“One has to question how the Americans knew about the loss if they did not cause it,” Durov continued. “There is the fact that this happened in our territorial sea. Mr. President, in case you are not familiar with the law of the sea, our territorial sea is the same as our land. An American submarine operating submerged in our territory is an act of aggression, even if it does not fire a shot.”

Smitrov was ghostly pale. Durov wondered if there was a drop of blood in the little man. He whined, “Are you sure? Could there be any doubt? Is there any other proof?”

“There rarely is with these kinds of things,” Durov snorted. “That’s why you use submarines, to keep things hidden. Come spring, when the ice melts and we can find the hulks, then, Mr. President, you will have your proof.”

Smitrov grew even paler and squeezed his eyes closed in a pained grimace. Durov was more certain than ever that the man was going to swoon. Instead, he slumped weakly back into his chair. When he looked up, his eyes were shining with tears, his expression grim.

“I’ll assemble my advisers. I must inform the Parliament. They must know immediately. And the people…the people need to know. This is a terrible disaster.”

“Yes, Mr. President. It is.”

With that, Durov turned on his heel and strode toward the door.

“Admiral?”

Durov stopped and half turned to the president. “Yes, Mr. President?”

“My condolences.”

“Sir?”

“For the loss of your nephew.”

“Ah yes. Thank you, sir. For the loss of all our brave men.”

“Yes.”

Durov closed the bronze doors and marched smartly down the long hall, the taps on the soles of his boots echoing off the hard marble floor. When he was well away from the executive office, he allowed a small smile to trace across his weathered face.

It had started at last!

The weak fool back there was falling into the trap and did not suspect a thing. Now, in a few hours, the press would have the story and the Russian people would be screaming for action against the American aggressors. Soon the chaos would be unleashed. When it was over, the glory of this historic place would once again be restored.

If he had been sure the security cameras would miss it, he would have allowed himself a joyous jig right there in the halls of the Kremlin.

Marina Nosovitskaya stormed into Dmitri Ustinov’s office without a word and slammed the door shut hard behind her. Her beautiful blond features were crimson with undisguised anger. She stopped, bent forward, and slammed her fists down on Ustinov’s desk, then stared hard into his wide eyes.

“Dmitri Ustinov, you are an idiot! Were you born with a death wish?” Her voice was menacing, low and deep in her throat as if she might lose control and come over the desk after him.