Durov trudged across the snow-covered ice, heedless of the covey of confused officers trailing in his wake. The noontime sun gave the southern horizon a pale golden color against the eternal gray of the Arctic winter night. A frigid wind out of the northeast blew ice crystals so that they rattled like hail on the flimsy metal sides of the huts.

Durov glanced around as he approached the sorry encampment and shook his head in disgust. The place was a pigsty. Spare equipment and leftover building materials lay where they fell, much of it scattered over the snow by the wind. Frozen garbage was piled up outside the door to the mess hut. The cooks hadn’t even bothered to carry the refuse away from the building entrance. They had just tossed it out and let it freeze there.

Durov stepped up to the central hut’s door and jerked it open. He stepped up into a small vestibule, facing another door. He yanked that one open, as the one behind him slammed shut. A burst of Arctic air accompanied the admiral into the stiflingly warm enclosure.

“Hey, shut the friggin’ door!” The shout of indignation came with a decidedly American accent. “You born in a barn?”

Durov stopped and stared at the rotund man seated at a metal table, typing at a laptop computer. Smoke circled his head and the remnants of a large lunch and several empty beer bottles, along with a well-used ashtray, littered the table. The seated man looked up and saw who the newcomer was. There was very little change in his sanguine features when he recognized Durov. He rose and stepped unsteadily toward the admiral. He squinted through the cloud of smoke from the cigarette between his lips as he extended his hand. His words were slurred when he spoke.

“Mornin’, Admiral. Or evenin’, I guess it is. That damn sun up here! I can’t tell one from the other. Harry Miller, stringer reporter for Reuters.”

Durov ignored the outstretched hand. His face darkened as he looked at the man and his disheveled workspace with distaste.

“What are you doing here?” the admiral demanded.

“I got lucky, I guess. I drew the assignment to come up here and report on your valiant attempt at a rescue. Your government would allow one pool reporter and I drew the short straw.”

Zhurkov stepped up behind Durov and whispered in his ear, “Don’t worry, Admiral. This one is on Medikov’s payroll. Besides that, we are bringing in the beer by the helicopter load.”

Durov nodded curtly. “Very well. Mr. Miller, you will stay out of the way. I will brook no interference with our operations. Time is not on our side right now and you cannot distract our men. Either Vasiliy or I will answer all your questions in due time.”