George Wallace - Hunter Killer [Movie Tie-In]

The two men took seats in the armchairs, each finding his own spot, as if they had often sat here and talked together. Medikov pulled the bottle from the ice and considered the label.

“Well, I see you’ve broken into that case of Chalk Hill Chardonnay we sent you, Admiral.”

“In your honor, Boris,” the old admiral replied. “I’m normally content with a simple Russian wine myself. Even your high-priced American contacts haven’t spoiled me of that yet.”

As he poured a glass for Durov, Medikov broached the subject that had been so far delayed by the spectacular disappearance of the sun into the Black Sea. “Speaking of America, I should update you on our progress there.”

Durov tasted the wine. “Very oaky, not at all subtle like a good Russian.”

Medikov chuckled. “Subtle? Americans seldom are. That is to our benefit. Our people are in place in the OptiMarx organization. They report the central algorithm has been modified for our purpose.”

Durov nodded, then looked sideways at Medikov. “That is all well and good, but will the changes be detected?”

Medikov shook his head. “We control the internal OptiMarx testing. Even the Americans understand there is nothing like Russian training to make a good software tester. Besides, the changes are so well hidden and pervasive, without access to the entire code base no one could uncover it. Even then, someone would have to know what to look for and it would still take him a very, very long time to discover it.”

Durov stood and paced over to stand in front of the large window looking out over the water. This time the darkening view was lost on him. Deep furrows of worry creased his brow.

“Still, there is always the possibility of its being uncovered,” he commented drily. “This is not acceptable.”

Medikov laughed humorlessly at the admiral’s concern. “Alexanderovich, you would make a very poor criminal. You worry far too much. As I have told you, the changes are well hidden. Besides, even if they should be found and identified, everything there points at the greedy American stock traders.”

Durov turned abruptly and faced the seated Medikov. When he spoke, his voice was forced and steely. “Boris, you are being unbelievably dense. Our operations are already under way. Regardless of who might get the blame, the code must not be detected. Anything that might upset the timing of our plan now would be disastrous.”

Medikov set his wineglass down on the little table so he could use his hands to plead his case. “Alexanderovich, the profits are in the New York operation. It will make us all very rich. All this other is merely a sideshow.”

Durov flushed crimson and slammed his fist onto the desktop. The formerly quiet eyes of the old admiral now blazed as intensely as the setting sun. “Do you not understand, you fool? The few baubles we might liberate from the American markets are meaningless. This is all for the Rodina .”

A quick sip of the wine seemed to calm him, but Medikov noticed Durov’s hands still shook with anger as he lifted the glass. The old admiral used his free hand to knead a spot in the middle of his chest. Medikov started to speak, but Durov stopped him.

“Now listen as I try to explain to you one more time what we are doing.” Admiral Durov’s voice took the tone of an exasperated schoolmaster tutoring a dull pupil. “For Russia to be a mighty and prosperous nation, the Rodina must be respected and feared throughout the world as it once was. Our people must be united, all with a common goal. Peter the Great understood that, and therein lay his power.”

Durov removed a book from the shelf and thumbed through its pages. “He tried to build Russia into a Western country. The idiotic nobility tossed the idea as soon as they could for their own selfish purposes.” He flipped a few more pages. “Lenin understood, too. So did Stalin. Then the political animals took over once again. Still, we almost made it. Do you understand that in a few more years we would have built an impregnable fortress for the Rodina ?”

“Don’t tell me you’re an unrepentant communist,” Medikov scoffed. “I know better.”

“No, we are patriots, not ideologues. We were working on this plan when you were still rolling babushkas in Gorky Park for a few rubles.” Durov took a sip of wine, allowing the insult to lie there in the room for a moment. Medikov seemed not to take notice. “Those fools in Moscow are bent on allowing our country to continue to disintegrate until we are no more than a mass of weak, feuding states, destined to suck and poke at each other until we are all bloodless. Those weak bastards must be removed. Now we have the tools to do it. The plan is under way. We should hear from Serebnitskiv soon. If he did his job correctly, we will be able to blame the unsuspecting Americans for the loss of our new submarine, K-475. We must be ready to move quickly in the ensuing international crisis. Now do you see why your timing is so important to the glorious future of the Rodina ? To the restoration and eventual triumph of the most powerful union on the planet?”

Medikov nodded and sipped at his American wine.

The irritating jangling of the telephone at his elbow disturbed Captain Jon Ward’s train of thought. He had the travel brochures fanned out on the desk before him. It would be the first vacation he and Ellen had taken alone since their honeymoon, twenty years before.

Two whole weeks! Where to? The Caribbean? Paris? Rome? Ellen had been dropping strong hints about a cruise, maybe around the Greek islands. Ward wasn’t sure. Just what a Navy man needed. Two weeks on a ship!

Ward listened to the phone shriek two more times, waiting for his yeoman to answer it and stop the noise. It was a lesson he had learned when he took command of his first nuclear submarine, Spadefish , years before. Captains shouldn’t answer the phone themselves. They never knew when it might be Mike Wallace from 60 Minutes . Now that Ward was in Norfolk, commanding a submarine squadron, it was an even more valuable lesson. The proximity of the media animals in D.C. was much too convenient.

Not this time. The yeoman stuck her head in the office door. This was a call he would take.

“Admiral Donnegan for you, sir.”

Ward shoved the travel brochures aside and grabbed the phone. “Captain Ward.”

“Jon, good to hear your voice. I haven’t seen enough of you and Ellen since you took command of Squadron Six. Here we are, just down the road from each other. When are you coming up to see me in this five-sided puzzle palace?”

Tom Donnegan was an old and dear family friend. He had served as a surrogate father after Jon Ward’s dad was killed when Jon was a young boy. The gruff, cigar-chewing admiral had been promoted to the job of Director of Naval Intelligence. That promotion forced him to leave his beloved Hawaii for the congestion and clamor of Washington and the Pentagon.

“We’ve been meaning to get up there, Admiral, but it’s been so busy down here, as you can imagine. We’re still getting settled in and learning the ropes. These LANTFLT sailors do things a lot different than we did out in the PAC.”

“Ain’t that the truth!” Donnegan said with a chuckle. There was a slight hesitation. Ward could picture the admiral shifting the cigar from one side of his mouth to the other, signifying an obvious change of subject. “Jon, I didn’t call just for social niceties. I’ve got a job for you.”

Ward knew it was time to get down to business. He grabbed a notepad and pen before he responded. “What you got for me, sir?”

“We received a message from the Miami . She was out on one of those scientific cruises, listening to whales up near the ice edge in the Barents. Brad Crawford… I think you know Brad…. He reported a Russian sub down, under the pack ice and with survivors.”