The Void

CHAPTER 12

Once back at base, Zlatan could see the outline of the stranger behind the one-way glass window. They thought they were invisible, but they weren’t, not to him, and he could also hear every word they uttered.

They were finally getting an assignment outside of the training camps — good. He and his men were eager to test themselves. What use was it to be told you were a superior soldier if you were never really benchmarked against an enemy soldier?

The huge Kurgan was excited by the prospect, but there was a downside of leaving. He looked up into Rahda’s face as she checked his blood pressure, and then wrote on a chart. He felt his heart swell. From the moment they had begun working together he had fallen in love with her, and he hoped, no, he knew, she with him.

She was the first person to see him as something other than a lump of flesh and bone designed to fight and kill. They had stolen moments together where the cameras and eyes of the administration managers could not find them.

She had called him her solnishko, her sunshine, and then she had let him kiss her, deeply. Zlatan had felt her body beneath her clothing, running large hands over her breasts and buttocks, and he had become rock hard. Her small hand had slid between them to grasp him through his trousers, squeezing and tugging at him, until he had exploded too quickly. He had apologized through his light-headedness, but she just smiled and pulled his ear closer to her mouth.

“Soon, soon, my solnishko,” she had whispered.

“Yes,” he had promised her in return. “Soon.”

Now she dabbed iodine on the abraded knuckles of one of his hands. Already he was healing, but she did it anyway with her encouraging words and usual shy smile. When she finished she raised a hand to his face, running small soft fingers from his temple to his jutting jaw. Compared to her, he was an ogre, but she didn’t see that. He knew she saw beneath the hardened flesh, jutting bone and bunched muscle.

She held out the small photograph, and he took it, looking down and seeing the image of her face. He turned it over, and his smile broadened as he read the words. Zlatan looked up into her eyes, feeling his heart flying in his chest.

“Yes, yes, I will.”

She was his beauty, and he her beast, and he would do anything for her. Zlatan drew her to him. One day they would make a life together. He smiled, showing large spade-like teeth.

Maybe when this mission was done, his dream would come true.

Ivan Zlatan lifted his near colorless eyes to look at his squad. The five huge men, near bursting from their cold-climate suits, sat in the hold of the compact submarine in silence, eyes unblinking and ignoring all external stimulation. They were like human-shaped machines just awaiting activation.

Their St Petersburg class submarine glided into the mouth of the river at a depth of just ten feet below the surface. The sub was the smallest in the Russian fleet and had been upgraded for coastal stealth with the introduction of fourth generation diesel-electric turbines that produced much quieter air-independent propulsion.

While nuclear-powered submarines dominated in submergence times and deep-ocean performance, their reactors must constantly pump coolant, generating a heat bloom and detectable acoustic signature that was easily picked up by orbiting military satellites when they ran shallow. But the smaller, high-tech non-nuclear attack submarines were virtually invisible to the eyes in the sky.

The submarine’s captain had been in these waters before, and knew every bend, twist and shallow along the river. He knew that this time of year it was cold, and though not frozen, the low temperature reduced melt runoff and so meant that the river shallowed out in many areas, with some stretches demanding they came to the surface — but only ever after dark.

Zlatan shifted, feeling enormous energy run through him, and feeling constrained by his inaction as well as his clothing.

He surreptitiously reached into a slot in his vest and eased out the tiny photograph. He cupped it in his hand and first read the words written on the back and then turned it over to gaze upon the face of his beautiful Rahda. His thick lips curved into a smile. When this mission was over, he would ask, no, no, not ask; he would demand they release him from the facility.

And then he would be free with Rahda. He smiled down at the image. He hadn’t asked her yet, but he planned to make her his wife. His smile widened momentarily before his eyes flicked left and right. He exhaled, none of his men were watching. Good. He slipped the picture back into his vest.

He needed to focus now. Their destination was the small town of Mission, an old mining post founded by Russians and many of the locals still had close ties to the Motherland.

The submarine would glide up the Yukon River just below the surface. Anyone standing on the bank might make out the silent shadow passing beneath its surface, but think it a whale. It was not unheard of for the large cetaceans to travel up the river.

An airplane would be waiting to drop them close to the mountain, but not too close. They knew the Americans would be watching the peak. They would maintain the element of surprise, but it would be traded off against speed and safety, as they would need to climb to the downed space shuttle wreckage.

Zlatan smiled; it mattered not. They could walk, hike, run, or climb for weeks without breaking stride. Strength and energy was not their problem, impatience was.

Ivan Zlatan felt the coiling sensation of urgency in his gut and pushed it back down. They needed to be there first, and they were on schedule. He looked along his men and saw the curled fists and set jaws, and knew each and every one of them would be feeling the same thing he was — mission success was everything, failure was unthinkable. They were unbeatable and they were ready.

He was about to turn away when he saw one of his men looking at something cupped in his hands; the man’s cruel lips curled into an unnatural smile. Zlatan wondered who was in the picture.