EndWar

“Captain, Sonar. Regained contact on Sierra One, bearing three-four-one, narrowband tonals, twin ship turbine generators. WLY-1 matches to a Borei class. You were right, sir. It is without a doubt the Romanov. Range, twenty-five thousand yards, computed from prior Romanov SSTG detection tables.”

“Excellent. We’re sure who he is, and now we got him,” cried Andreas, slamming a fist into his palm. “Officer of the Deck, come right to three-four-one, make your depth eighteen hundred feet, speed four knots. Make tubes one and four ready in all respects. And when ready, match generated bearings and fire!”

“Unit in tube one fired electrically. Unit in tube four fired electrically,” reported the weapons officer.

For the next two minutes there was utter silence in the control room, then the attack coordinator abruptly jarred Andreas from his introspection: “Units one and four enabled and conducting spiral searches.”

“Turn unit four twenty degrees left. Then, once clear of the baffles, turn it right — directly at the target — changing speed to high and switching to active search mode,” ordered Andreas.

“Aye-aye, sir!” cried the weapons officer.

Vatz and the Russian plunged twenty feet to the ice-covered pavement below.

During the fall, Vatz had been able to roll the Russian slightly, so that he was on the bottom.

It was interesting how Vatz’s mind emptied in the two seconds it took to drop. He was at complete peace, because the part of him that wanted to die would soon be satisfied. The guilt of living would be gone. But in the last quarter of a second, as the ground came up hard and fast, the other part took over, the Special Forces soldier trained to live at all costs, and a four-letter word blasted from his lips.

He gasped as they made impact, which was far less severe with one hundred and eighty pounds of Russian cushion beneath him.

The guy’s head snapped back, his neck probably broken.

That wasn’t so bad. I’m alive.

But then Vatz felt a tremendous pain rushing up his legs, and now he couldn’t move them. He’d probably fractured both.

He rolled over, groaned, looked up as someone approached, shone a light in his eyes.

The light shifted to expose a Spetsnaz troop with a pistol in his hand. “Good-bye, Yankee.”

The Romanov’s reaction was immediate and textbook. The sub turned right, went to flank speed, and launched countermeasures.

“Second detect on unit one,” called out the weapons officer. “Unit one is homing!”

Andreas inhaled deeply. There’d be no more signals from unit one’s wire.

At “homing,” the Mark 48 increased speed to sixty knots, armed itself, and activated its proximity detector. The torpedo’s high-explosive warhead would detonate once it sensed the high concentration of the earth’s magnetic field caused by the close proximity of the steel mass of the Romanov’s hull.

Andreas literally held his breath.

Captain Second Rank Mikhail A. Kolosov closed his eyes and tensed every muscle in his body. He and Viktoria were going to exact their revenge on the Russian government for Dimitri’s death. It was going to be simple. Magnificent. Memorable.

And there were several other governments who’d paid dearly to help them along in their quest — because many others stood to benefit from their plan. But he had failed them. Failed his siblings.

Dimitri was the brother with a heart of gold who’d sacrificed his life to do a good job for his employer.

Viktoria was the sister with a brilliant mind.

But what was he now, except a failure?

His boat was in a dive, descending through twelve hundred feet, trying futilely to escape. His men were overwhelmed by what their instruments told them.

“The torpedo is locked on!” cried the executive officer.

Kolosov opened his eyes. “I know.”

“Then we die with honor for the Motherland!” the XO shouted.

Kolosov shook his head, removed the picture of his brother from his pocket, and whispered, “I’m sorry.”

“Detonation, detonation!” shouted the sonar operator.

Their torpedo had been rising up from thirteen hundred feet, and Andreas imagined it striking the Romanov’s keel with a massive explosion, the submarine breaking apart, sections tumbling away into the cold darkness.

Andreas sighed, took in a long breath.

“I’ve got popping noises and secondary detonations from Sierra One, sir,” reported the sonar operator.

Whatever was left of the Romanov had reached crush depth.

“It’s a kill, Captain. We got a kill,” announced the sonar operator, switching from headset to speaker for all to hear.

“Please, shoot me,” Vatz told the Spetsnaz troop in Russian.

That Vatz spoke the bearded man’s language surprised him. He drew back his head, but then grinned. “I will help you die, Yankee soldier.”

“Thank you. You see, I’m tired of killing you guys. You are the worst soldiers I have ever seen.” Vatz frowned deeply. “You are Special Forces? I don’t think so. You fight like little girls.”

“Sergeant!” hollered one of the Spetsnaz troops.