When Glass and Gonzales stepped into the crowded wardroom, the skipper took his traditional seat at the head of the table and waved Gonzales to the one on his left. The assembled group waited, anticipating what their commander might have to say.

“Gentlemen,” he began. “As you have probably figured out, since we have a rather large black wart on our ass and five passengers dressed in cammies, we are headed north for a little playtime with the SEALs. A couple of nights ago, a SEAL team parachuted into the Kola. They are doing a recon mission against the sub base at Polyarnyy.” He glanced around the table. No one seemed to be breathing. Every eye was fixed on him. Every man knew Polyarnyy was Russia’s most closely guarded submarine base and suspected what was to come next. “We are going into the mouth of the Murmansk Fjord to launch the ASDV. They will rendezvous with the SEALs and bring them out.”

Doug O’Malley whistled. “Wow, this all sounds like a James Bond novel. I can’t wait for the movie. I want Brad Pitt to play me.”

Edwards swatted the engineer and retorted, “You’ll be lucky if Drew Cary would take the part.” He turned serious. “Now listen to what the skipper said. Nav, I want the charts for the fjord updated with all the intel we have, particularly their fixed ASW monitors and minefields. Weps, make sure the underice sonar and the secure fathometer are tuned. Have the weapons and fire control systems double-checked. Eng, you go over the power plant and the ship’s noise signature. I want this boat to be so quiet that fish bump into her.”

Glass stood when his XO had finished. He nodded at Edwards.

“All right, gentlemen,” he said. “If there are no questions, you heard what the XO said. Get a good night’s sleep and hit the decks running in the morning.”

The Mi-8 Hip transport helicopter, painted in the dark gray color scheme of the Russian Navy, flared to land just beyond the collection of rough, shabby huts and settled down onto the ice. The side door slid open and Admiral Alexander Durov stepped out. He shielded his eyes from the wind-driven ice particles as he walked out from beneath the rotor blast. He marched right past the clutch of officers formed up as a greeting committee and headed for the large central hut.

Vasiliy Zhurkov, following in his trail, shrugged to the ice station commander as he walked past. The group trailed behind, confused and disturbed by the admiral’s lack of traditional formality.