The Golden U-Boat

Chapter Seventeen

In his long naval career, never before had Alexander Kuznetsov witnessed such superb seamanship. In a matter of minutes, the American 688class vessel went from loiter speed to almost thirty knots, as their desperate dash to escape the Lena’s mistakenly fired torpedoes was initiated. One of these torpedoes was drawn off by a decoy, while the other continued its relentless pursuit. That’s when the American vessel really started to put on a show. They inaugurated a series of intricate highspeed turns in an effort to free themselves.

When this didn’t succeed, the 688 began an amazing maneuver that took it shooting upward, practically to the surface, then crashing back down into the depths. The Lena’s torpedo had just surged forward in a final burst of attack speed, when the 688 abruptly pulled up, only a few scant meters from the bottom of the fjord. Unable to change its course as quickly as the submarine, the torpedo proceeded to shoot downward until it smacked into the sea floor with a resonating explosion.

As Alexander stood in the hushed attack center, beside the Lena’s captain and Zampolit, he listened as their sonar technician monitored the 688’s new course, that was bringing them right back to the center of the strait. It didn’t take much imagination to figure out what the

American sub was planning to do, and Alexander knew the time for the Lena to act was now.

“Captain Milyutin, I feel that it’s imperative that we amend this situation at once,” said Alexander.

“We must make contact with the 688 and explain that our attack was a mistake, and implore them to keep from answering our blunder with a salvo of their own.”

“Do you really think that the Yankees would be receptive to such a plea at the moment?” countered the Captain.

“Revenge will be in their hearts, and our only hope is to launch another attack now, before they beat us to it.”

The Zampolit vainly tried to halt the flow of sweat dripping off his brow with a soaked handkerchief as he expressed himself.

“I think that all of this talk about attack and counterattack will only get us an early grave. We must flee from this cursed strait while we still have the chance, and rely on the Lena’s superior speed to see us out of this mess.”

Alexander absorbed these opinions and thoughtfully shook his head.

“No, Comrades, I still feel that by launching another salvo ourselves we’ll only be needlessly risking the Lena. And running away will accomplish us absolutely nothing. In this instance, honesty is the best policy, and if we direct our appeal properly, the Americans will understand and call off their attack.”

“The 688 is continuing its rapid approach, Captain,” interrupted the concerned sonar technician.

“They are just about to break our defense perimeter.”

Grigori Milyutin still appeared to be deliberating his alternatives, and Alexander spoke out forcefully.

“You’ve already seen how that 688 negated our first attack, Captain. Do you seriously think that a second salvo on our part will be any different? Come to your senses, Comrade, and show me how to operate our underwater paging system this instant!”

“Do it, Captain!” urged the panicky political officer.

“Since we have no time left to flee, this is our only chance.”

Grigori Milyutin looked Alexander directly in the eye and firmly offered.

“I’ll agree to your request only if you’ll explain to me the exact reason you’ve diverted us to these waters.”

“You’ve got it, Captain,” returned Alexander.

“As soon as I’ve contacted the Americans, I’ll give you a full briefing.”

A look of relief painted the Zampolit’s chubby face as he watched the two senior officers cross over to the communications console. Quick to join them himself, Felix Bucharin listened as the white-haired veteran lifted up the red telephone handset that was handed to him, and spoke out loudly in excellent English into its transmitter.

“American 688 class submarine, this is Admiral Alexander Kuznetsov of the People’s Navy of the Soviet Union. I am currently aboard the Alfa class attack sub Lena, in the waters directly in front of you, and I’m calling to negotiate a truce…”

Steven Aldridge, along with the other members of the Cheyenne’s control room crew, listened to the Soviet Admiral’s emotional plea as it was conveyed to them over the compartment’s elevated P. A. speakers. This was an unprecedented moment, and came just as the Cheyenne was preparing to launch a trio of Mk48 torpedoes at this same Alfa class submarine.

Clearly affected by the Russian’s words, Aldridge allowed Admiral Alexander Kuznetsov to finish his statement before seeking the opinion of his second in command.

“Well, what do you think, Bob? Is Ivan trying to pull a fast one on us? Or is the Admiral talking turkey?”

