Alexeyev frowned. “Sir, the icecap, even in the summer, is treacherous. Deep pressure ridges close off what would seem a viable path. We might have to back up, retrace our path, and take another route. Our average speed might be near zero. It could take a month or even two just to clear the icecap. A smaller submarine could get by, but Belgorod, sir, this vessel is huge, and even bigger with Losharik docked.”
“If it gets to be a problem, Captain, perhaps undock the Losharik and keep trying. It’s been done before, with the first Omega submarine, the Kaliningrad. Kaliningrad surfaced at the North Pole.”
“Sir, Kaliningrad didn’t make it back from that mission.”
“I know, Captain Alexeyev, but neither did the American sub hunting her.”
“Understood, sir. How urgent is the delivery of these weapons?”
“We’re in no hurry, Captain. If you can get them there by Christmas, it will be a nice present all around.”
Alexeyev nodded and poured more wine for the president, then more for himself.
“One thing, though, Captain,” Vostov said.
“What’s that, Mr. President?”
Vostov sighed. “Evidently the Poseidon torpedoes are not quite ready. Engineer Voronin has requested another week to prepare them. Between you and me, I think it will take longer. I believe our comrades at Sevmash have over-promised on these weapons. But let us think in a positive frame of mind, yes?”
Vostov drained his wine and stood. “Perhaps we could return to your officers’ messroom? I enjoy spending time with the troops. Maybe you could bring in some of the non-commissioned officers as well. We could have a sort of miniature town hall meeting.”
“Absolutely, sir.” Alexeyev grabbed the phone handset from under the table again and spoke into it, then motioned the entourage out of his stateroom.
Ten minutes later, Vostov was answering a question asked by a mechanical petty officer when the door to the room was suddenly smashed open by the chief of the SBP security detail, who waved a hand signal to his troops. Up until that moment, four of the SBP guards had been posted in the officers’ messroom, standing calmly and almost invisibly in the corners, but then suddenly sprang into action and forcibly grabbed Vostov under his arms and dragged him out of the room and down the passageway. Vostov could barely feel his feet touching the deck plates as he was rushed to the central command post and forward to the ladderway to the access hatch. His heart was pounding in his throat. He had the slightest impression of the officers in the room staring at him with their eyes bulging out.
Outside the hatch, six more SBP agents waited, hustling Vostov into an idling utility truck, the other men of the entourage climbing into the trucks ahead of his and behind it. The convoy of trucks roared off down the long and wide concrete jetty, turning hard at the road at the end, speeding up to what had to be 120 kilometers per hour as they made a short trip to a huge military helicopter. Vostov looked at the SBP agents on either side of him in the back seat.
“What the hell is going on?”
“You’ll be informed soon, sir,” one said. “Let’s just concentrate on getting you to your jet.”
“Where’s Pasternak? And Konstantinov? And Sevastyan?”
“They’re being rushed to your aircraft, sir. But that’s all I know.”
The truck screeched to a halt at the helicopter, the rotors already beating loudly, the dust underneath the huge machine blowing in the wind it generated. Vostov climbed the steps to the chopper and was strapped in. He was handed a helmet with an intercom on it.
“Who’s the senior man aboard?” he asked, trying to make his voice hard and demanding.
A man in olive drab coveralls up front, with the emblems of an Air Force lieutenant colonel raised his hand. “I am, sir,” he said, his voice in Vostov’s helmet’s earphones.
“Can you tell me what’s going on?”
“We don’t know, sir. We got the orders from General Sevastyan just moments ago. It must be serious. All we know is this is not an exercise.”
Vostov sat back in his seat, waiting impatiently. Eventually the chopper descended and settled at the airstrip near the Tu-144. The SBP agents rushed him into the plane. He was barely inside when the hatch shut and the jet’s engines roared, the jet at full power on the runway before he could make his way into the back inner office.
He strapped himself into his chair at the desk and looked up at Pasternak. At the table’s chairs were the same officials he’d arrived with. As the deck inclined for takeoff, he glared at Defense Minister Konstantinov and FSB Chairman Sevastyan. “One of you people care to tell me what the hell is going on?”
“Mr. President,” Sevastyan said, “we have a live feed from the GUM shopping mall.” Pasternak helped the FSB chairman project his pad computer on the large flatpanels on the forward bulkhead.
The view showed the plate glass windows fronting the Brunello Cucinelli shop, but the inside was obscured by smoke. A crowd of tactically-outfitted SBP agents and police were crowded in front of the store.
“Maybe the news,” Pasternak said, switching on a flatpanel display to the RT Moscow local affiliate. The announcer was a woman standing somewhere in front of the black-clad police.
“Turn it up,” Vostov said.
The announcer seemed to stumble through her words, seeming shaken by what was happening.
“…in front of the Brunello Cucinelli boutique, where we believe sixteen shoppers and four staff are being held hostage inside by elements of the United Islamic Front of God, who are — who are, apparently, terrorists. We have preliminary word that among the hostages is Larisa Vostov, the wife of the president. The UIF have communicated to the commander of the hostage rescue team that their demands are the release of six prisoners held in Tomsk Prison, each of them in maximum security, serving sentences for murder and terrorism. They have stated that they require an escort from the mall and a helicopter to a private jet, plus ten million Euro, failing which they will execute a hostage every hour until their demands are met.”
“Mute it,” Vostov barked. “Is Anya okay?”
The FSB deputy, Ozols, was speaking on a phone, one hand covering his ear. He looked up at Vostov. “Anya is safe, Mr. President. She’s under SBP guard. She was removed from her school and is arriving at your north dacha now, sir. We have agents inside and outside with roadblocks set up on all roads in the vicinity, and the anti-aircraft units are stationed and ready. Any move against Anya will be met with deadly force.”
Vostov breathed a sigh of relief.
“Mr. President, you have to make the decision,” Deputy FSB Chairman Ozols said, looking at him expectantly.
Vostov looked at Ozols. “What decision?”
“Do we promise to release the prisoners and get the chopper, money and plane? Or do we storm the store and try to rescue the hostages?”
“Everyone leave this office except for Pasternak,” Vostov ordered.
The staff bolted to their feet and hurried out of the room, shutting the door behind them.