Pishkovski ordered the two small reserve propeller systems to twist Gepard. Unlike American subs, she had a small electric-driven propeller a few feet to either side of her mammoth main screw. They were designed to bring her home if anything happened to the main propulsion system, but they were also very handy for maneuvering in close quarters. By having the starboard screw go astern while the port went ahead, Pishkovski was able to twist Gepard’s bow away from the pier while walking the stern out, too.

With two meters of black water between the sub and the pier, Pishkovski ordered the main propulsion system to drive K-475 out of the sub pen. The water at the stern churned white as the six-meter-diameter, seven-bladed screw started to turn. The black sub cut through the water smoothly now that she was back in her natural element.

The rusty old icebreaker churned ahead of her, crunching through the layer of ice covering the bay, leaving a broad trail of crushed and crumpled ice floating on the black water. The high, steep hills surrounding the bay hid the sky except for a small patch overhead. A thick, heavy layer of ominous clouds reflected the lights from the Polyarnyy Naval Base and the Severomorsk Shipyard farther down the fjord.

Andropoyov stamped his feet, attempting to keep them warm as he stood on the hard steel deck. The wind whipped across the sub’s bridge as they moved into the bay, its force so brutal he had to shout to be heard.

“I feel a storm, Mr. Pishkovski. The Barents will not be a nice place to loiter on the surface. We will dive before the last turn of the fjord. Please make sure there are no delays.”

“Yes, Captain. There will be no delays.” The first officer clapped his mittened hands together hard. “Damn, it is cold!”

The icebreaker made the wide, sweeping turn from Olenya Bay out into the Murmansk Fjord. The fjord faced due north and the high rocky hills on either side channeled the Arctic wind into a bone-chilling blast down the narrow stretch of water. Anyone unlucky enough to be standing unprotected was dealt the full force of the cold. Exposed skin froze in moments. The two officers huddled for protection below the edge of the cockpit, drawing slight comfort from the meager trickle of warm air drifting up the hatch from below. They took turns rising to look out at the water ahead before ducking back down out of the blasting wind.

The two ships steamed north into the Kol’skiy Zaliv, the wide mouth of the fjord that opened into the Barents Sea. Farther north was nothing but the frozen wasteland islands of Spitsbergen, Franz Josef Land, and then the polar ice cap. The surging breakers of the open sea prevented ice from building out here. The sub began to pitch and roll in the growing swells.