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  “One of the best.”

  “Mark, I have a feeling the Russians are planning something even bigger.”

  Hellenberg’s tone grew ominous. “So do the Joint Chiefs.”

  EIGHT

  “Left standard rudder. Steady three-two-zero,” ordered Commander Jonathan Andreas.

  The USS Florida, SSN-805, a Virginia-class nuclear submarine, banked smartly to the left and steadied on her new northwesterly course, the third and final leg to refine the Ekelund range calculation to the target.

  Ekelund calculations utilized listen-only sonar bearings to solve an equation: the distance to a target was nearly equal to the speed across the line-of-sight of the target divided by the bearing rate (change of bearing per minute, in degrees).

  Andreas didn’t just understand those calculations. As the commander of a nuclear submarine, they were part of his DNA. He liked to compete with the AN/BSY-1, the computer-based combat system designed to detect, classify, track, and launch weapons at enemy targets. It was man versus machine, and he truly appreciated the beauty inherent in mathematical formulas, an appreciation that had taken him far in his military career.

  He was a Naval Academy grad with a B.S. in Marine Engineering, plus two years of postgrad school in Monterey, California, with a dual master’s in Nuclear Engineering and International Relations. He was forty-three, from the Midwest, and married with requisite two kids, a boy and girl ages eleven and twelve respectively. He was on the fast track for captain and needed a deep-draft command such as an amphib, maybe even a nuclear carrier, to get his ticket punched. He was destined for a submarine division or squadron commander billet, even admiral if his political party snagged the White House and he could complete his Ph.D. after the Naval War College. His current rank of Commander guaranteed him thirty years in the Navy even if he was twice passed over for promotion, the automatic death knell for any naval officer.

  Yes, it’d been a good life and a textbook career, most of it served during peacetime.

  But this war, he had quickly learned, changed everything and those changes could begin with the smallest contact on a sonar display.

  In fact, twenty minutes earlier the sub’s BQQ-10 sonar processor had begun stacking dots on its waterfall display amid the background noise of Arctic shrimp. Once the fire-control dot-stacker display had finished its stacking, the right target course and speed had been determined, and consequently they had a weapons firing solution on what they determined to be a multiship contact.

  Andreas took a deep breath, forced himself to relax.

  He had deliberately chosen the new course for his final leg, knowing it would bring him back to a nearby polyna, an area of open water surrounded by sea ice, where he could come up and sneak a peek at the contact, mixing the groan and screech of breaking ice with a cacophony of engine and screw noises.

  Andreas was prepared to execute “emergency deep” if necessary, his crew automatically taking the sub down to 150 feet in a crash dive to avoid a collision or escape an aircraft attack.

  For now, though, he ordered one of Florida’s two photonic masts extended. Each contained several high-resolution cameras with light-intensification and infrared sensors, an infrared laser rangefinder, and an integrated electronic support measures (ESM) array. Signals from the masts’ sensors were transmitted through fiber-optic data lines through signal processors to the control center.

  All the Virginia-class systems—weapon control, sensors, countermeasures, and navigation systems—were integrated into one computer and displayed on the Q-70 color common display console.

  All right. They were fifteen miles due north of Banks Island, one of the Canadian arctic islands, and Andreas and his control center attack team now watched two columns of military assault ships glide through the frigid waters, each column preceded by a broad-hulled icebreaker.

  Andreas’s crew quickly identified the lead ship behind the smaller icebreaker as the Varyag, a former Russian aircraft carrier now converted into a command and control ship and flying the personal flag of a Red Banner Northern Fleet admiral headquartered in Severomorsk.

  Astern of the Varyag was the Ulyanovsk, recently completed and modified as a helicopter assault ship. And behind her was the familiar amphibious assault ship Ivan Rogov.

  The second column consisted of another icebreaker, an oiler, and an ammunition ship.

  “XO, pull the manual and tell me what’s flying on Varyag’s port yardarm and assure me that the Intel officer is recording every pixel on the Q-70 display.”

