George Wallace - Hunter Killer [Movie Tie-In]

Two tugs that were laced to the decrepit hulk maneuvered it across the lead gray waters of Polyarnyy Harbor. Wind whipped the water into whitecaps, spraying everything with icy cold mist as the trio inched toward the lonely pier. There, four more dilapidated submarine hulks sat bobbing listlessly, apparently abandoned and wasting away.

A half dozen slovenly dressed sailors loitered there, ready to grab the lines as soon as the tug pushed the sub a little closer to the pier. They swung their arms across their chests and stamped their feet, all in a vain attempt to keep the blood flowing to their freezing extremities. Heavy clouds, laden with snow, hung overhead, their dark gray bunting hiding the stars in the night sky. The overcast also prevented any curious overhead eyes from looking down. Mercury vapor lights hanging on poles along the pier reflected off the low-hanging clouds, bathing the scene in a ghostly cold blue light.

The frail old sub kissed the camels floating alongside the pier. The men grabbed lines and tied the relic securely enough that even a howling winter storm wouldn’t be able to break it loose. Their chore finished, the sailors walked briskly back across the narrow gangway and down the long pier, passing other similar boats along the way. Each one of them was every bit as forlorn and crumbling as the one they had just lashed to the dock.

Once they were gone, there wasn’t another human being in sight, not even a guard standing topside to watch over the wraithlike assembly of dead subs.

The group rounded the corner at the end of the pier and headed off down the street toward the mammoth building that stood at its end. Once there, they entered the same covered piers from which Gepard and Volk had departed several days before. The bustling activity in here was in stark contrast to the deathly stillness at the open pier they had just left. Here, they walked down one long pier, past four other subs and workers who crawled all over them, before they climbed onto yet another smartly maintained submarine at the end of the line.

The clean, new signboard on that boat clearly read VIPR.

The group’s leader saluted the officer who awaited them topside. “Captain, we are completed. The dummy sub is tied up in the same spot where we were.”

The captain saluted back smartly. “Excellent! Once again the American spy satellites will tell lies. They will never suspect the switch.”

He motioned them below. Their reward would be hot black tea and a chance to warm their numb hands and feet.

The pealing of the telephone woke Admiral Alexander Durov. He had not even realized that he had fallen asleep at his desk until the jangling startled him awake.

He shook his head to clear the fuzziness and cursed his own fatigue.

So much to do, so little time. Well, there would be ample time to rest when this was all done and the Rodina was once again secure in its destiny. For now, though, there was work to do, arrangements to be made, schemes to be put in motion, and no time for a nap. Not even for an old sailor.

His hand jabbed out and grabbed the phone. “ Da! Durov here. What do you want?”

“Admiral, this is Captain First Rank Gregor Dobiesz.”

Durov recognized the voice at once. Dobiesz was the commander of submarines for Polyarnyy and a key player in Durov’s scheme. He was also one who loved the sound of his own name.

“The last switch has been made. Vipr is being refitted and loaded out with missiles in the sub pen. The mock-up is in her place at the pier. We will have all the boats ready for our mission in two weeks,” the captain proudly announced.

“Dobiesz, you misbegotten Cossack idiot!” Durov growled back. “Was your mother a jackass? That is the only way to explain how any man could be so stupid as you! When I said five days, what part did you not understand? Can you not count to five?”

Dobiesz tried to break into the tirade before it got out of hand. His words now carried a distinct air of desperation. “Admiral, you must understand, the loading takes time. The missiles must be tested. The systems must be—”

Durov was in no mood to hear excuses. “I do not care about tests and checks. Those subs, all of them, will be ready to sail on command in five days. Do you hear me? Five days! If they are not, Siberia will be warm compared to where you will spend the rest of your days.”

“Yes, Admiral,” the shaken captain replied meekly. “It will be as you order.”

Durov slammed down the phone. He breathed deeply, trying to calm himself. His old heart wasn’t what it used to be. When he had been younger, an incompetent like Dobiesz would have evacuated himself at the mere sound of the admiral’s voice raised in anger. Now the major effect of his having to make a forceful point with an incompetent underling was to leave his own heart racing and him gasping for breath.

Durov poured a healthy shot of vodka into the crystal goblet sitting on his desk. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small bottle of pills. Extracting one of the tiny blue capsules, he popped it into his mouth and took a heavy gulp of the fiery, clear liquid. His breath returned and his pulse settled back to its normal beat. He tugged a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped the sweat from his forehead, the phlegm from his lips.

Satisfied he was once again in control of his breathing, he grabbed the phone and dialed a well-remembered number.

“Yes, Admiral? What do you need?” Boris Medikov answered, his voice hollow on the phone line all the way from Moscow.

“Boris, we are on schedule here. Every boat will be ready to sail in five days. We still have not heard from Volk . We have to assume that the action with Gepard was successful since she has not reported in, either. Serebnitskiv may be delayed for any number of reasons, but we just do not know what is happening.”

Durov swallowed hard when he finished his report. The lack of word from his nephew was troubling. The suspicion was strong that Andropoyov might have somehow been able to fire back, to take out his own stalker before going down. Both boats would be lost, but that was acceptable. Maybe it was even better in the grand scheme of things.

He could hear the silence on the other end of the line now, and Durov could picture the Mafia leader chewing on his lip for a moment as he pondered the report and its effect on the overall plan. Medikov’s words were sharp, razorlike, when he spoke.

“For someone who was so critical of the most mundane and harmless holes in our plan in America, you seem to have your share of loose ends up there, Admiral. You do not even know if the ambush has taken place or if the plan has been set in motion yet.”

Durov gritted his teeth. Who was this Organizatsiya henchman, this common hoodlum, to question the efficacy of his operations? He forced himself to swallow his pride for the moment. “Rest assured, we are successfully under way with the plan. Soon the world will know what has happened beneath the ice. Or at least our version of the tragic treachery that has occurred.”

“So, let us assume you are correct. What do we do now?”

“The impending news will have its desired effect, you can be assured,” the old admiral answered. He tried to ignore the shaking of his hands as he turned up the goblet and drained the last drops of the vodka. “As soon as you have everything in place in New York, we will make the claim that the Americans, once again aggressive and blatant under their new hawk of a president, are responsible for the loss of Gepard . If Volk should fail to return as well, we will blame them for her loss also. Once the media is on the trail, they will do the rest of our work for us. The world will be thinking of nothing else. The rest of the plan will proceed as we have laid it out.”