Over his career, Durov had single-handedly built the Soviet Northern Fleet into the largest, most potent submarine force in the world. Then, as he was not shy about telling anyone who would listen, he had watched it all be discarded by the spineless politicians in Moscow. On several occasions Sergei Andropoyov had seen him foam at the mouth as he ranted on and on about the castration of his beloved submarine service, all to appease the Americans and the clear-eyed capitalists in his own nation who would rather be rich than omnipotent, comfortable instead of supreme.

The old admiral had been much more subdued than normal this morning. Oddly subdued, Sergei thought. Still, Durov had been in no mood for pleasantries. He acknowledged Andropoyov’s greeting with little more than a grunt and a broad wave to take a seat. The glasses of tea were not even cool enough to drink without scalding their lips before the old man had rushed into the briefing, as if the information might grow cold and useless if it was not consumed at once.

“Sergeiovich, you have done well. I am told the K-475 is ready ahead of schedule for her first sea trials. She will do the Rodina proud. Our first new submarine in ten years! As much as I would love to show her off to them, even the Americans with their damnable spy satellites have no idea she exists. Nor do most of the bureaucrats back in Moscow. We must keep it so as long as we are able.” The admiral sipped his tea and eased back in the plush padded leather chair, crossing his legs, a near smile on his lips. Andropoyov tried not to stare. He had never seen the old man so relaxed. Andropoyov had to listen hard to hear his words when he spoke again. “You will get under way with the evening tide, Captain. The K-461 will escort you to your operating area. You have not been certified to carry weapons yet, so K-461 will be your guard.”

“I understand,” Andropoyov said. He sipped his tea, not sure what else to say. He could hear the ticking of the admiral’s desk clock, the shriek of the wind as it gusted around the corner of the building.

Durov stared into his glass for a long moment, as if he was studying the liquid for something that might be hidden there. He set the glass down and opened a drawer on the ornately carved antique wooden desk. He withdrew a large buff-colored envelope sealed with red wax and imprinted with the emblem of the Russian Navy.