  After a moment, the XO reported his findings. “Captain, that’s the personal pennant for a GRU general and a Spetsnaz field commander, and we’re getting it all.”

  Just then, the two columns of ships began to split, the Varyag group continuing south along the west coast of Banks Island and the auxiliary column beginning to turn left into the McClure Strait and the east coast of the island.

  “That’s interesting,” observed the XO.

  “And smart,” added Andreas. “He separates his volatile, slower assets and sends them through the McClure and down into calmer waters of the Prince of Wales Strait, where they’ll probably rejoin in the Amundsen Gulf.”

  “Isn’t that a little risky?” asked the Ops officer.

  “Not really, Jack, he’s got assault choppers to provide air cover. They could get across Banks Island in ten to fifteen minutes.”

  The Ops officer nodded.

  Andreas cleared his throat. “Okay, gentlemen, let’s get a slot buoy ready. I want a detailed SITREP. Advise Commander, Pacific Fleet we are in trail of the Varyag and add some pictures, space permitting. Plug in a one-hour transmit delay. We’ll leave the buoy here in the polyna. I’m curious as hell to know what a GRU general and Spetsnaz field commander are doing out at sea with a Northern Fleet admiral.

  “Officer of the Deck, take her down to five-four-three feet and fall in behind the column, rig for modified ultra-quiet.” Andreas regarded his XO. “I believe an OPORDER is forthcoming. So have the Ops officer and Weapons officer in the wardroom in one hour with a plan to wipe out this Russian task force.”

  “Aye-aye, sir.”

  In his mind’s eye, Andreas saw the sub’s four UGM- 84G Harpoon antiship missiles and the Mark 48 (MK- 48) ADCAP torpedoes reduce those ships to burning buckets listing hopelessly until they sank to the cold depths.

  NINE

  The doorbell sent Major Alice Dennison bolting up from her sofa. She noticed the motion-sensor lights on the front porch had already clicked on.

  Who the hell is that?

  She grabbed her robe from one of the bar stools, slipped it on over her long nightgown, fastened the tie, then finger combed her hair.

  It was 9:26 in the evening. No call had come from the gate, so it had to be one of her neighbors, right?

  A quick glance around her 1930s bungalow made her grimace. The rugs had been pulled, the paintings removed, all the light fixtures unscrewed from the walls and ceiling.

  And that was just the beginning. She’d ransacked every room, every piece of furniture, looking for Doletskaya’s bugs. She’d even removed the showerheads.

  Those bastards at the GRU had infiltrated Palma Ceia, the suburb of southern Tampa where Dennison had been living for the past few years. The bungalow she had once called a sanctuary was midway between the international airport and MacDill Air Force Base, where the Joint Strike Force had established one of its many command posts adjacent to United States Special Operations Command (USSOC). Palma Ceia, she kept reminding herself, was a highly desirable neighborhood, and she lived on a private canal, with access to Tampa Bay and the Gulf beyond. Maybe Doletskaya’s men had slipped in by boat to bypass her security system and wire her house for sound and video.

  But she had yet to locate any of his devices, and that was driving her even more insane.

  Maybe they’d already been removed.

  Or maybe he was getting his information from another source. But who? The only friends sh
e had were her colleagues, and they, like her, were so plugged into the work that there was barely any free time. Sleep, eat, get back to work, back to the war . . . She couldn’t remember how many nights she had spent at the command post, stealing four hours on a cot, putting in a twenty-hour day.

  She grabbed her .45 from the kitchen counter, chambered a round, then started toward the door, not daring to get close enough to stare through the peephole, already imagining an assailant firing through the wooden door.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s me, Alice, open up.”

  Oh, God. She almost collapsed as the tension washed down into her legs. She threw the dead bolt, removed the chain, and opened the door—

  To find her father, shock of gray hair and gray mustache, holding a brightly wrapped present in his hands. He smiled and said, “Happy Birthday, sweetheart! I know I’m a couple of days early, but I’m going to be out of town and I wanted to surprise you before I left. That Charlie down at the gate is a good guy, let the old man have a little fun.”

