The Kuguar was the next submarine scheduled to sneak out into the Barents, and it was ready to depart. The crew hustled to cast off the lines that bound the sub to the pier. The crews of the other four boats stood and watched as one of their brothers headed out to war. As the Kuguar began moving toward the open end of the building, the boats bid their good-byes with prolonged blasts of their horns. The sound reverberated around the building, the harsh echoes exploding from all sides.

The black submarine slipped away from the pier, easing through the water. Except for the slow churning of the screw, it barely disturbed the oily smooth surface of the icy water as it moved forward, fading into the blackness as it headed through the door into the open basin.

Durov raised his arm to snap off a sharp salute of farewell to one of his charges, but dropped it to clutch his chest.

“My pills,” he groaned.

Zhurkov ran to his side, fumbling to open the bottle that contained his little blue pills. He gave Durov two of them to swallow, all the while chiding him like a misbehaving child. “Admiral, you have put off seeing a doctor much too long. Please allow me to take you to the clinic this instant. The next attack may well kill you.”

Durov shooed him off with a wave of his hand. “No, no. Not yet. There is still too much to do. Plenty of time for pampering later.”

Zhurkov shook his head. The old admiral’s face was deathly white, his lips blue, but not from the cold. Something lurked in the man’s eyes, though, something that burned white-hot and bright. Something that made the aide hush his scolding for the moment and trot off to tend to the details of the president’s impending visit.

Tony Martinelli rubbed the sleep from his eyes and tried to focus on the yawning mouth of the covered submarine pens. Two nights had passed since the Russian submarine had sneaked out, and ever since it had been boring duty up here on this windswept cliff, dodging snowflakes and staring down at the Polyarnyy Sub Base. Nothing down there but ice, snow and the occasional rusty truck slipping and sliding along on the rutted roads.

“Hey, Jason,” he whispered. “Got any water? I’m out.”

“Damn, Tony,” Jason Hall grumbled. “What did you do all the time I was on watch? I had to crawl out to fill my own CamelBak. Didn’t you?”

“Oh, come on. I’ll fill yours when I finish here. Just give me a drink.”

Hall handed his CamelBak to his teammate. “Okay, but I expect a gentle, unassuming Chardonnay. Not too oaky.”

Martinelli took a big swig and wiped his lips. “Right. You’ll get melted snow, just like always. I’ll try to stay away from the yellow snow, but I ain’t guaranteeing anything.”