Robert Thomas - The Bear - Red Star Rising

“Sir?” Dawson ducked his head back in as the seaman typed the contact as ‘Sierra 1’. “Contact is unknown in the system, sir.”

“Thanks Jason.” Dawson stepped back into the command center and relayed the news to the XO. “Do we have anything else on the contact?”

“Transient is moving northeast to southwest.”

“Very well. Let’s get a plot line started.”

“Do we follow? It’s a chance to get a make on a new sub, possibly.”

“Well,” Dawson said as he leaned against the bulkhead frame, “if this was your boat, are you hanging around a bit to get a trace, or are you following your orders and proceeding to your destination?”

“We’ll continue on our course, sir.”

“Why?”

“Our orders seem a bit out of the ordinary,” Tull said without hesitating. “This isn’t our part of the world. Something is up, and we’re on point to find out what.”

“What if this contact is what we’re supposed to be on point about?” Dawson smiled as he asked the question. Tull was a good officer, but he was young, completely lacking real-world tactical experience.

“But we don’t know that.” Tull looked down at the display, his mind churning. He hated when Dawson did this to him, but he knew it was necessary. “It would be a missed opportunity if this was why we were here and didn’t capitalize on it. All we can do is gather what intel we can as we proceed.”

“I’ll be back after I have something to eat,” Dawson said as he left the conn, his voice trailing off into the corridor.

“Oh my God I’m tired,” Ivan said as he threw himself onto the bed.

“You’re the youngest one here. I’m the one who should feel dead,” Danil replied. “I haven’t done anything like that in, well, longer than I care to remember.” Captain Jenner simply fell onto the bed and was asleep in seconds, his clothes still on. Sasha stumbled in behind and plopped down in the wing-backed, upholstered chair. It wasn’t bed, but it was almost too comfortable to move from. He stretched his legs, sinking down as far as he could go.

“Danil.” Sasha kicked out, hitting Danil’s foot with his. “Wake up.” He kicked again. “Danil.”

“What?”

“You need to get some sleep.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do.”

“After the training tomorrow, you’ve got to check out the plane.”

Danil’s only reply was the sound of his snoring. But, Sasha wouldn’t have heard the answer anyway. He was fast asleep, slumped down into the chair.

The wind whistled about the ancient walls; the weather blowing in from the top of the world pushed against the tarnished glass, panes that had been in place for over a century. Andrey felt winter’s grip tighten about him in his office. He shivered, pulling his cloak around his shoulders. His eye caught the bars that decorated his wool, military overcoat. It was still the warmest coat he owned. At least the USSR did something right. He kept it close in his office, but never venturing out with it. It was a keepsake, a reminder of where he’d come from, the hardships he had overcome on his march up the ranks.

He stared across his desk to the opposite wall, taking note of the dark paneling framing the single painting hanging in the stillness. It was a nice work, a painting by Akimov, an eighteenth century classical artist. But it wasn’t quite his style. He’d often wondered how it arrived here, long before his time. He was sure it was the handiwork of Soviet imperialists. He preferred a more modern style.

He slipped his hand into his pant pocket as he continued to stare, his fingertips feeling the crease of the paper folded within. He hadn’t looked at it since he boarded the plane to come home. He knew what it said; a number and ‘four days’. Today was the fourth day. He began to remove his hand, but the temptation was too strong. His fingers continued their dance before he could no longer fight the urge. His hand slipped from his pocket and up to the desk drawer on his left. His cell phone was in his palm seconds later. He didn’t need the paper. His thumb ran across the numbers as if he had dialed it a hundred times. In his mind, he had done so; 8-495-262-7626. Perhaps a thousand times. Two rings.

“Hello?” Andrey asked as the ringing stopped.

“Helikon Opera Theater. 48 hours.”

Andrey looked at his phone as the line went dead. That was it. It was over.

“All ahead slow.”

“All ahead slow aye.”

“Bring her to periscope depth.”

The USS Columbus, a boat used to the touch of warm Pacific waters, within minutes slipped to its ordered depth below the dark waves just below the Arctic Circle.

“Up scope.”

The hydraulics pushed the periscope silently above the surface of the North Sea. The only trace of their presence was a light foam, lost in a turbulent night as the mast cut through the black water. Captain Dawson watched the monitors as the scope made its sweep. Long gone were the days of flipping down handles and peering with a backwards cap into a mirrored tube. Such was the stuff of movies. He could still do that if he wanted, but he could see better this way.

The communications mast was raised and retreated back into the boat in less than a minute. The captain of the boat leaned against the rail as he waited for the decoding. It would take less than two minutes for the equipment on board one of the most sophisticated warships in the world to decipher the message. Dawson picked up the mike, bringing it to his lips.

“XO to the conn.” He slipped the mike back down into its cradle as the communications officer turned in his seat.

“Sir.”

“Thanks.” Dawson took the paper just as Tull stepped into the conn and held it up. “Just came in.”

“What’s it say?”

The captain was quiet for a moment as he scanned the sheet. He looked up and extended his arm toward his XO. Tull nodded as he reached for the orders.

“Are they serious? Inside Danish territorial waters?”

“They do get mighty touchy about boats in their space,” Dawson said as he turned to give the coordinates to the dive officer. “Best speed Chums.”

“Aye sir.” Ensign Charlie ‘Chums’ Rose began the plot, entering the coordinates into the nav computers.

“You thought I was going to make you do this one on paper, didn’t you Chums?”

“No sir. Not this one. This isn’t just an exercise. This one’s important.”

“They’re all important, Chums.”

“You sure cook up a mean breakfast, Jen.”

“Polina. My name is Polina.” She turned from the stove, leaning against the greasy oven handle. “And why are you speaking English? Russian. Only Russian.” She crossed her arms with a black spatula clasped in her hand.

“I just needed to.” Ivan leaned back in the wooden chair as he pushed his empty plate away. “Speaking Russian all the time was fun at first, but it’s getting old.”

“It’s only been a few days.” She turned away, tossing the spatula back into the pan.

“It feels like an eternity.”

“Where do you come from, Ivan? Why does a boy like you learn to speak Russian anyway?”

“Well,” he replied, as he locked his hands behind his head, “I just wanted a challenge. We needed to take a language course in school and I heard it was hard.” Ivan flashed his big smile as he looked at the Navy commander. “I was right. It was a bitch. But I got through it.”

“So you’re a smart boy.”

“Not smart so much as I just don’t quit. What about you? What’s a fine-lookin’ woman like you doing in the middle of Moscow in the winter?”