29
In the normally crowded Northern Fleet base of Gadzhiyevo, only a single submarine remained tied to the pier. The banner affixed to the ship’s brow identified the submarine as K-157 Vepr, a third flight Shchuka-B nuclear attack submarine, dubbed Akula II by NATO. Inside the officers’ mess, Captain Second Rank Matvey Baczewski sat at the head of the table, flanked by twelve of his officers as they gathered for lunch.
It was unusually quiet during the meal, his officers sulking over their lack of orders. Every other attack and guided missile submarine had sortied to sea yesterday in search of Dolgoruky. But Vepr’s orders had been canceled without explanation. Northern Fleet had singled her out for some reason, deciding she, and she alone, was not worthy. It flew in the face of reason. Vepr was the most capable submarine in their squadron, consistently earning all departmental and ship awards.
Baczewski noticed the furtive glances from his officers, wondering if their Captain’s Polish heritage had anything to do with their canceled order. But Baczewski had done well in the Navy thus far; his ethnicity had not been an issue.
“Fleet Admiral, arriving.”
The announcement from topside over the submarine’s communication system caught Baczewski by surprise, and the Duty Officer almost choked as he swallowed a mouthful of tea. Lieutenant Chaban grabbed the napkin from his lap, wiping his face as he stood, almost knocking his chair over in the process. He looked toward his Captain, belatedly requesting to be excused from the table. Baczewski nodded and Chaban left the wardroom, hurrying topside to greet the Russian Navy’s highest-ranking Admiral.
The other officers at the table stared at their Captain, some with their soup spoons suspended in the air, awaiting direction.
“Eat,” Baczewski said.
His officers remained frozen. An unannounced visit by the Fleet Admiral after canceled orders did not bode well. “Eat,” Baczewski repeated, adding a warm smile this time. “Admiral Ivanov and I are old friends. He was my commanding officer on my first submarine.”
The officers followed their Captain’s order and resumed eating. Baczewski pushed back from the table, then headed forward.
Baczewski waited in the upper level of Compartment One as Fleet Admiral Ivanov climbed down from topside.
“Welcome aboard Vepr, Fleet Admiral,” he said as Ivanov stepped off the ladder.
Ivanov did not reply. Instead, his eyes swept the compartment, examining the weapons in their stows and the condition of Baczewski’s ship. Baczewski repressed a smile. In twenty years, Ivanov hadn’t changed; he had been a demanding commanding officer. Finally, Ivanov’s eyes met Baczewski’s. But there was no warm greeting.
“Your stateroom,” was all he said.
Ivanov followed Baczewski into his stateroom, then closed and locked the door.
“To what honor do we owe your visit?” Baczewski asked, attempting to break the ice.
“It is no honor,” Ivanov replied. “Be seated.”
Baczewski took his seat as Ivanov settled into his. The Admiral reached into his overcoat and retrieved a sealed envelope, which he placed on the table between them. “Your orders.”
Vepr’s commanding officer opened the envelope, and as he read the letter, signed by the Admiral, mixed emotions surged through him — fear, and excitement. After a moment of reflection, he decided his reaction was as it should be for someone heading into battle.
“It is only a contingency measure,” the Admiral said. “And you may decline the order.”
Baczewski read the order again, evaluating the possible scenarios. There was no way to predict the risk to his crew. However, Ivanov would not have made the request without good reason. Baczewski folded the letter and placed it back into the envelope.
“I have no reservations, Admiral. I will do as you instruct.”
Ivanov nodded. “How soon can you get underway?”
“The reactor is shut down. By the time we start up, it will be dark. Unless it’s imperative we get underway tonight, I recommend we get underway first thing tomorrow morning.”
“You will depart tonight,” Ivanov answered.
The Admiral stood, and before turning toward the door, he said, “Keep the envelope in a safe place. If you are called into service and survive, you will need it to absolve yourself.”
Ivanov’s sedan was parked on the pier, not far from Vepr’s brow, the back door held open by his driver. Ivanov slid into the back seat of the warm sedan — the car engine and heater had been left running. The driver shut Ivanov’s door and climbed into the front seat a moment later. He looked at the Admiral through the rearview mirror. “Back to the airport, sir?”
“No,” Ivanov replied as he took his gloves off. “Pechenga.”
“Yes, Admiral.”
He put the car in gear and guided it down the narrow pier. Not long thereafter, the sedan pulled onto Route E105, headed northwest toward the far corner of the Kola Peninsula.
30
In the northwest corner of the Kola Peninsula, not far from the Norwegian and Finnish borders, Fleet Admiral Ivanov looked out his sedan window at the sprawling base in the Pechengsky District. Originally part of the Swedish Empire, the district was annexed by Russia in 1533, then ceded to Finland in 1920 after the Finnish civil war. However, after five million tons of nickel deposits were discovered in the region, the land was seized by the Soviet Union during 1939’s Winter War, then reclaimed by Finland during the Continuation War, joining Nazi Germany’s assault on Russia. The Soviet Union prevailed, however, and with tremendous underground wealth and a tumultuous history, it was not surprising there was a Russian military base in the remote rural district.
It was late in the afternoon, with the sun slipping toward the craggy peaks of the Pechenga Mountains, when Ivanov’s sedan reached the installation. The guard at the security gate checked the identification of the driver, then waved them through. The driver followed Ivanov’s directions, and pedestrian and vehicular traffic thinned as they headed deeper into the base, until no cars or soldiers were visible.
“Stop here,” the Admiral commanded.
The sedan ground to a halt in front of a four-story redbrick building. Ivanov stepped from the car and entered the facility. The quarterdeck watch saluted briskly, holding his salute until the Admiral dropped his.
“Inform Captain First Rank Klokov that Fleet Admiral Ivanov is here.”
The Starshina Third Class picked up the phone, and after speaking into the handset, hung up. “Captain Klokov is on his way.”
Captain First Rank Klokov was the commanding officer of Russian military unit 10511. Its official title was the 585th OMRP, which stood for Otdel’nyy Morskoy Razvedyvatel’nyy Punkt and translated in English to “Detached Naval Reconnaissance Point.” Outside Russia, however, the unit was known as Spetsnaz.
Spetsnaz were elite special forces, with several units being Marine Commandos, the equivalent of America’s Navy SEALs. There were over one hundred Spetsnaz units spread throughout the Russian military and intelligence organizations, but only a few met Ivanov’s needs. Marine Commandos would have been a suitable selection. However, those units were under the direct control of the military’s Main Intelligence Directorate, or GRU. Ivanov needed a unit under his command, and there was one unit that met the specifications for the mission Boris Chernov had outlined. The Polar Spetsnaz unit, based in Pechenga.