He moved to the next torpedo, replicating his actions until all but one weapon was wired with explosives. After approaching the last torpedo, he retrieved a detonator of a different design — programmable, with the initiator built into its underside. Leonov extended the initiator, then pressed the detonator firmly atop the C-4.
Captain Lieutenant Topolski entered the Torpedo Room, stopping beside Leonov. “The submersible is full, and we are not finished stripping the equipment.”
“Send it to the surface,” Leonov directed, “and have the two American attendants off-load the equipment. We’ll make as many trips as possible before sunrise.”
After Topolski acknowledged the order and left the Torpedo Room, Leonov programmed the detonator with a one-hour delay, giving them sufficient time to return to the surface and depart the American ice camp. Finally, he set the detonator to Master. It would communicate with the others, detonating all twenty-four simultaneously.
It would be an American version of the Kursk disaster, the submarine destroyed by a faulty torpedo. There would be nothing left of the submarine, and the shock wave from an explosion that large would fracture the ice floe above, and the American ice camp would be swallowed by the Arctic Ocean. There would be no trace of what Russia had done, and America would have no idea their tactical systems had been harvested.
65
Christine leaned forward with both elbows propped on the table, an empty shot glass dangling from one hand and a half-empty bottle of vodka gripped in the other. She refilled the shot glass, some of the vodka spilling over the rim, then handed the bottle to Klokov. She tilted her head back and downed the cool liquid, then slammed the glass on the table. A flick of her finger sent the glass sliding toward Klokov, where it coasted to a halt beside his glass.
“Your turn.”
Klokov grinned. She had to admit he was an attractive man, with a charismatic personality. He was also an animal, who in a few hours would slaughter every inhabitant of the ice station and North Dakota’s crew. He and his men had to be stopped. She needed to contact someone, let them know what was going on. But first, she had to get past Klokov and the guard outside.
While seated across from Klokov, she had not looked at the ice pick resting on the ledge behind him. She was afraid he would follow her eyes, giving away her plan. As she stared at Klokov, however, she could see the ice pick in her peripheral vision, over his left shoulder and two feet behind him. She would have to get close enough to grab it without him noticing. She had to act soon, too. She couldn’t keep drinking.
They had consumed half a bottle of vodka, and there was no way she could finish it. She could already feel the effects, and there was more alcohol in her system to metabolize. Klokov, however, appeared unaffected. She had wanted to dull his mental faculties, but hers were deteriorating faster. She decided it was now or never.
Christine stood and walked over to Klokov and sat down in his lap, her thighs straddling his waist. “It’s getting warm in here,” she said as she pulled her mid-layer thermal top off.
“It is part of my plan,” Klokov replied as he grinned again. “The heat is on high.”
Christine pulled her inner fleece over her head and tossed it on the floor, then placed her hands on Klokov’s shoulders. The ice pick was almost within reach. Klokov ran his hands up her slim waist, then along her rib cage toward her white-laced bra. His eyes devoured every inch of her body, but then his gaze shifted to her left shoulder and the distinctive small round scar. As a Spetsnaz, Klokov undoubtedly recognized the bullet wound.
He leaned back, examining her body more critically, identifying another bullet scar on her right bicep, and then the thin, vertical knife scar on her neck.
“There is more to you than there appears,” he said.
“I’m just unlucky,” she replied. “I keep ending up in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Christine could feel Klokov’s body tensing. His smile was gone and he was becoming suspicious. She needed to distract him and get the ice pick while she had the opportunity. She reached behind her back with both hands and undid her bra, then slid it from her shoulders and dropped it on the floor. Klokov’s eyes went to her breasts and his hands soon followed.
Now was as good a time as any.
She leaned forward, smothering his face between her breasts. She could feel his hot mouth on her flesh as she reached with her right hand toward the ice pick, but it was a few inches too far away. She leaned forward even more, pushing Klokov’s head back as she pressed her body tightly against his. She heard muffled sounds of enjoyment as her fingers wrapped around the ice pick handle.
Christine pulled back, resting her forearms on Klokov’s shoulders, the ice pick firmly in her grip. She was ready to strike. However, she had to kill Klokov quietly, so the guard outside wasn’t alerted. She was nervous, and began trembling. She couldn’t delay any longer.
“You like my body?” she asked.
“It is wonderful. You are a beautiful woman.”
Christine smiled. “I hope you enjoy this.”
She leaned forward again, pressing her left breast into his face as she ran her fingers through his hair, then cradled his head in the crook of her left arm. As his mouth opened to take in her nipple, she clamped down tightly with her left arm and pulled her right hand back, then jammed the ice pick into Klokov’s temple.
Christine kept his face squeezed tightly against her breast, muffling his scream as she worked the ice pick back and forth, slicing through his brain. Blood spurted from his head, coating her arm and splattering onto her shoulder and face as Klokov started convulsing.
His body finally went slack, his arms dropping to his side. She kept his face clamped against her breast until the blood spurting from his head slowed to an ooze, then she gradually released him from her embrace. His head tilted back; his mouth was open, as were his eyes, staring at the ceiling.
Christine pulled the ice pick from his head, then wiped the blood from it with the front of his shirt. She cleaned herself off, then placed the ice pick on the table and donned her clothing. Next, she searched for a firearm. She found a pistol in a harness hanging from a peg on one of the walls, but there was no silencer on the barrel. She had to kill the guard outside without alerting the four Spetsnaz in the adjacent hut, or any others in the camp.
Her search of the hut produced no other weapons, nor a silencer for the pistol. She slid the pistol into her parka pocket, then grabbed the ice pick and headed for the door. She stopped when she reached it, thinking through how to kill the guard outside. The Spetsnaz had taken station on the left side of the door, so she kept the ice pick in her right hand, against her thigh so its view was blocked by her body. She took a deep breath, then opened the door.
The Spetsnaz was to her left, as expected. He turned toward her, looking past her briefly for a sign of Klokov. Christine stepped onto the hardened snow beside the Spetsnaz. She answered his questioning look with a smile, then swiveled toward him and jammed the ice pick through his throat. However, he didn’t die quickly like Klokov.