last to be escorted away from the rail. The Czarina was sitting at a writing table hurriedly scribbling something on a sheet of paper while a messenger from the radio room stood by. Catherine started to say, "Mother what is going on?" but caught himself at the last moment. The message addressed to the Kaiser was transmitted in plain German so that the world would know its content. It read: "Dear Cousin. We have been stopped on the high seas, in international waters, by two of your war ships. I do not understand your purpose in doing this. When we last met in Germany I was under the impression that, even though we disagreed on several minor points, we respected each other's sovereignty. Captain Prokoshov is quite angry and calls this an act of Piracy. Please reply immediately. And, dear cousin, please call off your dogs." The message had been sent. Now there was nothing that they could do but wait. The Turks' refusal to allow them to pass through the channel and into the Black Sea gave them no other option. Every few minutes the men manning the guns on the German ships moved their weapons and re-aimed them at the Standart, displaying their readiness. The Radio Operator began sending distress messages that the Standart was under attack by German Pirates. Within seconds, one of the guns fired a shot across her bow. That was followed by a bellowing from the German vessel, "Cease radio transmission or we will blow away your antenna." + + + + + The Czar was still at Tsarskoye Selo preparing to move to the Winter Palace when he received word that the Imperial Yacht had been stopped by German ships of war. He had rung through to the General of the Odessa Army Division and ordered all available men to move through Rumania and Bulgaria then set up camp at the Turkish Border. Russia had mutual protection treaties with both countries. Normally permission would have been sought to move the troops through these two countries, but speed was of the essence. However, a wire was sent to the Prime Ministers of both countries advising them of the troop movements. Within the hour both of the Imperial Trains were loaded with armed soldiers. As soon as Nicholas was on board the convoy gained top speed and hurdled its way south. Even though the incident, so far, had involved only the Navy, Nicholas saw this as an act that could best be resolved by threatening Turkey's northern borders with solders. Germany had attempted to waylay the unarmed Russian ship, but the threat could not have been carried out without Turkey's refusal to permit the Standart from crossing into the Black Sea. Two senior army officers boarded the train as they moved from the Imperial spur to the main line. Most of the night was spent going over charts and planning an attack. The Ottoman country had seriously misjudged this incident. It was, in every respect, a stupid move on the parts of both Germany and Turkey. Neither should have been surprised at the Czar's reaction to the attempted kidnapping of his family. Both should have realized that Turkey did not have the resources to repel an attack upon her borders. + + + + + The Yarsolav, which was in the Black Sea heading toward Istanbul, was monitoring the radio traffic and realized the danger the Imperial Yacht was in; however, she did not want to warn the German's that she would soon be at the eastern end of the channel. When she cleared the channel markers she aimed her huge cannons directly at the building of the port authority. She did not ask permission to enter and steamed full speed past that building. The distance between the Eastern and Western portals is less than eight miles. Quite suddenly the Russian war ship was upon the Standart and the two vessels threatening her. She fired two shots just short of the bow of each vessel. The two German gunboats were dwarfed by the Yaroslav. Immediately both vessels got underway and headed west at top speed. The heavy cruiser semaphored a message to the Yacht. "Get underway. Enter the channel. We will be right behind you." A small Turkish boat was heading toward the two ships. The Yaroslav fired a warning shot across its bow. The boat did a quick return to shore while the Standart passed the entrance. Two cannons were manned and kept trained on the port authority, a third one was aimed at the historic Blue Mosque. Once both Russian ships were in the Black Sea, the Cruiser signaled the Standart to proceed at top speed to Yalta. The Yaroslav came to a halt two miles beyond the eastern portal. She would block any German ship from entering this ocean, at least until the Imperial Yacht was safely in Russian waters. Within two hours of their entrance into the Black Sea, a coded message directed to the Czarina was received. An hour later she read the letter from her husband. "My darling, I miss you so very much. The actions of the Kaiser came as a complete surprise. Is he so stupid as not to realize I would fight the devil himself to be at your side? This letter is being sent to you from the train. Our army will soon be at the northern borders of Turkey. How DARE she become a servant of the Huns! They will regret it. ...Nicholas. + + + + + All author22 books are available in paperback from Amazon.com, and are also available as with colorful illustration in html format for viewing on your own PC, or in Franklin Rocket-eBook format. Contact author22@aol.com for further information.