“I may be greedy, but I'm not a traitor, Admiral. There is no way I would aid and abet Razov after what I've learned of his plans.”

“Good. Second, as soon as this is over, I want you to submit your resignation.”

“I can't - ”

“You can and you will. Or else your role in this scheme will be played out on CNN twenty-four hours a day. Agreed?”

Sparkman's face had a haunted look. “Agreed,” he whispered.

“There's one other thing. Tell Razov that the U.S. is still trying to figure out why the NR-1 was hijacked. A little disinformation couldn't hurt.”

Sparkman nodded.

“Thank you, Mr. Vice President. I won't waste any more of your time. I know you've got a lot to do carrying out the president's orders.”

Sparkman squared his shoulders. “I'll have someone from my office stay in close contact so we can coordinate our planning.”

The two men parted without shaking hands, with Sparkman heading back to the White House. Sandecker strode to the parking lot, where the others awaited him. He was angry at having to destroy a man's career, angry that Sparkman had been such a fool. His blue eyes blazed with a cold fire as he slid behind the wheel of the Jeep and said, “Gentlemen, I think it's time we put Mr. Razov's wolfhounds in the dog pound.”

NUMA 3 - Fire Ice

-34 OFF THE COAST OF BOSTON

IN THE EVENT I ever write my memoirs,“ Zavala said, ”What exactly is going on?"

“This is a scientific mission being undertaken by Siberian Pest Control on a U.S. Navy submarine, supervised by NUMA,” Austin said. “Officially, it doesn't exist.”

“Maybe I won't write my memoirs,” Zavala said, with a shake of his head.

“Cheer up,” Austin said, glancing around the spacious wardroom. “No one would believe you anyhow.”

Austin had to raise his voice to be heard above the raucous voices of a dozen tough-faced men dressed in black commando uniforms. They were at the far end of the room smearing black and green camouflage paint on their faces. The exercise produced laughter and jokes that rose in decibel level, stoked by slugs from the vodka bottle being passed around. Petrov, who was dressed for combat like the others, dabbed paint on his cheek, hiding his scar, and made a remark in Russian that provoked great hilarity among his men. One man started to howl and pounded him on the back with sufficient force to break the rib cage of an average person.

Petro grabbed the bottle and came over to Austin and Zavala.

Austin said, “Sounds like amateur night at the Kremlin Comedy Club. What was the big joke?”

Petrov laughed and offered the vodka.

Austin declined and Zavala said, “Thanks, I'm a tequila man.”