The XO pulled his pipe from his mouth and answered.

“I think he’s telling the truth, Skipper. And if you look at it from their perspective, it makes sense.

After all, how would we react if we monitored a SUBROC launch in our baffles from a contact we didn’t even know previously existed?”

“I imagine we’d shoot first and ask questions later,” replied Aldridge.

“And that’s precisely why I’m willing to give Ivan the benefit of the doubt on this one. But I want to keep those Mk48’s on-line just in case. My gut tells me that something’s still not right out there, and it would be foolish to let our defenses down prematurely.”

“Then we’ll be surfacing and proceeding to check out that damaged Norwegian cutter, and what’s left of that mystery sub that our SUBROC k.o.“d?” asked the XO.

“You’ve got it,” returned Steven Aldridge, who was already anticipating his first close up view of one of the long-fabled Alfa class attack submarines.

Inside U-3313’s forward storage compartment, the penetrating chill was even more noticeable because of the constant blackness that prevailed here. Without even a single torch to provide them light, the six prisoners huddled closely together in their makeshift cell, with their blankets wrapped tightly around them.

Ever since the U-boat had presumably been hit by a torpedo and sunk to the bottom, they had had a minimum amount of contact with the crew. From what they gathered, over half of them had perished when the aft compartments flooded. The surviving members were gathered in the control room, and visited the storage compartment only to pick up the food that was kept here.

The members of NUEX had held up pretty well during this confinement. As divers, they were used to extended stays in cold, wet environments. Karl Skpllevoll had trouble adjusting to the numbing chill at first, and her companions did their best to warm her up by sharing their spare clothing and body heat.

All through their ordeal, the old Russian sat in the corner continuing-to blame himself for their misfortune.

Often they could hear his teeth chattering. And when the old man did manage to sleep, he did so restlessly.

Cold beans were still the extent of their meals. They dared not complain, or even this pittance might be taken away from them.

To pass the time in the perpetual darkness, they took turns telling stories. Whenever their spirits sunk particularly low, Jon Huslid would remind them of the time he accompanied a Norwegian Navy surface flotilla while it was participating in a NATO submarine rescue exercise. As long as the hull remained dry and the air breathable, they still had a chance, emphasized the photographer, while it was Knut who reminded them that one of the best features of the compartment in which they were held was that it contained the very hatch through which such a rescue would be carried out.

The dim Arctic dawn provided just enough illumination for Magne Rystaad and David Lawton to view an incredible scene unfold up ahead on the waters of Kongsfjord Strait. From the ultra-modern confines of the Falcon’s bridge, they gazed out at the three incongruous warships at anchor there. All of these vessels were approximately the same size, though the two submarines seemed to be dwarfed by the Nordkapp class cutter that they were floating beside.

“Considering that hit the cutter took, she doesn’t look too bad,” observed the Texan.

“The Nordkapp is very fortunate,” replied Magne.

“They were able to shore up the hole in their hull before their watertight integrity was seriously threatened, and from the report that commander Nilsen shared with me, his fire-control teams extinguished the fires just as the flames were lapping at the ship’s fuel tanks. If they had gone up, the only view we’d be seeing of the Nordkapp would be from our bottom scanning sonar unit.”

As the Falcon continued to close in on the center of the strait, the damages to the cutter were more obvious.

Its gray hull was stained with black scorch marks, especially amidships on the port side. The ship’s Lynx helicopter could be seen on the helipad, apparently unaffected by the flames.

“Thanks to that chopper, all of the Nordkapp’s seriously wounded have been transferred to the hospital at Longyearben already,” remarked Magne.

“And it’s a good thing that they weren’t relying on us to provide the transport, because Noroil One is still A.W.O.L..”

Lawton knew that Magne was referring to the Falcon’s own helicopter.

“Karl Skollevoll sure didn’t seem like the irresponsible type.”

“She’s not, and that’s what scares me,” said Magne.

“The last report she filed at the Tromso airport showed her returning to base, and since then, no one’s heard a thing from her.”

“Maybe she’s just shacking up with a beau,” offered Lawton.