  His gaze finally found the gun in her hand, and he frowned.

  “I wasn’t expecting company, Dad.”

  “Well, Jesus, put that piece away. But I guess I should be glad you’re not taking any chances, especially in times like these.”

  She moved aside, shut the door after him—but not before stealing a furtive glance at the porch and front yard.

  “You should have called, Dad.”

  “Holy . . . what happened?” He gaped at the place. “Were you robbed? Oh, my God. Did you call the police?”

  “I wasn’t robbed. I did this.”

  “You? What the hell?” He shifted over to the bar counter, set down his gift, which looked like a hardcover book, and came to her, gripping her shoulders. “Alice, what’s going on. Are you all right? Are you . . . angry?”

  She opened her mouth once, closed it, stammered, “I-I’m . . . tired.”

  His gaze reached the ceiling, the unscrewed fixtures; that did it for him. “You think you’ve been under surveillance.”

  “I know I have been. Dad, I feel like I’ve been raped.”

  “Come here.”

  “I’m too old for a hug.”

  “I don’t care, you’re still my kid. Give the senior citizen a hug.”

  She did, and it felt good, reminded her of all those times as a child when she had fallen asleep in his lap, feeling utterly protected. And maybe she hung on now a little too tightly.

  “If you’re worried about surveillance, I want you to move. You think they’re watching now?”

  “I don’t know.” She wanted to whirl around, as she’d done earlier, flipping off the Russians.

  “Why don’t you get a team in here to do a professional sweep?”

  “I’m too embarrassed. When I’m off the base, I never talk about anything anyway. Everything he learned about me was personal, not professional.”

  “You want to go sit in my car?”

  “No. I’m okay.”

  “Alice, what can I do to help?”

  She shrugged. “Give me my birthday present.”

  He fetched the gift, handed it to her.

  “It’s a book, and you know I don’t have any time to read,” she began.

  “This one you might find interesting.”

  She peeled away the wrapper to reveal the title: Russian Myths and Folklore.

  “Dad?”

  He nodded. “Yesterday, the general and I played eighteen holes, and when I asked him how my daughter was doing, his reply was, ‘Excellent, though she’s obsessed with Russian folklore at the moment.’ I didn’t know what he meant, but for the daughter who has everything, I thought what the hell, you might like this, if you don’t have it already.”

  “No, I don’t,” she said, thumbing through the pages.

  “So, is this a new hobby, or does it have something to do with . . .” He trailed off, gesturing to the disaster that was her living room. “Or do you not want to talk here.”

  “Maybe we will take a walk outside.”

  She tucked the book under her arm, and they headed out, into the backyard, and moved down to the dock and the shimmering, still waters of the canal.

  “And sweetheart, the book isn’t your only gift. I’ve placed a little something in the card. And I want you to use them, all right?”

  “More plane tickets? Dad, I can’t take the time off right now. I mean, the entire world is—”

  “Not your responsibility. We all need downtime—and it looks like you do more than ever now.”

  “I’ll be all right. Soon as I find out who Snegurochka is.” She rapped a knuckle on the book. “Snegurochka is the snow maiden in Russian fairy tales. In one story, she’s the daughter of Spring and Frost. She falls in love with a shepherd, but when her heart warms, she melts. In another story, falling in love turns her into a mortal human who will die. And then there’s another one where she’s the daughter of an old couple who make her out of snow. She hangs out with some girlfriends, leaps over a fire, and melts.”

  Her father snickered. “The Russkies love their happy endings, huh?”

  “Well, she’s known to kids now as the granddaughter and helper of the Russian Santa.”

  “So you’ve already read the book.”

  “Not this one. Thank you.”

  “Well, it seems to me you already know who the snow maiden is.” He was implying she should let it go. She’d heard that tone a thousand times before.

  “I think Snegurochka is the code name for a Russian operative working for the GRU. And that operative must be a woman.”

