Chapter 37

37

May 13, 9:48 P . M . MSK

Severodvinsk, Arkhangelsk Oblast

Standing over his office desk, Turov slammed his receiver down, hard enough to send the encrypted phone skittering across his desk. The base's landlines still functioned, but little else.

He had already learned that the enemy made a successful escape, fleeing aboard a small aircraft. The plane remained lost. With the solar flare continuing to pound the region, the base's over-the-horizon radar systems—which bounced signals off the ionosphere—were plagued by ghosts and static. It made picking out a small craft nearly impossible.

That alone had infuriated and humiliated him enough.

But worst of all, men under his watch had died.

After everything, Turov had been forced to reach out to Vice Admiral Glazkov in Severomorsk, the commander of the Northern Fleet. Turov related all that had happened, all the way back to when Sychkin had tortured and killed two Moscow students.

The admiral's fury had been palpable, burning Turov's ears. Glazkov's anger was not solely directed at Turov's failure in securing the prisoners, but for what that threat posed. The Americans now had an opportunity to make landfall and establish a foothold out in the East Siberian Sea. Both Turov and Glaskov knew such a geostrategic site, deep in the Arctic, could be vital for Russian security and its hopes for expanding the country's territorial reach. Not to mention, the Americans now had a chance to secure whatever unknown danger might be hidden on that island—to possibly weaponize it.

Upon learning all this, Glazkov had screamed at Turov, ordering him to mobilize a strike team—and to lead it. His final words tolerated no argument: Get your ass out there, or I'll strip you of your command.

The admiral would also be repositioning the Ivan Lyakhov , the military's newest icebreaking patrol boat, a vessel full of Arctic-hardened soldiers and weaponry. Turov was to meet them, along with a spetsnaz team of twenty-four men, a group that he had handpicked after his first meeting with Sychkin. His team would depart the base within the hour aboard an An-74 transport plane fitted with wheel-ski landing gear.

The only problem was that the intel gained from the priest had only given them a rough approximation of the site's location. To pinpoint it further would require a coordinated search across a vast swath of ice.

In the meantime, Glazkov would be dispatching one additional vessel.

Turov frowned at this last inclusion, knowing it was a bad decision. Still, he was in no position to countermand this order.

Again, Turov felt trapped, like he had in the past, during the war games that had marred his record. Similar to back then, Turov knew, if this decision led to a disaster, any repercussions would fall on his head—not that bastard Glazkov's.

His anger was interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Enter!" he shouted.

Oleg pushed inside, limping on a bandaged leg. He led in a trio of others, while waving for a pair of guardsmen to maintain a post outside.

Sychkin entered with a triumphant air that infuriated Turov. Yerik Raz shadowed his master, looming behind the archpriest's shoulders.

Turov suspected Sychkin had already made his own calls, possibly alerting Glazkov of what had transpired through back channels. During the call, the vice admiral's reaction and swift mobilization of forces suggested Glazkov had some foreknowledge.

"When do we leave?" Sychkin pressed him.

Turov ignored the question and focused on the third member of this group: a snowy-haired woman with pale skin stained by a tattoo. Yesterday, Valya Mikhailov had arrived with Sychkin's group, along with the prisoners. Turov had forbidden the mercenary from entering his base, keeping her at arm's length over in the town of Severodvinsk—which, in retrospect, may have been a mistake.

Her ice-blue eyes drilled into him, her anger matching his own.

Turov refused to back from that fury. "You know these Americans. Those who escaped. And their allies. You've dealt with them in the past."

These were statements, not questions.

She turned her anger toward Sychkin, sneering at the archpriest. "I warned him not to underestimate them."

Turov pointed at her. "Then you're coming with us."

She faced him. "Where?"

"To the East Siberian Sea. Where the others are headed."

Some of the anger bled from her expression, revealing a dark satisfaction in its place. She clearly had her own grudge against this enemy.

She shrugged her acceptance.

With the matter settled and some final details arranged, Oleg led the others away.

Alone in his office, Turov turned to the windows that overlooked the storm-swept White Sea. Snow continued to fall heavily as winter refused to bend to spring. Dark clouds lay low over the water.

The view matched his mood.

He lifted a hand, where a gold ring circled a finger. He stared at the wings and sword, the emblem of the Arkangel Society. Over the next day, the hopes and dreams of the group could be fulfilled.

To find Hyperborea.

He felt no stirring at this possibility.

Only trepidation.

He remembered what Sychkin had told him, what was found in a letter from Catherine the Great's son, concerning what lay hidden on that lost continent.

Wonders and horrors.

He didn't know how much of this was true. All he knew was that a true horror was sailing toward that region—upon the last order of Glazkov. In addition to the massive patrol boat and Turov's forces, the admiral had dispatched another vessel, the latest in Russia's fleet of submarines. It had been on a shakedown cruise near the Bering Strait, not far from where everyone was headed.

The boat was code named Project 09852 Belgorod .

But to all, it was known by a more fitting name.

The Doomsday Sub.