He swallowed the last of his food. When he spoke, his words were strong and sure. “We came all the way up here to see if the Russians had subs ready to deploy out of that big shed over there. We’re damn sure going to find out. Here’s what we’ll do. Hall, you and Martinelli scoot around the perimeter and get up on that ridge to the northeast.” He pointed off in the distance, across the sprawling base from where they now sat. “You get caught and you’ll answer to me and the chief first, then the Russians later if there’s anything left of your hides. I want you in a position where you can look down into the covered docks from the water side and see anything that might come floating out of there. Take one of the satcom radios and report back to home base if you see anything bigger than a sunfish. You’ll be on your own over there. If we get split up, remember to get to the extraction point in two days.” He tapped Hall and Martinelli on their shoulders and smiled. “Boys, it’s a long, cold walk home if you miss the bus. Better get moving. It looks like you’ve got twenty clicks to cover pretty quick.”

The two SEALs shouldered their packs and disappeared into the thick evergreens on the protected side of the ridge. It would take them at least two hours, more probably three, to get in position.

Beaman turned next to the other three SEALs who were squatting in the little circle. “Cantrell, you, Broughton, and Dumkowski set up an observation post right here. I want to know if anything unusual happens. Set up the other satcom radio ready to talk to home base. Chief Johnston and I are going down to see if we can crash their little party without an invitation. We’ll stay in touch on the line-of-sight radios.”

Beaman and Johnston shouldered their gear and checked their weapons ready.

“Sir, what if you two get caught?” Broughton asked.

“We won’t,” Beaman answered, and then he and Johnston disappeared into the darkness.

Captain Second Rank Anatol Vivilav sat at the little table in his stateroom, smoking a cigarette, as he read his secret operational orders for what had to be the hundredth time. The Vipr, his Akula-class submarine, hummed with activity all around him, but he was alone with his thoughts for the moment. The words on the paper had not changed since their first reading:

Depart Polyarnyy when directed. Submerge before leaving Murmansk Fjord. Proceed by direct routing to take station in Patrol Area “Igor.”

Remain undetected from all sources, including Russian naval assets, at all times.

When in patrol area, remain in constant radio communications with Northern Fleet Central Submarine Command on satellite circuit Kommalsat.

No electronic emissions, including both radio and radar, are authorized.