Beaman whistled. Nothing much fazed him, but the tone of Donnegan’s voice was unmistakable. “Admiral, there are only a couple of countries in Arctic winter right now. Canada and Norway are allies last time I checked, so they’re out. That leaves Russia.” There was a slight pause, as if the SEAL was considering his next comment. He decided to go right ahead and say it. “I hope to hell you have National Command Authority approval on this.”

Donnegan smiled. Beaman was good. Very good.

“I just got off the phone with the national security adviser. By the way, President Brown sends his best and wishes you all the luck. I need you to go in and put eyeballs on some subs at Polyarnyy. Our satellites show all they have there are some rusted hulks, but we have a source that says they have some boats there somewhere that are ready for sea.”

“Okay, I’ll have the team saddled up and ready to rock in eight hours. I trust you’ll have the mission profile out to us before then. Better lay on the transport, too.”

“Good! I told President Brown you’d be in the air by noon your time.”

Bill Beaman was still shaking his head when he hung up the phone. There was plenty more to this phone call than an eyeball mission to check on a flock of dead subs. The president of the United States wasn’t doing the two a.m. party-line thing with one of the head honchos at the Pentagon unless there was grave mischief afoot. It looked as if he and some of his boys were about to get their asses dropped right into the middle of it all, whatever “it” was.

Oh well. He was more than accustomed to finding out where the party was and what they were celebrating when the punch bowl was half-empty already. The SEAL commander knew one thing with certainty, though.

He would get precious little sleep this night.

Admiral Alexander Durov stepped through the great bronze doors, his chest thrust out and his head back as if he owned the place. He had loved the Kremlin ever since his father first brought him here as a young boy. It didn’t matter if it was the seat of the Communist government, the haunt of the old Czarists, or the home of the current crop of spineless politicos. This thousand-year-old fortress represented the power of the Rodina. These walls had witnessed so much history. His country had suffered the torment of a dozen invaders through the centuries, attackers from both the East and the West, but none had been able to breach this place. It was the beating heart of Mother Russia.

As Durov strode in, President Gregor Smitrov rose from behind the ormolu-decorated Louis XV desk. He leaned across toward Durov, his small, girlish hand already meekly extended.