“Possible, Nav,” he answered. “It’s been a while since they’ve done an interocean transfer, and I don’t recall ever hearing about a winter one. If that’s what this is, something’s up and we’re in for a long haul. We better find ourselves a polynya. It’s time to tell the boss what we’re doing.”

Schutte pulled another chart out of the large roll he kept tucked under the table. He spread it out and put a coffee cup on each corner to hold it flat. The chart, the result of decades of polar research, showed the expected locations for polynyas in the wintertime Arctic. Still, it would be a real trick to find one so they could surface and get a quick message off to COMSUBLANT back in Norfolk. And do it while maintaining sonar contact on the Russian sub. They did not want to lose track of this intriguing boat right now.

Schutte shook his head as he perused the chart. “Not much around here, Skipper. Looks like the best bet is over near Novaya Zemlya. Chart says there should be a few sensible heat polynyas over there.”

“Okay, let’s head over that way.”

Gerson joined the two at the chart table.

“We still have good contact on this guy,” he reported. “The twenty-nine is holding him fine out to twenty thousand yards. He’s still steaming straight and normal, far as we can tell. Want to ease up a little closer and see if we can get any better info?”

Crawford shook his head. “No, XO. You weren’t around when we used to play with these guys all the time. We’re doing fine out here on the thin-line. If he is an Akula, we wouldn’t be able to detect him on the hull-mounted arrays until we were inside four thousand yards. That’s the same range he needs to be able to hear us. Getting counterdetected is bad.”

Gerson nodded in agreement. “I see what you mean. Not a good trade.”

“Besides, we don’t know what he’s up to,” Crawford continued. “If he’s not transiting to the Pacific after all, if he’s out here getting ready for some exercise or something, we might get caught up in the middle of that nonsense. Nope, better to stay out here in loose trail until we can see what this guy is up to.”

All three men stared hard at the mark on the chart that represented the Russian submarine, as if his identity and mission would magically come clear for them. There was nothing. The intrigue, the excitement of the hunt, had revived them.

Brad Crawford whistled tunelessly when he returned to his seat by the periscope.

Dimitriy Pishkovski pushed the buzzer button. He waited several seconds and pushed it again even harder, as if force might make the noise louder. He heard Sergei Andropoyov’s groggy voice on the other end of the phone.