The old admiral had been much more subdued than normal this morning. Oddly subdued, Sergei thought. Still, Durov had been in no mood for pleasantries. He acknowledged Andropoyov’s greeting with little more than a grunt and a broad wave to take a seat. The glasses of tea were not even cool enough to drink without scalding their lips before the old man had rushed into the briefing, as if the information might grow cold and useless if it was not consumed at once.
“Sergeiovich, you have done well. I am told the K-475 is ready ahead of schedule for her first sea trials. She will do the Rodina proud. Our first new submarine in ten years! As much as I would love to show her off to them, even the Americans with their damnable spy satellites have no idea she exists. Nor do most of the bureaucrats back in Moscow. We must keep it so as long as we are able.” The admiral sipped his tea and eased back in the plush padded leather chair, crossing his legs, a near-smile on his lips. Andropoyov tried not to stare. He had never seen the old man so relaxed. Andropoyov had to listen hard to hear his words when he spoke again. “You will get underway with the evening tide, Captain. The K-461 will escort you to your operating area. You have not been certified to carry weapons yet, so K-461 will be your guard.”
“I understand,” Andropoyov said. He sipped his tea, not sure what else to say. He could hear the ticking of the admiral’s desk clock, the shriek of the wind as it gusted around the corner of the building.
Durov stared into his glass for a long moment, as if he was studying the liquid for something that might be hidden there. He set the glass down and opened a drawer on the ornately carved antique wooden desk. He withdrew a large buff-colored envelope sealed with red wax and imprinted with the emblem of the Russian Navy.
“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 over-flights 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 onboard. 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…”