“I hope that’s the case, David. Because otherwise, it doesn’t appear too promising.”

A strained silence followed as the Falcon completed its approach to the wounded cutter. As the diving support ship dropped anchor, David Lawton got his first good view of the two submarines sharing the waters with them. The largest of these submersibles had the Stars and Stripes billowing from its sail. Three sailors were visible on this structure’s exposed bridge, in the process of scanning the Falcon with their binoculars.

Less than one-hundred yards away, the other submarine displayed the crimson red hammer and sickle banner of the Soviet Union from its streamlined sail.

This vessel was smaller than the American sub, and also had three sailors perched on the conning tower, looking over the Falcon.

David Lawton found himself wishing that he had brought his camera along with him so that he could document this amazing sight. Surely such a photo would make front page newspaper copy worldwide.

It had been previously agreed over the radiotelephone that the command staffs of all four vessels would initially meet in the Falcon’s galley. The Texan was quite pleased when Magne invited him to join this meeting as his guest.

An hour after the Falcon dropped anchor, this conference was called to order. Lawton was genuinely moved as Commander Gunnar Nilsen provided a blow by blow description of events aboard the Nordkapp immediately before, during, and after the torpedo strike. Captain Steven Aldridge, C.O. of the USS Cheyenne, then introduced himself. He explained how his vessel sank the mystery sub responsible for this unwarranted attack with an amazing weapon by the name of SUBROC.

At this point Magne asked if the wreckage of this still unidentified craft had been found as yet. Standing up to answer him was a white-haired old man in a well-tailored blue uniform. Lawton was surprised to hear that this individual was an Admiral in the Soviet Navy. As senior officer aboard the Alfa class attack submarine Lena, he had ordered a sonar scan of the waters in which the mystery vessel had presumably gone down. In this manner, the vessel was located on the bottom of the strait, 407 feet beneath the surface.

This site was only two and a half kilometers due north of the Falcon’s current position. When Admiral Alexander Kuznetsov mentioned that the wreck’s hull still appeared to be intact, Magne immediately offered the services of the Falcon’s two diving bells to check for any survivors.

The white-haired Russian seemed genuinely thrilled by this offer. Quickly he asked the others present if they could initiate this rescue effort at once. There were no objections, and while the submariners returned to their vessels to monitor the proceedings, the Falcon moved into position.

Solo, the diving support ship’s ROV, was launched.

Through the magic of fiber-optics it was soon relaying back to them the first video pictures of the vessel that had attacked the Nordkapp. Both Magne and Lawton were staggered to learn that this submarine was a German Type XXI model. Even more shocking was the fact that it carried the markings U-3313 on its gilded sail, making it the sister ship of the U-boat that they had previously explored off the coast of Utsira!

That such a vessel could still be in working order was simply unbelievable. The only damage to the U-boat seemed to be confined to its aft portions, and when a standard-sized rescue hatch was found intact on the boat’s forward section, both agreed that it appeared to be readily accessible from one of the Falcon’s diving bells.

There was no question in their minds about who would man this bell. While the crew readied it for action, both veteran divers went off to don their heavy neoprene wet suits.

The descent to 407 feet went off without a hitch.

With continued assistance, a guide-wire led them straight down to the U-boat’s forward escape hatch.

“We’re going to have to see about putting you on the company payroll,” joked Magne as the bell attached itself onto the hatch and began to pressurize.

“You’re starting to become a regular around here with Noroil.”

Lawton grinned and picked up a wrench.

“Nothing against Norway, partner, but I’m starting to get a little homesick for Texas already.”

As the pressure in the bell equalized to that of the U-boat’s escape hatch, Magne reached down and pulled up the bell’s bottom hatch. A slight fluttering sensation in the ears accompanied this process. Facing them now was a circular, heavy iron wheel.

“Here goes nothing,” said Magne as he bent over and gripped the wheel.

It wouldn’t budge, and as Magne backed out of the way, Lawton violently rapped on it with the side of the wrench. This time both of them gripped the wheel.

“Okay, we’ll give it all we’ve got on the count of three,” instructed the Texan.

“One… Two… Three!”

