George Wallace - Hunter Killer [Movie Tie-In]

At the first word from the United States about the threatening missile attack, the Security Council and the rest of the senior government officials had boarded a special high-speed subway train for the quick trip here. The subway had only two stops, the Kremlin and this bunker. It, too, was a relic of the Cold War, but had also come in quite handy on this historic day.

Just minutes before Smitrov’s call, the council had heard confirmation that the missile had hit the upper floors of the Mezhdunarodnaya Hotel. The old pile of cement was heavily damaged and there were casualties. Fires were raging on several floors and the building was in danger of collapse. No one could imagine why the hotel had been the missile’s target. Several speculated there might have been an error in the bird’s navigation computer, that it was aimed at the Kremlin. Thankfully, the missile was nonnuclear and the hotel was the only building damaged. There had been a collective sigh of relief as the Russian high command realized they had been spared a nuclear holocaust. Though they still held their breath, this attack appeared to have been the only missile launched so far.

Gregor Smitrov’s voice crackled through the speaker at the head of the huge conference table. The amplification filtered out much of the weakness in the president’s voice. His tone was all action.

Smitrov gave the command to place his armed forces on full alert and dispatched all the antisubmarine forces he could muster into the White Sea. A submarine, even one of Durov’s sparkling new Akulas, would have a tough time staying hidden from them for long in that tiny, enclosed sea.

Army divisions, known to be loyal, were swung into place to blockade Murmansk and Polyarnyy. The problem was the immense distances involved and the primitive transportation into the area. By the time the Army had surrounded the trouble spot, anyone inside would have more than ample time to escape.

At the president’s order, the director of the Federal’naya Sluzhba Kontrrazvedky swung into action. The FSB was the successor to the KGB for internal security matters and had inherited its reputation for ruthlessness. The director ordered borders, both internal and external, to be slammed shut. Transportation and communications would grind to a halt. Nobody would be able to move without the correct papers, and then only under close scrutiny.

More than one man in the bunker thought how ironic it was that the old ways threatened to be returned. Several vowed out loud it would be temporary, until this crisis could be quelled.

Smitrov told them of his kidnapping by Durov’s troops, of his rescue by the Americans. He promised that he would return to Moscow as quickly as he could. He didn’t have to tell them why it was so necessary. Even if he successfully thwarted Durov, someone else with an equal appetite for power would step in to fill the vacuum unless he was back at the helm of state, strong and secure.

Smitrov dropped the handset the second he completed his talk with the council. He did not have enough strength to hold it any longer. He closed his eyes for a moment as he lay back.

“Is Captain Glass still here?” he asked.

“I am here, Mr. President.”

“Captain, please take me to Pechenga,” he said to Glass.

“Where?”

“Pechenga. It is a mining and fishing town on the Norwegian border. I visited there with my father when I was a boy. It is far enough away from Murmansk that it is unlikely Durov would be able to do anything there. They have a hospital and an airfield so I can more quickly return to Moscow.”

Glass looked at the chart. Sure enough, there was Pechenga, at the head of the Pechenga Fjord. It appeared to be a hundred miles from Toledo ’s current location in the Barents Sea. They could be there in four hours, easily.

Glass stood and turned to leave the wardroom. Smitrov reached out and took his hand as he walked past. His grip was surprisingly strong. “Thank you, Captain. You have done much to help save my country.”

Glass didn’t quite know what to say. He looked down for a moment. “Let’s just pray this all works out. Now you get some rest while we get you to Pechenga.”

Smitrov closed his eyes again as Glass left the wardroom. He was asleep in a few seconds.

Alexander Durov listened to each stroke as the old clock chimed the hour. It was time at last. After all his years of planning, working, and scheming, the time to strike had come. It was not the perfect scenario, the way he had envisioned it all this time. That was always the nature of war. That’s why contingency plans were drawn and factored into the equation. It was going to work just fine, now that he had shown the traitors that he had the ability to turn them into dust if they did not cooperate.

He glanced around the command center to locate his aide. He found Vasiliy Zhurkov hunched over a communications console, discussing some problem with a young officer who was seated there.

“Vasiliy, it is time,” the old admiral growled. “Please stop whatever you are fooling with and connect me with the Security Council on the secure line.”

Zhurkov rose, stood erect for a moment, and turned toward Durov, as if he dreaded facing him with the news he bore. There was a questioning, concerned look on Zhurkov’s brow.

“Admiral, we are receiving reports that only one missile hit its target in Moscow,” he reported. “The only damage report we have is a fire in the Mezhdunarodnaya Hotel. Something is seriously wrong. There should be a complete salvo… all rockets launched from the Vipr by now. And, sir, we have not been able to establish contact with Vipr to get a report.”

Durov stepped back and almost stumbled. He was shocked by the report. He reached out and braced himself against the edge of the desk, drawing strength from the solid feel of it.

This was bad news. Very bad. The attack from the Vipr was key to striking fear into the hearts of those spineless lackeys pretending to rule the Rodina . The first salvo was meant to take out the Duma , the Lubyanka Square headquarters of the FSB, and the Ministry of Defense Building. They might manage to pull themselves together without such a demoralizing show of force. The strike against Medikov was an afterthought, a nice touch, since there was a spare missile.

The old admiral gathered his thoughts for a moment. Even with this letdown, his years of meticulous planning had provided for just such a contingency. He had accounted for every eventuality. Even this seemingly impossible one. The plan would not come together as easily as he had thought and it was much riskier, but all was not lost.

He shook his head to clear the spiderwebs that had crept into his vision.

“Vasiliy, place the call to the Security Council,” he ordered, his voice strong and sure. “I will speak with them now.”

Young Zhurkov found the Security Council in their underground command center. Durov took the phone from his aide and began dictating terms.

“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.”