“Here are your orders, Captain. Open them after you submerge, which you will do as soon as possible, before you reach the mouth of the Murmansk Fjord.” He slid the fat envelope across the desk. “There are no American satellite overflights tonight, but we expect an American submarine is out in the Barents Sea doing what they so arrogantly call a ‘gatekeeper mission.’ You will slip past him without being detected. Is everything understood?”

It was obvious the briefing was over. Andropoyov stood, saluted, and answered crisply, “Yes, sir! Gepard will not fail you, nor the Rodina.”

“Yes, I know. You will give your all.”

Even the man’s words seemed cold, detached, as unfeeling and aloof as the wind off the Barents Sea.

Andropoyov lifted the envelope, surprised by its heftiness, turned on his heel, and marched out of the office. He was happy to have a mission for his new boat, but still thrown a bit off balance by the odd demeanor of his admiral.

Now, as they pulled away, he looked out the Zil’s side window, back toward the headquarters building, toward Admiral Durov’s window. His breath fogged the glass and the squatty gray building was lost in the blowing snow before he could get it wiped clear.

Admiral of the Northern Fleet Alexander Durov watched the old Zil pull away from the curb. He turned abruptly from the window and stared hard at the other man who now sat in his office.

“There he goes, the impertinent little ass. Are you ready for your mission?” Durov asked.

Captain Second Rank Igor Serebnitskiv set the crystal glass of vodka down hard onto the priceless Louis XIV table. Trickles of condensation ran down onto the ancient shellac, ruining the surface, but Serebnitskiv paid no attention. He took his feet down from where they were resting on the polished wood of the admiral’s desk and rose to stand at the window, beside the older man.

“Da, I am ready. Volk will sail as soon as I am back on board. I think I will take special pleasure in ridding the world of Sergei Andropoyov. I have suffered enough of his arrogance. Ever since Stalingrad, I have been forced to absorb—”

Durov held up a hand to cut him off and cracked a rare smile. “Just don’t be too eager, nephew. Much more is at stake here than your own personal vendetta against our Captain Andropoyov. You must be patient, make sure the American is in place first. Andropoyov is a sacrificial lamb. His loss will be the impetus we need to overcome those weak-kneed old men in the Dumas.” The admiral flushed red, his eyes narrowing. “Their cowardice is robbing the Rodina of our rightful place as the world’s leader. Their stupidity will send our beloved motherland right back to medieval times. You will be the catalyst that drives them from the Kremlin.”