  “So how many women do they have at that level? There can’t be many.”

  “Exactly eleven.”

  “So narrow it down.”

  “I already have.”

  “And?”

  “And I shouldn’t be telling you this, but the most likely candidate is a Colonel Viktoria Antsyforov.”

  “So study her. See if she’s the one.”

  “I found out yesterday that she’s dead.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Dennison sighed in frustration. “Pretty damned sure.”

  “So maybe that’s a loose end the Russians took care of. Don’t pursue that anymore.”

  “Or maybe they want us to think that. You know what’s really crazy, Dad? I’ve been obsessing on this so hard that I’m beginning to believe that I’m the snow maiden.”

  “What? The cold career bitch who never got married because she’d melt? Come on, Alice.”

  “I know. We don’t feel sorry for ourselves. Never have before, even after Mom died. We’re strong. I guess it’s just the stress. You know, thinking that someone’s been watching me all this time.”

  “I want a team in there to sweep the place, and then if you want to put the house on the market, let’s do it. You’ll get another place.”

  “No, I won’t let them win. I’ll get the sweep.”

  “Good.”

  “Dad, thanks for coming. Sorry I dumped all this on you.”

  He grinned, moved in for another hug. “That’s what fathers are for.”

  On the way back into the house, her cell phone rang. She reached into her robe’s pocket, answered. They needed her back at the command post.

  TEN

  The USS Florida’s sonar team had quickly switched from the BQQ-10’s broadband to narrowband and had isolated two of the Russian ship Varyag’s SSTGs (ship’s service turbo generators).

  Identifying, isolating, and tracking “tonals”—pure sound sources—was the equivalent of an acoustic fingerprint.

  And thanks to Andreas’s skilled men, the enemy command and control ship could now be identified by any U.S. sub, anywhere in the world, solely by those two discreet frequencies.

  By filtering out extraneous noise, it was now possible to trail the surface group at a comfortable five-mile distance using Varyag’s SSTGs as a homing beacon.

  The ship and her consorts transited the Dol
phin and Union Strait, entered the Coronation Gulf, and set a course toward Hepburn Island, situated in the gulf’s southeastern corner; all the while, the Florida followed, undetected as it sliced through the icy cold waters.

  The Russians passed the southwestern tip of Hepburn, spread out, then proceeded to anchor in the shallow waters.

  Andreas and his men watched as the combatants spaced themselves two miles apart, pointed their bows seaward, and dropped stern and bow anchors.

  “Keeps them from swinging around on the bow hook and interfering with each other when the tide shifts,” Andreas said aloud in the control room.

  The oiler and the ammunition ship anchored three miles away to the east.

  “Let’s move in and get some good beam-on shots for the Harpoons to use—assuming we get that OPORDER,” said Andreas. “And, navigator, get an exact—and I do mean exact—GPS fix on Varyag, Ulyanovsk, and Rogov’s anchorage position.”

  “What about the oiler and the ammo ship, Captain?” queried the navigation officer.

  “They don’t represent a threat like the combatants, although I do plan to take them out with the Mark 48s.” Andreas wriggled his brows. “The pyrotechnics should be spectacular, don’t you think?”

  His navigation officer smiled.

  Once the beam-on digital photographs were taken, and it was apparent the Russians were settled in, Andreas took his boat northeast into the Dease Strait and then continued on as far as the ten-mile gap between the northeast tip of Kent Peninsula and Victoria Island.

  Global warming had produced huge areas of open water nearly year-round, but there in the narrow gap, the ice had accumulated. A combination of snow, reduced seawater salinity, and the natural choke point had allowed the ice to become nearly fourteen feet thick. The submarine could handily pass under it, but there was no way the two icebreakers could plow through to the open waters of the Queen Maud Gulf beyond.

  Andreas began to draw some conclusions, and he voiced them to his men. “That admiral’s just a taxi driver.”

  “What makes you say that, sir?” asked the XO.

  “This is that GRU general’s show. No self-respecting northern fleet admiral would box himself in this way.”