Admiral Tom Donnegan sat behind his old battered oak desk and stared out the window. He had been able to pull enough strings to have the massive desk follow him over the years from one port of call to another, most recently from Honolulu to Washington, D.C. At the moment, his mind was far away from this cluttered office. It did not register the dimming sky or the first lights that flickered on across the Potomac, reflected by the river’s oily, calm surface. He was someplace else, thousands of miles to the east and far to the north, at a cold spot off the Russian coast.

This was one of those times that tried anyone in command. He could do nothing more than sit and worry. His team was out there on the front line in a hostile, uninviting place. In actuality, they were way out beyond the front line on this one. They knew their jobs. They were doing them. At least he could pray they were. There had been frequent messages from Jon Ward, but he was as out of touch as Donnegan was. Neither Ward nor Donnegan had heard a word out of Russia since Beaman coolly acknowledged the order to get on his horse and ride right into Polyarnyy to rescue the president of Russia.

Donnegan broke his gaze and looked at the brass chronometer that sat on the far side of the old desk. Couple of hours before dawn in Polyarnyy. He had no idea where Beaman was. No way to know if they had somehow managed to get to Smitrov. Nor if they had found a way out of the sub base with or without the president.

There had been no bulletins on CNN. No urgent telephone call that carried bad news. Those were good signs.

He wished he could hear from Joe Glass and Toledo. Such murkiness, such uncertainty was making an old man of him. He envied Ward. At least he was keeping busy, chasing that rogue Russian submarine into the Baltic. Donnegan had to sit here behind this battle-scarred old desk of his and worry his ass off.

He heard the phone ring once amid the swirl of activity outside his door. He didn’t answer it. Someone from his staff would. If it was important, they would tell him. Still, he did not breathe.

Tim Schwartz, his aide, stuck his head through the door within thirty seconds.

“Admiral, two things,” he said, with his usual calculated efficiency. “First, we just received a message from Toledo. They confirm the SEAL report of three more Akulas out of the barn. They were running submerged toward the White Sea. Glass says they will be there sometime today. He is breaking off-trail to head back for the ASDV pickup.”