Catherine Goldman rubbed her stinging eyes, then stood and walked over to the little dresser. Her mind still on the strings and variables she had been studying, she tore open a packet of hotel coffee and brewed a pot in the little urn that rested there. She talked to herself, argued with herself as she worked. She poured herself a cup of the brew as she eased back down in front of the laptop. She was oblivious of the sun rising, to the first determined rays of sunlight that found their way through the thick curtains that covered the hotel room windows.

Admiral Alexander Durov sat at the conference table in his office at Polyarnyy Central Command Building, sipping hot tea as he glanced at the morning copy of the London Times. Sure enough, there on page one was a picture of the ice camp and a sad, detailed story of the admiral’s brave but tragically futile efforts to rescue his lost nephew.

Quite good copy from that drunk American, Miller, Durov thought. He could write despite his disgusting personality.

He tossed the paper aside. The world was busy screaming at the Americans, demanding that they admit their responsibility for the tragedy. President Brown’s weak protestations, his ineffectual claims that the United States was in no way involved with the tragedy sounded shrill, disingenuous. Deny as he might, he still had no explanation for what had happened, and the world was buying the Russian version.

The scenario was heating up nicely. Now it was time for the next step in the plan.

Durov stood and looked at the other men who were seated around the table, talking among themselves. These six men would soon lead his half dozen Akula submarines to sea. They were the heart of his plan. They would be the heroes of the restored and reinvigorated Russia!

Durov smiled as he allowed his gaze to pass along the faces of each of the men. He had handpicked them years before, after determining their loyalty, nurturing their dissatisfaction with the sickening decline of their beloved country, and bringing them along to this moment. They were schooled in the most arduous submarine training he could devise. Lesser men would not have survived the strain. Indeed, the “class” had once been over twice this size. This group had come through the fires, tempered like fine steel. The weaker ones had burned like dry wood.

“My sons, we have waited for a long time for this moment,” Durov said, his voice as strong and firm as it had been in years. “All our careful preparations and plans are in place. The clock is ticking. It is time for action.”

The six men sat on the edges of their chairs, watching their admiral with rapt attention. There wasn’t a sound in the room except Durov’s voice and the loud ticking of the antique mantel clock.