Both of the brawny divers strained with all of their combined might, and the wheel gave with a loud, grating squeal. Yet before opening it all the way, Magne reached for their masks.

“We’d better keep these on, David. If salt water mixed in with the boat’s battery acid, that hull will be filled with lethal chlorine gas.”

Lawton slipped on the mask that covered his entire face and fed him a constant stream of pure air through an umbilical. He flashed Magne a thumbs-up, and reached down to finish opening the wheel.

It took both of them to break the seal. They yanked the hatch backward, and were met by a dark stairwell leading down into the sub itself. It was completely dry inside. Before either one of them could reach the battery powered torch that they carried along with them, the beam of a flashlight cut through the blackness.

This was all Lawton needed to see to rip off his mask.

“Hello, down there,” he called out excitedly.

Strangely enough, this greeting was answered by the angry barking of a dog.

The Texan bent down to have a closer look inside and was met unceremoniously by the long barrel of a pistol. As he cautiously backed away from the stairwell, the individual who carried this weapon climbed up into the bell to join them. This no-nonsense, middle-aged figure sported a graying crew cut, pale blue eyes, and a square jaw. When he addressed them, his English was heavily flavored with a German accent.

“If you’ll just proceed down into the interior of the submarine, my superior officer would like to have a word with you.”

David Lawton could tell from the way that he held the Luger that he was trained in the handling of firearms, and the ex-SEAL decided that now was not the time to test his reactions.

“That’s a hell of a way to greet the people who just saved your lives” managed the Texan as he reluctantly began his way down the tubular steel ladder.

The darkness quickly enveloped him. Yet as Magne joined him on the deck below, Lawton’s eyes gradually began to adjust to the poor lighting. He could barely make out the dimensions of the large compartment where they found themselves when the blindingly bright shaft of a flashlight hit him full in the face. A dog could be heard growling close by only to be overridden by the cold, deep voice of a man.

“Welcome aboard U-3313, gentlemen. Whom do I have the honor of addressing?”

Still shielding his eyes with his forearm, Lawton exploded in rage.

“Listen, buster. You certainly have a lot of balls. Here we go risking our necks to save your lives, and you greet us with a Luger and twenty questions.”

“My, aren’t you the angry American,” observed the stranger calmly.

“Perhaps your associate will be a bit more cooperative, and I won’t have to order Captain Kromer to show you what an excellent shot he is.”

Magne sensed that this character wouldn’t hesitate to give such an order, and he responded with no show of emotion.

“My name is Magne Rystaad, and I’m diving supervisor of the Noroil support vessel Falcon” “Magne!” cried an assortment of voices from the blackness.

The confused Norwegian looked into the black void, desperately trying to see where these familiar voices were emanating from.

“It’s Jon Huslid, Chief!”

“Shut him up!” ordered the stranger.

The dog began barking once again, and the sound of muffled footsteps could be heard in the background.

This didn’t deter Magne Rystaad from replying.

“Jon, I don’t know what the hell you’re doing down here, but hang on, my friend!”

At this point the blinding beam of light was redirected, and both Magne and Lawton looked on as the face of the stranger who had been talking to them materialized out of the void. It proved to be a face that neither one of them would soon forget — wrinkled skin,

cruel gray eyes, bald head.

“So, it seems that you know my guests,” reflected Otto Koch with a sardonic grin.

“It’s a small world all right, one that seems to be getting smaller everyday.

But it’s such coincidences that makes life interesting, and I shall look forward to hearing all about your relationship together at a later time. But right now, we must organize our priorities, the first being to get all of us safely to the surface.”

Anxious to get out of this cold, damp environment himself, Lawton turned to address his host.

“It doesn’t sound like we have much of a choice, do we, partner?”

Magne grunted.

“No, David, I’m afraid we don’t.”

“Then shall we proceed,” prompted the forceful voice of Otto Koch.

There were twenty-seven individuals and a German shepherd to convey topside. This included the members of NUEX, Karl Skollevoll, and Mikhail Kuznetsov.

Magne was truly shocked to find five of his employees among the crew, yet had to wait to get a report on how they managed to end up here, as his services were needed in the bell.

