Arctic Gold

“Jesus. What happened?”

“No details yet, but the Russians reportedly have both of them in the hospital facility on board one of the ships. They also have a body.”

“Of who?”

“According to the Russians, the dead guy is Kenneth Richardson. He was the leader of the Greenpeace film crew at the NOAA ice station. They say the NOAA CO shot him twice, and that another Greenpeace guy smacked the CO in the face with an iron bar.”

“That’s the badly injured man?”

“Commander Larson, yes.”

“And the guy who hit him?”

Rubens’ mouth twitched in an almost smile. “Harry Benford.”

“Well, well, well. The possible spy.”

“Benford is the other man. Apparently, Larson shot him in the arm before Benford was able to hit Larson.”

“And if Benford was working for the Russians, maybe he set the whole thing up.”

“That is the belief of the analysts we have working on the intelligence developed by Miss DeFrancesca and Mr. Akulinin,” Rubens said. “The Russians were looking for an excuse to move in and grab the NOAA station. Quite possibly, they’d already realized that we were spying on their base from one of our met stations nearby. A murder is reported-a murder supposedly committed by the leader of the scientific expedition, no less-and the Russians, claiming that region as their legal jurisdiction anyway, move in. They probably hope to use the incident in support of their official claim to the Arctic basin.”

“It sounds pretty tangled.”

“It is. And untangling it will not be your job, for which you can be duly thankful. But you’re going to have a damned full plate. Whatever goes down, I want you to make sure we have Braslov alive. If they’ve separated our intelligence operators from the rest, I want them found and freed. Whatever it takes.”

“Yes, sir.” No man left behind.

“And remind the SEAL platoon commander that there are two wounded men and a body, probably in the ship’s sick bay. We’ll need at least the wounded men for questioning, if we’re to make sense of this mess.”

A knock sounded on the wardroom door. “Mr. Dean?” a very young voice called from the other side. “The skipper says for you to get ready for the shore party. They’re getting ready to go.”

“I’ll be right there,” Dean called back. He looked at Rubens’ image again. “It’s time for me to go, sir.”

“Right. Good luck, Dean,” Rubens said. And the image winked off.

CFS Akademik Petr Lebedev Arctic Ice Cap 82° 34' N, 177° 26' E 0920 hours, GMT-12

A sharp rap sounded from the door to Golytsin’s office. “Come.”

One of the naval marines assigned to the Lebedev opened the door and stepped inside. “Sir!” He handed a message flimsy across to Golytsin. “This just came in from the Dekabrist. It has been decoded.”

Golytsin accepted the message. “Very well.”

The marine saluted, turned, and left. Golytsin read the flimsy.

FROM: COMMANDING OFFICER, CFS DEKABRIST TO: F. GOLYTSIN, CFS AKADEMIK PETR LEBEDEV SONAR DETECTED SOUNDS OF UNIDENTIFIED SUBMARINE

SURFACING IN ICE AT 0810 HOURS. LOCATION

UNKNOWN BUT SUSPECT INTRUDER TO BE WITHIN 20

KILOMETERS GK-1. REQUEST SHOOT-FIRST ORDERS IF

INTRUDER SUBMARINE APPROACHES PERIMETER. SIGNED: KIRICHENKO, CAPTAIN FIRST RANK

Brief and to the point. Golytsin frowned, wishing there’d been a bit more information… like a bearing, for God’s sake.

But at least the waiting was over. The Americans were here.

They’d been expected, after all. The diplomatic message announcing the capture of fourteen American scientists and Greenpeace activists would have arrived on the desk of the American President several days ago. There’d been time for an American submarine to be redeployed north.

The problem, though, was that American submarines were so hellishly quiet. During the Cold War-the original Cold War that had so focused the military might of both the United States and the old Soviet Union-American technology had consistently outstripped the Russian Navy’s attempts to keep pace. The Walker spy ring, operating from 1967 to 1985, had helped tremendously, had in fact been responsible for a whole new generation of ultra-quiet Russian submarines, but that hadn’t significantly helped the Soviets track American subs.

Golytsin had been part of the Soviet naval intelligence team working on the information provided by the Walker ring. He’d also commanded two Russian submarines during the early 1980s, and he knew something about American submarine technology. It was good, very, very good. Time after time, American attack subs had picked up Soviet missile boats as they exited their lairs in the White Sea or along the north coast of the Kola Peninsula and trailed them, often just a few tens of meters astern, sometimes slipping close enough to photograph details of the Soviet craft’s hull through the periscope, and the Russian sonar operators had never heard a thing. A number of the better than two hundred thousand encrypted messages deciphered with Walker’s help had been top-secret reports on the movements of Soviet submarines, and their astonishing accuracy had alerted the Red Fleet’s high command to the problem.

Feodor Golytsin was one of the few men alive who knew just how difficult it was to track an American submarine, especially under the Arctic ice, where bizarre sonar echoes came ringing back from every direction and subs could play hide-and-seek among the polynyas, keels, and subsurface ice ridges.

And it had been Golytsin who’d recommended that the Dekabrist be deployed to the area around GK-1, as a bit of added insurance. The Americans, he’d argued, were certain to arrive, and the chances were good that they would arrive by submarine. Any submariner could tell you that the best way to catch a sub was to use a sub.

Those idiots back at Severomorsk HQ had hesitated. They feared a confrontation with the United States and didn’t see the GK-1 project as one of Russia’s vital national interests. What they didn’t understand was that Russia couldn’t possibly lose in this new round of international brinksmanship. If the Americans managed to sink the Russian boat, as some of the Northern Fleet’s admirals feared, it would simply be wood to the fire of Russia’s case before the court of world opinion: the Arctic Ocean properly belonged to Russia, and the United States was unfairly using its superior submarine technology to bully Moscow into yielding.

If, on the other hand, a submarine battle ended in a Russian victory, Moscow could simply claim that it was legitimately defending its own interests from the bellicose Americans. More to the point, the Americans were notoriously weak when it came to accepting necessary military losses. American military leaders were as afraid of open war in the Arctic as their opposite numbers at Severomorsk, and the American President would be reluctant to commit to yet another unpopular war. The Americans would… what was their delightful expression? Cave. That was it. The Americans would cave.

Either way, Russia would win.

And with the GK-1 project now fully in place, when Russia won, the Organizatsiya would win as well, would win to the point that, soon, the Tambov group would control all petroleum and natural gas production and sales across the Motherland, with an annual income to be measured in the trillions of rubles. Russia, and with her, Tambov, would again become a major player on the world stage.

And Feodor Golytsin would at last have his revenge over certain men, politicians prominent under both the Soviet regime and the new Federation, who’d been responsible for him freezing his ass for three bitter years in the gulag.

Captain First Rank Kirichenko was a good man, Golytsin knew, experienced, and a cunning tactician. If anyone could beat the Americans at their own game beneath the ice, it was Valery Kirichenko. But Golytsin needed to be