“By the Politburo board that censured your stand on the war in Afghanistan. I know. The Soviet leaders of that era had gotten the Rodina into some serious trouble, and you tried to point that out. They didn’t appreciate the attempt, I seem to recall.”
Anger flashed. “What the hell do
Dean smiled. “Enough. We have a thick file on you, too.”
“It seems to me you know entirely too much for your own good, American.”
“Yes, well, that’s been a failing of mine ever since I was a smart-assed kid. Poking my nose in where it’s not wanted. I tend to be the curious type.”
“You Americans have an expression, I believe? About curiosity and a cat…”
“Believe me,” Dean said, leaning back and doing his best to express an attitude of calm and relaxation that he was not even close to feeling, “you and your people do
“The Arctic is ours by right.”
“That has yet to be determined. Denmark and Canada, just to name two, do not agree with you. But that’s not really the point, here.”
“Oh? And what is?”
“The point,
“You do not understand.”
“Don’t I? Russia has a new chance, not just at life, but for greatness… but the Organizatsiya siphons off the profits, discourages new business, scares off foreign investment. Russia is dying, Admiral… and the Mafiya is a ghoul feeding off the corpse before it’s even properly dead-”
“Enough!” Golytsin brought his hand down sharply on a key. Dean suspected that there was a microphone wired to the computer, that the Russian had been recording the conversation.
But the conversation had veered unexpectedly in a new and unwanted direction.
“Things are not that simple,” Golytsin said. His face was flushed, and he was breathing heavily.
“No, sir. They never are.” Dean looked around the small office, at the thick steel bulkheads coated with pale green paint. “This is an astonishing facility you have here. Truly remarkable. It’s a real testament to Russian ingenuity, science, and technology, and if you’re able to develop it, it could help put Mother Russia smack back on the map. A global superpower.
“I think this interview is at an end.” Golytsin stood.
“Time to turn me over to Braslov?” Golytsin gave him a sharp look, and Dean shrugged. “I know you were trying the good-cop/bad-cop ploy on me. Now it’s time to give me to the bad cop, right?”
“Mr. Dean-”
“You’re the one with the gun, Admiral. You decide what’s right. Just remember that you have to take the responsibility for the outcome of your decisions.”
“I do every day, Mr. Dean.
“I imagine you met some people while you were in the gulag. People who offered you… what? An opportunity to get revenge over the party-blind bureaucrats and petty martinets who’d put you there? I’d like to know, Admiral. Is that revenge worth the survival of your country?”
“At this point, Mr. Dean, there is not much choice.” The anger had faded, leaving behind an expression of sheer emotional exhaustion.
“Bullshit. There’s
“Really? And what would my choice be down here?” Reaching up with the Makarov, he lightly tapped the steel bulkhead beside him. The steel was thick and gave back only a dull click. “In case you hadn’t noticed, Mr. Dean, this is a prison. It’s every bit as much a prison as the gulag.”
“Help me, McMillan, and Benford get out of here. Get us back to the surface, where we can be picked up by our people. And you come with us. We can offer you asylum.”
Golytsin expelled a single sharp puff of air, as though he’d been struck in the gut. “Asylum!” he said. “There is no asylum. Not from
“You could tell us what you know about the Organizatsiya. Names. Places. Projects. Damn it, Admiral, you could help us shut these bastards down, and give the New Russia a fighting chance!”
“No, Mr. Dean. It’s far too late for that.” Reaching over, he opened the door to the room and gestured with his pistol. “Time to go back to your quarters. You’re right about one thing, though. Sergei Braslov will want to have a talk with you in a little while. Perhaps you’d care to discuss the Tambov group’s role in the New Russia with him and a few of his muscular friends.”
“Admiral-”
“No, Mr. Dean. It’s time for you to return.”
Golytsin and the guard led Dean back down the passageway toward the storeroom.
SSGN
“Go ahead, Chief.”
“Transients, Skipper! He’s opening his bow doors.”
“Where?”
“Starboard side, Captain. Estimate range is no more than one thousand yards!”
“Very well.”
Grenville was standing in the control room again. The compartment was dead silent, filled with sailors and officers all intently attending to their duties… and waiting for the next command from him.
He glanced at the plot board behind the periscope station, where an enlisted rating was using a grease pencil to mark the
If he was opening his bow doors, he was preparing to fire torpedoes. That could mean he’d heard the
And where the hell was the
GK-1 Beneath the Arctic Ice Cap 82° 34' N, 177° 26' E 1201 hours, GMT-12
Golytsin held his pistol aimed at Dean’s left side as the young Russian soldier holstered his own pistol and fumbled with the keys outside of the locked storeroom door. The door swung open, and Dean saw Kathy’s worried face inside just above a bundled-up blanket, with Benford, looking sullen, standing behind her.
There would be no better time.
Marines learned in survival-training courses that if they were made prisoner, the best times to try an escape were when they were being moved. The guards would be more distracted at those times, would be forced to pay attention to more details, and there was always the possibility of the unexpected. The Makarov was aimed at Dean’s ribs, but Golytsin’s head had turned as he watched the door open… alert to the possibility that the prisoners had elected to use this opportunity to attempt an escape. Dean whipped around to his left, his elbow sweeping Golytsin’s wrist into his body, the heel of his right hand slamming up and across and squarely into Golytsin’s jaw.
The Russian staggered back a step and Dean followed, his right hand grabbing Golytsin’s right hand and turning it sharply inward, a jujitsu move that made it impossible to maintain a grip on anything in that hand. The pistol