The first trip was accomplished with just Magne and seven heavily armed seamen, including the U-boat’s captain and senior lieutenant. Magne was warned not to inform the Falcon that anything out of the ordinary was taking place, or Karl Skollevoll would be the first hostage to die.

After reluctantly dropping the submariners off in the Falcon’s moon pool he turned the bell back to the U-3313. During this descent he shuddered to think what was taking place on the Falcon as these desperate, armed men spread through the ship to wrest control of it.

It took four more trips to get everyone evacuated, and when Magne eventually returned to the Falcon for the final time, his worst fears were realized. He found himself escorted into the galley where the rest of the ship’s complement was seated on the floor. Three of the Germans watched over the crew, with Uzi submachine guns held threateningly in front of them.

Magne was led into the adjoining wardroom, and it was here Otto Koch issued his demands. In exchange for the safe release of all the hostages, Magne was to return to the sunken U-boat and retrieve two portions of the vessel’s cargo. Once this material had been brought topside, all personnel not vital to the actual running of the ship were to be released on life boats.

Then the skeleton crew, together with the German submariners and their cargo, would initiate a voyage to South America’s Rio de la Plata. At the conclusion of this trip, the Falcon and its remaining crew would be free to go where they pleased.

If Magne refused to meet all of these conditions, the penalty was to be deadly simple. Every five minutes until he changed his mind, a member of the Falcon’s crew was to be executed, beginning with Karl Skollevoll.

To show that he meant business, Otto Koch pulled out his pocket watch, and informed Magne that he had four minutes and fifty-nine seconds before Karl would be shot. A bare thirty seconds later, Magne gave in, and agreed to immediately return to the moon pool to initiate the remaining salvage effort.

This operation proved to be an enormous one. Even with the use of two bells, the transfer of the 499 gold bricks took most of the day. This left seventy-two carboys of heavy water, each holding twenty-five gallons to convey topside.

It was while this task was being carried out that the commander of the Nordkapp contacted the Falcon to get the results of their initial investigation into the condition and identity of the sunken submarine. The captains of the American and Soviet warships that were anchored nearby also desired this information, and Otto Koch made the difficult decision to inform them that the Falcon and its crew were now under his control.

Koch left the Norwegian commander with a stern warning that if any attempt was made to interfere, he would not hesitate to begin carrying out the executions of his hostages.

The final carboy of heavy water reached the deck of the Falcon at 4:30 a.m. Fifteen minutes later, the diving support ship weighed anchor and began transit ting the waters of the Kongsfjord Strait, headed south for the open sea beyond.

The departure of the diving support ship did not go unnoticed. Neither did the two hyperbaric lifeboats that the Falcon left behind in its wake. Inside these small all-weather craft were the thirty-two nonessential hostages that Otto Koch had promised to release.

These fortunate individuals were subsequently debriefed aboard the Nordkapp.

At 5:45 a.m.” a strategy session was called to order in the cutter’s wardroom. In attendance were Commander Gunnar Nilsen, Captains Steven Aldridge and Grigori Milyutin, and Admiral Alexander Kuznetsov. It was during this session that Gunnar Nilsen revealed a portion of what he had learned as a result of interviewing the freed hostages. Alexander Kuznetsov was particularly interested in the cargo that the Germans ordered brought up from below. This supposedly included a large stash of gold bullion and several dozen, plastic containers of a substance known only as heavy water. Yet it was as the Norwegian mentioned the prisoners that had also been brought up from the U-boat’s hold that Alexander’s eyes opened wide and his pulse quickened. For one of these individuals was described as an old, white-haired Russian, with a scar lining the side of his face. Alexander knew in that instant that he had found his brother Mikhail!

Knowing full well that his twin would never survive the sea journey if Otto Koch escaped, Alexander decided that the only way to stop the Falcon was by a united effort. Since even Grigori Milyutin still didn’t understand the full scope of this incident, Alexander stood and told everything he knew about Werewolf, the gold, and his brother’s involvement in these matters.

By the time he completed this impassioned discourse, his rapt audience was ready to act.

“But how can we stop the Falcon without bringing harm to the hostages?” asked Gunnar Nilsen, whose good friend Magne Rystaad was among those still on board.

