“You will start your deployments tomorrow night. Captain Vivilav, you will get Vipr under way at twenty-two hundred, just after the American KH-11 spy satellite passes overhead and drops beyond the horizon. You will travel down the fjord and submerge as soon as possible. You will then proceed as follows.”

Durov stepped over to a map of Russia and northern Europe that covered one wall. He pulled a laser pointer from his pocket and traced a route around Norway and down the Skattegat into the Baltic Sea.

“Very well, sir,” the tall, thin submariner said, his eyes glowing with pride.

“Captain Vivilav, you have the honor of taking station off St. Petersburg and most closely duplicating the Kronstadt’s heroic exploits. You will have seven days to be on station. You will not be detected by any naval force, including our own. Is that understood?”

Anatol Vivilav smiled and nodded. “It will be as you ordered. My boat and crew are ready.”

Durov smiled and answered, “Good.” He then went on to station the others around the northern flanks of the homeland from the White Sea to the Kara to the Barents. They would each be getting under way on subsequent nights, starting with the ones that had to travel the longest distance to their stations.

Durov stepped over to the heavy, ornately carved sideboard and clutched the bottle of vodka. He moved around the conference table, pouring a glass of the Rodina’s finest “warrior’s milk” for each captain. He filled his crystal shot glass and held it upward in an outstretched arm, saluting his men, his country, the revolution.

“To Mother Russia!” he shouted hoarsely, his lips flecked with foam. “May her sons defend her honor!”

The sound of chairs scraping on the hardwood floor filled the room as the six submarine captains jumped to attention. They answered Durov’s toast with “To Mother Russia!”

Each of the seven sailors downed the fiery liquid in a single gulp.

*   *   *

Bill Beaman pushed hard, working his way up yet another wooded hillside. These hills seemed like an endless series of obstacles. Push up a mount, cross the ridge, only to be faced with the next. The wind blew endlessly, too, pelting them with snow and ice crystals. The fir branches seemed to reach out to slap them, while the birch scrub tried its best to maliciously trip them.

Just after they crested the latest slope, he signaled for a five-minute rest stop in the lee of a wind-cleared rock outcropping. Johnston skied up alongside the SEAL commander, unbuckled his pack, and sat down on a large stone. The rest of the team deployed around them, setting up a quickly constructed defense perimeter. Anything less than a well-armed battalion would be in for a very nasty surprise if they stumbled across this hornet’s nest.

Johnston stretched his back and grimaced.

“Damn, Skipper,” he complained. “I’m too old for this shit.”