Before leaving the control van and settling in for the night, Klokov evaluated the situation at the ice camp. He had thirty-three men left on the surface, far more than were necessary. He would leave one man in the control van and another at the launch and recovery system, and station two men outside to keep an eye on things. “Send Second Platoon back to Barneo,” Klokov ordered. “Leave eight men from First Platoon here, divided into two groups for shifts through the night.”
The platoon leader acknowledged the order, then Klokov added, “I’m in the mood for celebration tonight. Have something appropriate sent over from Barneo.” Then he ordered, “Bring the American woman to my hut.”
Christine lay on her side, her hands and feet bound, not far from Brackman. During their discussions in the darkness, she had not mentioned it. Tarbottom, and not Brackman, had given the order that saved her life. She tried to view things through a logical and not emotional prism, but had difficulty reconciling her close friendship with Brackman and his refusal to save her life. It had become clear, in that last frantic second before the Spetsnaz officer counted to three, that Brackman’s responsibility as a Naval officer was more important than her life.
The door opened and a man with his hands tied behind his back was shoved into the berthing hooch. In the illumination from the ice camp lights, Christine recognized Peter Tarbottom. Once inside, his feet were bound by one of the Spetsnaz soldiers. Christine expected the Russians to leave, sealing them in darkness again, but instead, the two Spetsnaz lifted her to her feet, then cut the ties around her wrists and ankles.
“What are you doing with her?” Brackman asked.
He was answered with a kick to his stomach.
Christine decided not to ask.
The Spetsnaz who kicked Brackman shoved her toward the open door and she tumbled through the doorway. Her boots slipped on a patch of ice and she landed face first in the snow. The two Spetsnaz grabbed under her shoulders, lifting her to her feet. The Spetsnaz who shoved her moved in front and brushed the snow from her face and hair. “You must be presentable,” he said with a lewd grin.
He turned and headed toward Vance Verbeck’s berthing hooch, and a gentle shove from the second Spetsnaz prodded Christine into following. When they reached Verbeck’s hut, the lead Spetsnaz turned and spoke. “I recommend you enjoy yourself tonight.”
“Why is that?” Christine asked.
He answered, “Because this will be your last night alive.”
Before Christine could process his comment, three more Spetsnaz arrived at Verbeck’s hut. One of the men handed a white backpack to the lead Spetsnaz, then the three men continued toward an adjacent berthing hooch. The lead Spetsnaz knocked on Verbeck’s hut and the door opened, revealing the Spetsnaz commander. He had removed his jacket and outer pants, revealing his green thermal garments. He spoke in Russian to the two Spetsnaz, and the lead Spetsnaz handed the backpack to him, then took station outside the hooch, while the second man headed to the adjacent berthing hut, joining the other three Spetsnaz.
“Come inside, Miss American,” the Spetsnaz commander said, “where it is warm.” He offered a genuine smile, with no hint of what awaited her.
Christine hesitated. Nothing good would happen inside the hut, but she didn’t seem to have any choice. After a moment of indecision, she stepped inside and the Spetsnaz behind her closed the door.
The Russian officer extended his hand. “First,” he said, “proper introductions are required.” He glanced at the name tag on her jacket. “I am Captain First Rank Josef Klokov, Christine. It is a pleasure to meet you.”
Christine declined to shake Klokov’s hand. “And what is second on your agenda tonight?”
Klokov stood with his hand extended for a moment, then turned and headed toward a small table with two chairs. He settled into the chair facing her, placing the backpack on the table.
“Second,” he replied, “I invite you to drink with me.” He pulled a bottle of clear liquor and two shot glasses from the bag.
“And then?” Christine asked.
The Russian officer studied her for a moment, then answered, “We both know why you are here. However, I am not the type of man who forces himself on a woman. I prefer a willing partner. It is my intent to persuade you into participating.”
“You mean you plan to get me drunk and take advantage of me.”
Klokov grinned. “It is the oldest trick known to man. What are my odds of success?”
Several responses flashed through Christine’s mind, and she settled on something appropriate for the setting. “A snowball would have a better chance in Hell.”
“Ah,” Klokov said. “Then there is a chance, however slim.” He gestured toward the empty chair. “Please join me.”
Christine decided to make her position clear enough so even a Spetsnaz could understand. But before she did, assuming Klokov would release her, she wanted to know if what the guard outside said was true; that this would be her last night alive.
“What are you going to do with the ice station personnel when you are finished?”
“You will be released once we have accomplished our objective,” Klokov answered.
Despite his reassuring words, Christine was convinced he was going to murder everyone at the ice station and aboard North Dakota once he was finished.
“Surely,” Klokov added, “spending time with me, even just for conversation, is preferable to being bound and locked in the darkness.”
Christine stared at Klokov, contemplating his assertion. She was about to decline and request she be returned to the berthing hut when she noticed an object over Klokov’s shoulder. Lying on a wood beam framing the wall behind him was the ice pick Verbeck used when they went digging for water.
She smiled warmly. “You’re right. I prefer to be here.” She unzipped her parka and shrugged out of it, then removed her balaclava, boots, and waterproof pants, leaving her mid- and inner thermal layers on. She took her seat, opposite Klokov, as he filled her shot glass, then his.
“I’ll drink with you on one condition,” Christine added.
“And that is?”
“That you take two drinks to my one. You weigh twice as much as me — it’s only fair. I don’t want your task of taking advantage of me to be too easy.”
Klokov answered without hesitation. “Agreed.”
He held up his shot glass. “Za zda-ró-vye!” Christine gave him a blank stare, and he translated to English, “To your health!” There was a darkness in his eyes as Christine raised her glass and clinked it against his. He downed the liquid in a single swallow. Christine brought the glass to her lips, then tilted her head back and dumped the contents into her mouth, swallowing quickly to minimize the taste. Surprisingly, it was very smooth. Not surprisingly, it was vodka.
“What kind is this? It’s very good.”
“You are drinking one of Russia’s finest. Kauffman vodka!”
Klokov poured himself a second glass, which he downed quickly, then a second drink for Christine and another for himself. She raised her glass in the air, trying not to think about what would soon happen. Drinking with Klokov was a dangerous tactic. However, considering what she was planning, she was going to need some liquid courage.
64
In the fast attack submarine’s Torpedo Room, Captain Second Rank Leonov knelt on the deck beside one of the twenty-four green warshot torpedoes. He reached into his white duffel bag, retrieving a rectangular block measuring one inch thick, two inches wide, and ten inches long. He removed the olive-green wrapping, exposing a white, claylike material, then slid his hand into the gap between the nearest torpedo and the stow above, pressing the explosive onto the torpedo’s warhead. Another reach into the bag retrieved a detonator. He extracted a thin, silver initiating tube from a compartment and inserted it into the C-4 explosive, then removed the covering over the adhesive strips on the back of the detonator and pressed it onto the torpedo shell, beside the C-4.