“I believe that my ship could stop them,” offered Steven Aldridge.

“All the Cheyenne would have to do is hit the Falcon’s stern with a non-detonating, wake-homing torpedo. That will put them dead in the water soon enough. But that still leaves us with having to get a rescue team on there.”

“You could use the Nordkapp’s helicopter,” offered Gunnar Nilsen.

“I’m afraid such a delivery system is too dangerous, Commander,” returned Aldridge.

“The kidnappers would know that a chopper was coming long before it got there, and would be ready for it the moment it landed. We need something more clandestine. We need a group of professionals trained for just such a risky mission.”

“I happen to have both of those things, Captain!”

revealed Alexander Kuznetsov.

“Currently deployed aboard the Lena is a three man Spetsnaz unit. These naval commandoes have been specially trained in all facets of counter-terrorist operations, including the rescue of hostages. As the fates so have it, they are also fully equipped with weapons and other necessary gear.”

“But how will they get onto the Falcon?” quizzed the Norwegian Coast Guard officer.

Alexander’s eyes gleamed as the vision came to him.

“I’ll tell you how, Commander Nilsen. The moment the Falcon goes dead in the water as a result of the American torpedo, the Lena will surface beside the diving support ship and our commandoes will board her. This transfer can be accomplished in a matter of seconds, with the Lena diving back into the depths long before Koch and his gang of Nazi pirates have a chance to spot our vessel.”

“If these commandoes of yours can handle it, I believe such an operation might work,” observed Aldridge.

Alexander smiled.

“Don’t worry about the Spetsnaz not being able to handle this job, Captain. There’s no better trained group of warriors on this planet, except perhaps for your SEALs.”

Steven Aldridge nodded in reference to the U.S.

Navy’s special warfare unit, and listened as the Soviet admiral emotionally continued.

“So it seems that we’ve gone from adversaries to allies overnight, Captain Aldridge. I thank the fates that you had the wisdom to listen to my humble plea earlier, and now we go out to attack a common enemy as a team. Isn’t it ironic that our foe in this instance is once more the nazi beast?”

“It’s just too bad that it always seems to have to be some kind of threat that brings our two nations together,” said Steven Aldridge, who picked up a legal pad and began sketching out a preliminary attack plan, with the able assistance of his contemporary in the Soviet Navy.

It took almost the entire morning for the members of NUEX to explain to Magne and his American friend the sequence of events that led to their eventual imprisonment aboard U-3313. Of course, David Lawton was particularly interested in the fortune in gold bricks that was presently locked away in the Falcon’s hold, for he had participated in the exploration of the U-boat’s sister ship, and had been there when Jakob chanced upon a brick from this very same shipment.

Karl Skollevoll was somewhat embarrassed as she explained how she came to be involved in this whole mess. Her boss, though, was very understanding, and Magne revealed that he would have probably done much the same thing if he had been in her position.

This made Karl feel better, and she tried hard to get the old Russian general to brief Magne on all he knew about their kidnappers.

Unfortunately, Mikhail Kuznetsov was in no condition for talking. His encounter with Otto Koch and his subsequent imprisonment had injured his psyche.

In a way, he felt like he did on that day when he was at long last released from the death camp — empty, with no goal, and psychologically raped.

All that Mikhail could see before his mind’s eye was the gloating image of his arch-nemesis the moment Koch discovered him in the U-boat’s radio room. Was he condemned to go to his grave with this sickening picture engraved on his soul, to haunt him for all eternity?

Was evil destined to ultimately win out over good, as it had done in this instance, and so many times before throughout human history? These were the questions that raced through the veteran’s mind as he sat there in the corner of the Falcon’s galley, waiting for Otto Koch to come and end his misery with a bullet into the back of his skull.

Knut Haugen had yet to give up hope and he found an unlikely co-conspirator in David Lawton. The Texan seemed to be a man of action like himself, and Knut sensed that this rugged fellow diver had seen his share of bloodshed in his day. Both of them seriously doubted that their captors would keep their bargain in the end, and with this in mind, they began plotting to overpower the three armed men who presently stood at the head of the galley with Uzis in their hands. They had just come up with a plausible plan, when the doors to the galley swung open, and in walked the man known as the Director.

