“By now you have felt the first minor sting of my forces. You are now aware that the peoples’ Navy can reach into the heart of the motherland.” There was silence on the other end of the telephone line. He lowered his voice an octave. “I am sure that you are familiar with the history of our great country. Just like the brave sailors of the Kronstadt, my sailors will defend the Rodina with the last drop of their blood. Their missiles can reach much farther than the Kronstadt cannons. They are far, far more deadly as well. Gentlemen, my patience is growing thin. You continue to deny the inevitable. You insist on negotiating with the aggressors who have attacked our country and kidnapped our president. Listen to me. You will turn over control of all government functions immediately.” Durov paused to savor the moment of triumph. He listened to the hollow echo down the phone line of those words he had heard so many times in his dreams. “If you hesitate, the next strike will be much more than a pinprick. Gentlemen, you have four hours to do as your new leader has commanded. After that, you will become instantly irrelevant.”

Without another word, Admiral Alexander Durov slammed down the telephone.

The USS Toledo plowed through heavy seas as she ran toward the town of Pechenga, hard on the Norwegian-Russian border. It would have been a faster, more comfortable trip if the submarine could have stayed submerged, back in the calm depths. Their very important passenger, though, needed to be in constant communications with key members of his government. That meant a rough ride on the surface of the winter Barents Sea. It was the only way to keep the BRA-34 antennas up out of the water and still make reasonable speed.

Joe Glass sat in the wardroom-cum–hospital ward where Gregor Smitrov still lay. The Russian president was strapped to the wardroom table so he wouldn’t roll off during the rough ride. Smitrov was making a valiant attempt to stay awake, to not allow the pain medicine he was being given to cause him to lose control of the situation. Doc Halliday hovered over his patient, trying to convince him that he needed to rest. So far, Smitrov was ignoring the medic.

The radiotelephone crackled and came to life. Smitrov reached out and pulled the handset to his ear. The conversation was conducted in Russian and took a good deal of time. Glass was able to catch portions of it. He heard “Durov” and “Polyarnyy” mentioned several times in the rapid-fire exchange.

Finally Smitrov dropped the handset to the table, eased back onto the pillow, and closed his eyes. For a moment, Joe Glass thought the man had lost consciousness. Then he turned and looked up at Glass.