“It is time,” Vitaliy concluded coldly. Behind him were half a dozen Kremlin guards whose real loyalty had been, all along, to Vitaliy.
The price of failure.
Vitaliy motioned toward one of these men. The guard stepped forward, drew his service pistol, and chambered a round. He quietly removed the magazine, leaving the single bullet in the chamber and set the pistol down on Vladimir’s desk. His eyes were without pity as he looked at the president before stepping back.
Vladimir hesitated as he looked down upon the instrument of his death. There was no escape, and he knew it. He’d gambled all and lost.
“Resign or be prosecuted, Mister President,” Vitaliy ordered coldly.
The president stepped away from the window and picked up the pistol. It would be relatively painless, especially when compared to what the mob outside would do to him. If he somehow survived the raging crowd, then would come the lengthy trial followed by an equally humiliating execution.
He raised the pistol to his own temple.
The failed great gamble required one more casualty.
Chapter Thirty Two
Kristen walked through the deserted torpedo room. A month earlier, when they’d entered the Gulf of Oman, the torpedo room had been filled to capacity; now it was over half empty. Following the battle, they’d spent a week in Diego Garcia undergoing maintenance to make the hasty battle damage repairs more permanent and strong enough to handle the voyage back across the Indian and Pacific Oceans to Bremerton.
Kristen walked aft from the torpedo room through the deserted submarine, finding only a few watch personnel on duty as she made her way to the forward escape hatch and the brilliant shining sunlight pouring through. She heard the sound of tropical music as she climbed up the ladder and then out onto the deck where most of the crew, dressed in bathing suits, sunglasses, and wearing — she hoped — copious amounts of sunscreen, were enjoying the time-honored tradition of “Steel Beach.” The Seawolf was lying motionless in still water with no land visible in any direction. The submarine had broached the ocean as high as she could, and her long, cylindrical hull had become a quasi-beach for the party now underway.
Music from several sources competed for her attention, and the blazing hot sun threatened to turn the anechoic tiles on the hull into a skillet. Kristen saw the safety swimmer standing watch as a few dozen brave souls dared swim in the open ocean while most relaxed in the sun. The smell of hamburgers cooking on a charcoal grill caught her attention, and she looked aft to see Brodie, Graves, and COB standing around a large barrel grill, drinking beer, and talking.
Kristen was dressed in a navy blue one-piece swimsuit plus a pair of Bermuda shorts. Her long hair was held back in a simple ponytail, and she wore sandals to protect her from the broiling deck. She wore a hat with the symbol for the SEAL Special Warfare Development Group on it — a gift she’d found on her bunk after Hamilton and Hoover had departed back at Sasebo — and her prescription sunglasses. Kristen was a bit self-conscious about her two tattoos being on display, but she assumed she could handle any ribbing from the men.
“What’re you drinkin’, Lassie?” Chief O’Rourke, who was dressed in an aging, ill-fitting bathing suit and t-shirt, asked. He was seated in a nylon lawn chair by the largest beer cooler.
“You wouldn’t happen to have a bottle of water in there anywhere would you, Senior Chief?” she asked as he offered her a spare lawn chair.
“Water?” O’Rourke asked in disgust as he directed her to join him and a group of chiefs and petty officers seated in a tight — exclusive — circle. No commissioned officers were seated with this small group, but they all looked at her acceptingly. “Today’s a day for celebrating, Lassie.”
He opened a beer and handed it to her while she sat down. Her eyes drifted aft to where Brodie was flipping burgers. He was dressed in sandals, old khaki shorts, a tank style T-shirt, sunglasses, and a Seawolf baseball hat. The message from the Bureau of Naval Personnel announcing his selection for full captain had arrived two days earlier, but she’d not had a chance to congratulate him. In fact, she hadn’t had a chance to be alone with him since the Persian Gulf.
Kristen accepted the beer, knowing she would spend the afternoon nursing it. “Whatever you say, Senior Chief.”
“Lassie,” he began and motioned toward Brodie, “that tattoo on the skipper’s arm,” he began, “the lads and I’ve been wondering what it means: avdentes fortuna juvat?” He then added, “You’re about the smartest person we got around here, so we figured you’d know.”
Kristen eyes lingered on the stern where he was cooking food for the crew. “It’s Latin,” she replied and then said simply, “It means: fortune favors the bold.”
The group of Chiefs seemed to think such a tattoo was appropriate on Brodie and nodded in approval. “Well, that sure fits,” O’Rourke offered and then looked at her. “And what’s the ink on your back?” he asked. “I recognize the trident, but what’s the other one about?”
Kristen shrugged. “It’s the reason I’ll only have one beer, Senior Chief,” she assured him.
“So what now, Sean?” Graves asked Brodie as his friend worked the grill. Brodie always handled the grill whenever they had the opportunity to surface and conduct the traditional party before returning to home port. Graves was dressed similar to Brodie, except he wore a collared shirt instead of a tank top.
“Don’t know,” he shrugged in reply.
Along with the message regarding Brodie’s promotion to full captain, there’d also been orders sending him to COMSUBPAC where he was to be rewarded for his years of service with a comfortable desk job. “All these years driving subs hasn’t exactly prepared me for driving a desk.”
COB shook his head in disgust, sipping a beer. He expressed his thoughts in characteristic fashion, “Well I’m done. I’m fuckin’ retiring.”
Graves watched Brodie shake his head with a knowing smile. “What will the Silent Service do without you, Spike?”
But COB shook his own head and answered, “Fuck ’em.”
Graves knew COB wouldn’t serve on another submarine without Brodie as captain. The two of them had discussed the possibility of Brodie getting a missile boat, but they had each agreed it would never happen. Brodie was too much of a rebel to ever be given a ballistic missile submarine. “Don’t bail out too quickly, COB,” Graves suggested. “I’m going to need you on my boat.”
Along with the message relieving Brodie, there’d been orders for Graves giving him his first command. Both would be leaving the Seawolf upon their return to Bremerton.
“Well, if you can swing it and find a spot for me, I might stick around for a few more years,” COB offered, but Graves knew the old sea dog had seen enough. He was looking forward to retiring and spending his time fishing and watching his grandchildren grow up.
Brodie shook his head and warned, “Your wife’ll have your ass if you go on another boat, Spike.”
“Ahh,” COB brushed off the possibility with his gravelly voice, “she’ll get over it.”
COB moved forward, spying a couple of petty officers having more than their allotted two beers per man. Graves sipped his own beer and studied Brodie, who’d congratulated Graves profusely on his first command but had hardly spoken about anything else since the fighting in the Persian Gulf. Instead, Brodie had withdrawn into a cocoon of silence, working on paperwork and writing up award recommendations for many of the crew. Graves had his own fair share of award write ups to keep him busy, too, but Brodie had been unusually withdrawn. Graves worried about Brodie at the best of times, but with his friend having command for only a few more weeks and the Seawolf’s new captain waiting in Bremerton already, he knew Brodie had to be wishing for one more patrol. “You okay, Sean?”