Otto Koch was dressed in a black velvet smoking jacket and gray slacks. He looked a bit like a character from an old-fashioned movie with his bald shining scalp, monocle, and carved walking stick that he carried at his side. Arriving along with this imposing personage was a large, black German shepherd, and two tall blond men carrying combat shotguns.

“Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen,” greeted Koch, after he loudly cleared his throat to draw everyone’s attention.

“But it has come to my attention that there are several among you that are plotting to disrupt this voyage. Such insubordination will not be tolerated! To stem it right now, I’ve decided to pull from your ranks a select few who will be placed in isolation. If any subterfuge is subsequently attempted, these individuals will be shot immediately. Will the following please stand and come with me. Karl Skollevoll…”

No sooner was the helicopter pilot’s name out of Koch’s mouth when the deck beneath them briefly shuddered. This unusual vibration was enough to divert Koch’s attention, and cause his dog to suddenly start barking.

“Beowulf, behave yourself!” ordered Koch forcefully.

The dog continued his mad yelping despite this command, and did so even when his master raised his stick overhead and prepared to strike the German shepherd. Yet once again Koch found his attention drawn away, this time by the urgent buzzing of the bulkhead-mounted intercom.

“One of you morons get that telephone!” demanded Koch to his sentries. A young seaman moved to the bulkhead and lifted the receiver.

“It’s Captain Kromer, Herr Director. He’s calling from the engine room. It seems that we’ve hit something that’s damaged the ship’s prop. At the moment, the vessel is incapable of any forward velocity.”

“What?” cried Otto Koch in utter disbelief.

“What nonsense is this? ” he spat out as he hurried over to have a word with the captain himself.

Just as Koch put the receiver to his ear, the door to the galley burst open and in strode a single figure, dressed in black fatigues. With his right hand, Lieutenant Vasili Kalinin raised his Kalashnikov assault rifle and cooly put a bullet into the foreheads of the two sentries standing nearest him. Before the others could react, he tossed a stun grenade into the startled bunch of remaining guards. This device detonated with an ear-shattering blast that sent up a wall of thick white smoke. Veiled in this choking mist, a dog could be heard barking, along with the deafening crack of a pistol firing, All the while, watching this drama unfold from the back corner of the galley, were the equally startled hostages. David Lawton alertly ordered his fellow prisoners to hit the deck. They did so at once, and were soon enveloped in the roiling white smoke that filled the entire room in a thick shroud.

The sound of exploding gunfire was everywhere as Alexander climbed onto the diving support ship’s deck from the sail of the Lena. He was determined to be instrumental in bringing his brother’s tormentor to justice, and he ordered Captain Milyutin to supply two armed men to accompany him onto the Falcon. With their help he made it onto the vessel just as the Spetsnaz team began its well-coordinated attack.

While one of the commandos secured the bridge, the other took care of the engine room and the adjoining compartments. This left the squad’s leader free to penetrate the galley, where the hostages were last reported to be held. It was to this section of the Falcon that Alexander hurried.

As he frantically rushed down the passageway that led him further into the ship’s interior, the crack of exchanged gunfire triggered memories long since forgotten.

Had it really been fifty years since that fated train ride so changed the lives of him and his twin brother?

Excited to be this close to the monster who took Mikhail from him and scarred his very soul, Alexander took a deep breath and readied himself for the inevitable confrontation.

He located the galley and saw the smoke that was pouring from its open doors. With no thought for his own safety, Alexander entered the compartment and found himself engulfed in a blinding veil of white mist. His stinging eyes were all but useless, and like a blind man he extended his arms outward and groped into the roiling haze. Suddenly he flashed back to the nightmare that he had experienced several days ago back on the Lena, and just like in that terrifying vision, his hand made contact. New hope filled his spirits as he grasped the hand that he had just discovered in the blinding haze and slowly pulled it forward. And out of the smoke, like a ghostly apparition, emerged his twin brother.

“He’s dead!” cried Mikhail joyfully.

“The bastard is finally dead!”