Rogov stepped back to allow the submarine captain to move away from the console. He followed the other man aft down a small passageway to the captain’s stateroom.
The two men squeezed themselves into the tiny compartment and stood face-to-face. “These options you mentioned — what-“
Rogov’s hand slammed into the captain’s neck, cutting off the questions. He pinned the man against the steel closet set into one side of the cabin, increasing the pressure on the man’s neck. The submarine captain’s eyes bulged, fright and indignation warring in his face. He reached up and tried to pull Rogov’s hands away from his neck, but the Tartar’s massive fingers were interlaced behind his neck, his thumbs pressing against the captain’s throat. Panic flooded the man’s features as he realized the Tartar had no intention of easing up. With one massive thrust, Rogov crushed the man’s windpipe, ending the contest. He let the skipper fall to the deck, and watched the life fade out of his eyes as his brain ran out of oxygen. Just before the man died, Rogov kicked him in the crotch. No reaction. The foul smell of human waste flooded the tiny compartment as the captain’s dying brain gave up control over its autonomic functions.
When he was sure the man was dead, Rogov lifted the captain up by the back of his collar and positioned him carefully on the bed. He tossed a blanket over him, then turned the man’s face toward the wall, cushioning it on a pillow. He felt several tiny vertebrae snap as he forced the man’s head into position.
Although he was certain the ruse wouldn’t last for long, it was always handy to give men an excuse to do what their fear compelled them to. If they thought the captain had suddenly taken ill, and might eventually retake command of the boat, there might be less initial resistance. And by the time they were completely certain the captain was dead, it would be too late.
Rogov left the compartment and returned to the control center to take command of the submarine.
“There,” Holden said, pointing to the northeast. “Do you see it?”
“Yes!”
Holden could see a broad smile spreading below the binoculars, and shook his head. Why seeing one whale made up for the misery of being at sea in the North Pacific for these people, he would never understand.
“Can you get closer to it?” the scientist asked eagerly. “It’s huge; it could be one of the largest of the species ever seen.”
“We’ll try, sir, but the seas are a bit touchy right now.” Holden walked back to the navigator’s table and studied the position plotted for the whale on the paper overlay. Maybe, just barely, they could run northeast for a while without getting broadside to the waves. It would take some careful tacking and maneuvering, but it could be done. He looked up and met the navigator’s eyes, exchanging a brief look of disbelief.
“Yes, sir, I think we can do it,” he said finally, straightening up. “Helmsman, come right to course zero-one- five.”
The sickening yaw of the small boat increased, but was still within the limits of safety. Holden felt the boat shudder as the waves caught her more solidly on the beam.
“Oh, man, oh, man,” the scientist said happily, sounding like a child in a candy store. “If this just-“
“What?” Holden asked sharply. The scientist’s smile had disappeared. He lowered the binoculars slowly. His face was pale. “It’s not a whale,” he said shakily. “I think we’d better-“
Whatever the man had intended to say was lost forever. The fishing boat’s bow shot up out of the waves like a seesaw, standing her almost completely on her stern. Holden, along with the rest of the men on the bridge, smashed into the aft bulkhead, which now seemed like a floor beneath them. Holden was vaguely aware of the unnatural motion of the ship as it gyrated around on its stern, now truly resembling the cork it had been imitating earlier.
Someone landed on his back, the impact forcing the breath out of his lungs. Holden felt two ribs crack. The deck — no, the bulkhead — careened crazily underneath him.
Finally, after what seemed an eternity suspended in the air, the bow of the ship headed down toward the ocean. Holden was flung forward again, this time hitting the glass window in the forward part of the bridge. He felt it crack, quiver underneath him, the steel safety mesh embedded in it preventing it from shattering completely.
But steel mesh couldn’t keep water out. The bow and forecastle plunged down, water washing over the bridge and covering most of the forward part of the ship. It quickly filled the bridge, prying Holden off the shattered window and tossing him around on its roiling surface along with the other flotsam and jetsam on the bridge. Holden flailed, barely conscious, trying to lift his head far enough out of the water to try to breath. It was cold, so cold. Thirty-four degrees, he remembered from yesterday’s meteorological report. Survival time — well, in these waters, it was measured in seconds rather than in minutes. No danger of living long enough to ever see a shark or any other leviathan of the deep approaching.
Holden struggled bitterly to hold on to consciousness, knowing he had only seconds left to live. He had just managed to suck in a deep breath when the last bit of his consciousness faded.
SS Serenity twisted and rolled in the waves for two minutes longer. The water was already lapping over her bow and washing around the decks. Suddenly, she gave one last shudder and rolled to port, dumping her superstructure into the water. Her starboard side remained visible for a few minutes longer, until one particularly large wave washed over her and shoved her down into the depths. By that time, the core body temperature of the crew and scientists on the ship had already slipped well below the levels needed to maintain consciousness. They all drowned, not a single one of them aware that they were breathing seawater instead of air.
Rogov stood now in the middle of the control room, occupying the same position the captain had just hours earlier. The stilled, troubled looks on the crew members’ faces told him he had not yet solidified his command of the boat. But he would, and it would be sooner than these young men ever suspected. His Cossack ancestors had learned long ago that fear was a more potent motivator than any pretentious ideals of friendship or mutual respect. These men would understand that soon.
He stared at the sonar screen, examining what he saw there with the rudimentary amounts of knowledge he had. While he was a quick learner, his time on board the submarine had been too limited to allow him to develop much expertise in interpreting the arcane lines and symbols that streaked across the screen.
“What is that?” he demanded, pointing at a jagged-looking cluster of lines on the screen.
The technician swallowed nervously. “An-an explosion, sir,” he said nervously. “Some distance away from US.”
“The cause?” Rogov demanded.
“I thought-I thought I heard a torpedo just before that. Maybe. I can’t be sure.”
Rogov slammed his beefy hand into the side of the technician’s head, knocking him out of the chair. The technician sprawled on the deck, looking up at the Cossack. Fear glazed his eyes.
Rogov regarded him levelly. “Next time, you will not be so slow to bring significant matters to my attention,” he suggested. “You are not indispensable — none of us are. If you ever lie to me or tell me less than the complete truth — or, as in this instance, neglect to bring some matter to my attention — I will kill you.”
The technician nodded, a bare twitch of his head. Rogov pointed at the chair. “Resume your duties.” He turned to the rest of the control room crew, letting his cold gaze wander over them, impaling each one where they stood. “You have observed. It is up to you what you have learned. Learn quickly and you will live longer.” He turned back to the technician. “Tell me about this explosion.”
“it-it was far from us, maybe thirty kilometers,” the technician babbled, profound relief at still being alive making his voice shaky and uneven. “The Oscar — she fired, I think. Maybe a torpedo — I don’t know, I couldn’t hear it all, but-“
“The target,” Rogov demanded. “Was it the carrier?”
The technician shook his head. “No, Comrade, the carrier was too far away. It was another surface vessel, I think. There was a fishing boat — at least I think it was a fishing boat. It sounded like one, although it did not act like it. The diesel engine, yes, but no indication of trolling nets or any of the other activities I expect from a fishing boat.” His voice ceased abruptly, as though he realized he was babbling. “There is nothing else I can add, Comrade.”
Rogov seized the back of the man’s neck, clamping his vise-like fingers down hard. He felt the man’s pulse
