The other torpedo exploded just outside the crew’s mess room, the force blasting through the hull, sending red-hot shrapnel spraying around the crowded room, slicing through flesh, instantly killing the sailors there before they could even realize what was happening.

The doomed sub, defeated, sank slowly, inexorably into the deep, the sea continuing to rush in through rents and tears along her length.

By the time the Miami came to rest a thousand feet below, the sea had already jealously claimed as its own the once proud submarine and all the souls on board.

Igor Serebnitskiv laughed out loud and pounded the nearest bulkhead with glee. His crew stared at him, not fully understanding what had just happened. Some wondered if their captain had gone mad.

Serebnitskiv was oblivious of those looks.

It was done.

He listened to the sounds of ocean water as it rushed into the carcass of the dying ship. He could hear the sizzle of ice-cold water hitting steaming-hot pipes, and make out the crushing of bulkheads as they collapsed under the awesome pressure of the sea.

Then the final sound, the grinding and tearing as the sub’s lifeless remains plowed into the stony bottom of the ocean.

He had been cursing himself for not pursuing the Americans when they went racing past him the first time. There had been no time to shoot and he dared not make noise that would alert them of his presence.

He knew they would not abandon another ship in distress, that they would be back. Americans were weak and predictable that way. He had been right.

Now there was nothing to do but wait a few dull, boring days until that annoying underwater telephone on Gepard went silent. Until there would be no chance of any witnesses remaining.

He could go home to tell his uncle what he had accomplished out here in this bitter sea.

Go home to toast the renewed glory of the Rodina.

Go home and help lead the new revolution.

Chapter 6

Admiral Alexander Durov sat on the porch of the seaside dacha, gazing out over the blue waters of the Black Sea. A warm breeze blew in, bringing with it the refreshing scent of salt air and the clamor of fishermen already heading out for their night’s work. The sun burned a fiery orange as it sank into the sea. The lights of Nizhneye Dzhemete were already blinking on, adorning the hills along the shore to the north of the dacha with a necklace of white pearls.

Durov loved this place. It was so different from the frigid wasteland of the Kola Peninsula where he now spent so much of his time. His boyhood home was a few kilometers north of here. He had spent much of his early career at the vast naval bases at Novorossiysk, a mere thirty kilometers to the south.