His mouth turned down. Nothing about that struck him as good. It was starting to look like wherever he turned, Voronin and his hired guns were already there ahead of him.
Icy winds ruffled the waters of the Polyarny inlet and sent white wisps of snow swirling across the hills above the heavily guarded naval base. Spring was only a distant dream this far north on the frozen Kola Peninsula.
Russia’s president, Piotr Zhdanov, shivered as a sudden gust stabbed at him. Irritably, he pulled the fur-lined hood of his parka tighter around his face. When he was younger, he would have shrugged off this bitter cold without a thought. But now, much as it pained him to admit it, he was no longer really the powerful model of strength and vitality still portrayed by his nation’s lapdog government-controlled media. Below a fringe of thinning gray hair, his round face was pale and bloated. And there were deep, dark shadows under his hard brown eyes. His doctors assured him that he was still healthy enough to govern Russia for decades more. Privately, he no longer believed them.
“Here come the leading elements of our fleet now, Mr. President,” the naval officer on his right said with proprietorial pride. Admiral Boris Pleshakov was the commander of Russia’s powerful Northern Fleet. He pointed east toward where the narrow waters of the Polyarny inlet joined Kola Bay.
More than a dozen gray-painted warships, each bristling with antennas, radar domes, and missile launchers, steamed slowly past the opening. They ranged in size from the mighty 28,000-ton Kirov-class battlecruiser Piotr Velikiy down to smaller, but still well-armed, guided missile destroyers, frigates, and corvettes. Signal lamps flashed from ship to ship, relaying orders and instructions as they moved north toward the open waters of the Barents Sea.
Polyarny itself was a hive of activity. Several of the nuclear-powered submarines currently based here were also preparing to cast off. More submarines were doing the same at other anchorages up and down the Murmansk Fjord. Together with most of the Northern Fleet’s thirty-odd active-duty surface warships, they were slated to take part in one of Russia’s largest-ever naval readiness and training exercises.
Zhdanov turned his attention to the nearest of these enormous submarines. Nearly one hundred and seventy meters long, the humpbacked BS-64 Podmoskovye had originally entered service as a Delfin-class ballistic missile submarine. Several years ago, however, her missile tubes had been removed. Instead, she’d been converted to serve as a special operations craft, one capable of carrying Spetsnaz commandos and unmanned autonomous minisubmarines.
Now a group of twenty fit, tough-looking men were going on board Podmoskovye. They headed carefully up the big submarine’s gangplank, bowed down under the weight of their gear and weapons. All twenty wore the black berets and camouflage-pattern battledress of Russia’s naval infantry forces. That was a fiction, Zhdanov knew. His jaw tightened slightly. Every single one of those men actually belonged to Pavel Voronin’s Raven Syndicate.
Voronin himself stood close to the president and Admiral Pleshakov. Although bareheaded, he appeared unaffected by the near-zero temperatures. His pale gray eyes were as cold as the frigid waters off Polyarny. He had said almost nothing so far, apparently content to let the naval officer assume he was only one of Zhdanov’s junior political aides.
Zhdanov understood the younger man’s reasons. Neither Pleshakov nor any of his senior staff had been briefed on MIDNIGHT. Nor did they know the troops boarding Podmoskovye were not actually part of Russia’s official armed forces. Learning that their president’s new closest adviser was a phenomenally wealthy oligarch — especially one who seemed to have come out of nowhere with his own private army and intelligence operation — would only raise uncomfortable questions in their minds. It was better by far to let them go on believing their world ran according to its old familiar patterns — where government leaders and private businessmen operated largely in their own separate spheres.
He swung back to Pleshakov, who looked pleased as he watched the fighting vessels of his fleet sail past in long columns. Moving a combined force of more than fifty warships and submarines to sea was a spectacular demonstration of force. And while they had been careful to adhere to every arms control treaty by announcing these naval maneuvers in advance, this massive show of Russian military might was bound to create consternation in Washington, D.C., and the other NATO capitals.
“Do you anticipate any significant trouble from our American friends, Admiral?” Zhdanov asked.
Pleshakov shook his head firmly. “No, sir,” he said. “We know the American navy maintains a standing undersea patrol off this coast — using its own attack submarines, either those of the Los Angeles class or the Virginia class.” He shrugged his shoulders. “But their patrols will be completely overwhelmed by the task of keeping track of so many of our own ships and submarines. In all the confusion and overlapping underwater noise, as our vessels engage in anti-submarine warfare drills and other high-speed maneuvers, the Podmoskovye should easily be able to slip away undetected and carry out this special mission you’ve assigned to her.”
Zhdanov nodded his understanding, pleased by the other man’s show of confidence. Naturally, the admiral had not been given any of the details of Podmoskovye’s real role in upcoming events. Although technically one of the units of the Northern Fleet, the converted missile submarine’s role in intelligence-gathering and special operations often meant it operated under direct orders from Moscow. In this case, even the submarine’s experienced captain, Mikhail Nakhimov, would be starting his voyage largely in the dark. Once Nakhimov broke off from the main fleet maneuvers, his instructions were to sail secretly to a set of coordinates in the mid-Atlantic, well off the coast of France. Not until then was he allowed to open his sealed orders and learn the part Podmoskovye would play in MIDNIGHT.
“Thank you, Pleshakov,” he said. “I appreciate your professional expertise. And the efficiency you’ve shown in organizing this remarkable demonstration of Russia’s military power. It will make our enemies tremble.” With a dry smile, he nodded toward the continuing parade of warships steaming toward the open sea. “Still, with the exercise now fully underway, I imagine you have more important things to do than babysit me here, eh?”
“There are certain critical matters I should attend to back at my headquarters,” the other man admitted carefully. No one in their right mind would dream of contradicting Piotr Zhdanov, even when he seemed to be in a good mood… at least not more than once. “With your permission?”
Zhdanov nodded graciously. “Of course, Admiral. You may go.”
Relieved, Pleshakov threw him a sharp salute and strode rapidly away toward his waiting helicopter, accompanied by the gaggle of staff officers he’d brought to this dockside meeting with Russia’s leader.