George Wallace - Hunter Killer [Movie Tie-In]

The prosecuting attorney had lost interest. They had never believed Andretti anyway. There had been no reason to involve any of the other OptiMarx employees in the scheme, especially any of the entry-level Russian coders. Ustinov had clearly done what he did alone. The other two, Stern and Smythe, were the leeches, ready to suck out the money, until the Russian decided to skim some off the top on his own. Besides, most of the Russian programmers the company hired had turned up with immigration problems and had managed to disappear by the time anybody got around to talking with them.

The attorney wrapped up a few other loose ends, and by noon, all the testimony was completed. The judge called for a lunch break. Closing statements would start at two o’clock.

No one took notice of the spinster when she stood to leave. She casually dropped an envelope on her chair as she gathered up her knitting and made her way out the door. She disappeared into the ladies’ room around the corner from the courtroom. Half an hour later, a pretty young brunette in a flattering business suit emerged from the ladies’ room. She walked confidently out of the Federal Building and hailed a cab.

The young woman sat back in the seat. Her voice carried a noticeable Russian accent as she told the driver, “JFK. I have a flight I need to catch.” She held a folder on her lap. It contained first-class tickets on British Air to London and on to the Seychelle Islands. The remote tropical islands, deep in the Indian Ocean, were a perfect place to continue her disappearing act.

Twenty minutes later, as he made his regular sweep of the courtroom, a bailiff noticed the envelope. Across the front, in a dainty feminine hand, was written “Dmitri Ustinov.” It smelled nice, clearly held no weapon, so he decided to give it to the defendant. Even Russian computer nerds could have secret admirers, he decided.

When Ustinov opened the envelope, he found it contained only a small card with a short message in Russian.

“Thank you, Dmitri, my love. It would have been spectacular. Good-bye.”

The late spring brought a smattering of cold rain to the fog-shrouded Arctic Ocean. Russian president Gregor Smitrov watched the gray swells rise and fall forlornly out ahead of the ship on which he rode. The wipers beat a slow rhythm as they cleared desultory raindrops from the bridge windows. There was no sign of any springtime rebirth in this dreary place. The cold, damp weather was causing his shoulder to ache dully. His wounds were still slowly healing. It was all too perfect for a funeral.

The bridge of the cruiser was crowded with dignitaries, civilians, and ranking officers from the Russian military. Their idle chatter almost overpowered the somber day. Here and there in the crowd men stood wearing the uniforms of lower-ranking naval officers. Even the most self-important dignitaries seemed to treat these men with deference.

As well they should. Those men were the survivors of the K-475, Gepard , and one of the reasons everyone was out here on this desolate stretch of sea. They were about to hold a memorial service, say their final good-byes over the site where Gepard and her dead now rested.

Smitrov noticed that Sergei Andropoyov, former commander of the Gepard and a true hero of the Russian Republic, stood apart from the others, his elbows resting on the sill as he stared out at the churning ocean. No one approached the silent captain. Something about his demeanor warned everyone away, told them that it was best to leave him to his solitude. After all, three hundred meters below them lay the wreckage of his submarine, the watery grave of twenty-one shipmates, the hulk in which he and the rest of his crew might well have perished.

When the captain finally turned from the window, Smitrov stepped over to the lone sailor. Andropoyov snapped to dutiful attention and saluted. The president waved it away.

“Sergeiovich, stand easy. We have been through much, you and I. You are remembering your lost comrades. I am mourning the many brave sons of the Rodina so needlessly sacrificed.”

“Not just sons of the Rodina , President Smitrov. Many brave men from two nations died needlessly before that madman was stopped.”

Andropoyov nodded toward the two ships that were steaming a few hundred meters to port of the cruiser. It was the Anzio and the Toledo , the American cruiser plowing high in the water, the submarine running low into the swells. The signal bridge on the American cruiser was crowded with civilians as well, mostly the families of the lost crew of Miami .

“Yes, he was quite mad,” Smitrov acknowledged. “And he came within a breath of succeeding. If he had been able to give the command for those other boats to fire their missiles, we would have faced a holocaust. We can be grateful that Durov was such a control freak, that he demanded that he personally give the key orders for every step. Otherwise, I fear…”

The president did not have to tell Andropoyov more. Both men breathed deeply as they relived yet again how close they had come. The search for the four missing Akulas, hiding in the White Sea, had taken over a week. They all eventually surfaced and surrendered once they were convinced that their leader was gone and the coup aborted. Those new boats were now tied up in Polyarnyy again, the officers imprisoned in the Lubyanka. There was confidence that all involved in the plot were either dead or imprisoned, but there could never be total assurance that the cancer had been eradicated.

The small flotilla of ships glided to a stop as the pair talked. Sailors were preparing the wreaths at the ship’s rail so the ceremony could be quickly conducted and they could get back to warmth. Everyone was buttoning his coat tighter, getting ready for the icy bite of the brisk wind off the water.

Smitrov clapped Andropoyov on the shoulder. “Come, Sergeiovich. The others are waiting. It is time to say good-bye.”

The submarine captain seemed reluctant to go. He walked slowly toward the doorway but stopped before following the rest out onto the deck.

“It is a captain’s most difficult chore, Mr. President, saying such a final good-bye.” Andropoyov looked Smitrov in the eye. “Just promise me one thing, sir. Promise me those men did not die in vain. That their legacy will be a more peaceful world. That all of them… Russian and American alike… gave their lives so their sons and daughters will have no need to die in war.”

Gregor Smitrov thought for a moment. He rubbed the bridge of his nose as he pondered the sailor’s request. “Captain, I desperately hope that is so, but I cannot promise it. There have been too many ‘wars to end all wars’ for me to be confident of it. One thing I can pledge to you, though. I will give my best… even my life… to try to make it so.”

The submariner smiled. “Mr. President, when the waves mount and the winds blow, that is what any true sailor would gladly do,” Andropoyov said quietly.

With that, the two men embraced, then stepped outside to the rail, to scatter the colorful, fragrant spring flowers on the cold, disdainful waves of the Barents Sea.

George Wallace, Cdr. USN Ret., commanded the Los Angeles-class nuclear attack submarine USS Houston . During his tour of duty he worked extensively with the SEAL community developing SEAL/submarine tactics. Under Wallace's command the Houston was awarded the CIA Meritorious Unit Citation.

Don Keithis the critically-acclaimed, award-winning author of more than thirty fiction and nonfiction books. In addition to writing, he sponsors the UNTOLD MILLIONS Project, an effort to encourage the capture and publication of eyewitness accounts of major historical events such as the Great Depression, World War II and other wars, the space program, the Civil Rights struggle, and more.