Not far from Patriarch’s Pond, its surface already frozen for the winter, Lonnie Mixell navigated the busy sidewalk along Spiridonyevsky Lane. Had he not been told what to look for, he might have passed by the entrance—the door to an old house crammed between two modern buildings, marked by a small sign that said Mari Vanna. He knocked on the door, which was opened by a man wearing slippers and a jogging suit who took Mixell’s coat as he entered.
Mixell scanned the small residence, which had been transformed into a restaurant offering home-cooked Russian cuisine with a complementing ambience: shows playing on an ancient TV, shelves full of photographs, old cameras, and other knickknacks from bygone days, a bicycle leaning against a wall, and a parrot in a cage hanging above potted plants on a windowsill. Adding to the homey atmosphere were a woman in a pink nightgown with curlers in her hair clearing dishes from a table, and a sleepy cat curled in a basket, opening its eyes temporarily to assess the new customer.
The man Mixell was scheduled to meet was already seated at a small table in the back. Mixell slipped into the empty chair across from the Russian captain, who made no attempt to greet him, although there was a flicker of acknowledgment in his eyes. Mixell spoke first.
“I’d like to thank you for your assistance.” Since Aleksandr Plecas didn’t speak English, Mixell spoke in Russian.
Plecas replied, “Your Russian is quite good. Where did you learn it?”
“My mother is Russian, an immigrant to America. My father knew enough to get by, and we spoke Russian at home.”
Mixell’s thoughts drifted momentarily to his childhood and the friendships he had developed due to his Russian heritage. Almost ten percent of his hometown population were Russian immigrants, and his mother had become good friends with two other Russian women, getting together often for tea and social activities. As a result, Mixell had become good friends with two other second-generation Russians: Jake Harrison and Christine O’Connor.
Christine, who went by Chris until she left for college, was a tomboy growing up, hanging out with the guys all the way through high school. She was fast and strong, more than capable of holding her own during the rowdy outdoor games, at least until the boys hit puberty, when they gained a significant size and strength advantage. By then, however, their focus was less on roughhouse games and more on girls, and as Chris developed into a young woman, the guys began to look at her in a different light. Mixell had to admit he’d been quite jealous when Chris chose Jake over himself.
Jake Harrison. His former best friend, the man who betrayed him. While sitting in prison, Mixell had made a mental revenge list, and Harrison was near the top. But first, he would pay America back for what it had done to him. He had fought valiantly against his country’s enemies, risking his life countless times, but now that America had turned its back on him, his new path in life was clear—he’d help America’s enemies instead. Once that score was adequately settled, he would focus on more personal issues, and exact his revenge on Jake.
Mixell smiled briefly and wondered if Plecas noticed. But the man’s attention was focused on the ancient TV. Mixell glanced over his shoulder, noting that the programming had shifted to the nightly news: an update on the Russian Navy. Currently being shown were video clips of the disastrous war with the United States a few months ago. Russia’s Northern and Pacific Fleets had been devastated, with the video on the TV showing the aftermath: Russian ships floating aimlessly on the surface—blackened hulks or ships engulfed in flames—while the less fortunate ships were already resting on the ocean bottom.
The news program tried to put a positive spin on the outcome, showing black smoke spiraling upward from the four American aircraft carriers during the main engagement. But two of the carriers had remained in action, putting the finishing touches on the pride of the Russian Fleet: the aircraft carrier Admiral Kuznetsov and the nuclear-powered battle cruiser Pyotr Velikiy. Both had remained afloat after the battle and had been towed to the nearest shipyard, but it would be two years at least before either warship was returned to service.
Only Russia’s submarine fleet had survived relatively intact, with two-thirds of its submarines still operational. Mixell noticed the darkness in Plecas’s eyes and wondered if what America had done to the Russian Navy played a part in his decision to help his cause.
A waitress wearing a traditional Russian dress stopped by to take their order. Mixell selected his favorites—borscht and pelmeni dumplings—looking forward to a home-cooked meal he hadn’t had in many years, along with kvass, a fermented beverage made from rye bread. While they waited for their order, they talked in hushed tones, so no one could overhear their conversation.
“I’m sorry about your daughter,” Mixell said, “and that she hasn’t responded to her treatments.” It was a lie, of course. Her deteriorating condition was what he had been hoping for, backing Plecas into a corner. “I have the funds you need. Do you have the required information?”
Plecas pulled a letter from his pocket, which he handed to Mixell. “This has everything you need: the name of the drug, the company that makes it, and the contact information for my daughter’s primary doctor at Blokhin Medical Center.”
Mixell reviewed the information, then replied, “I will arrange for one-half of the treatment before you deploy, and the second half once you complete your assignment. Agreed?”
Plecas nodded, and Mixell retrieved a folded sheet of paper from his pocket, which he handed to the Russian. “Here are the targets. It must be a simultaneous attack, which will increase the odds of overwhelming defense systems the Americans have in place.”
The submarine captain studied the targets for a while, determining where he needed to position his submarine.
“How long before you can launch?” Mixell asked.
“I can be within range of all targets fifteen days after Kazan deploys.”
Mixell pulled his cell phone from a pocket and reviewed the itinerary he’d been sent.
“That’s a good day. What kind of a launch window are we talking about? Plus or minus how many hours?”
“My submarine can travel thousands of kilometers and arrive at the launch point within one minute of the specified time. It’s a simple math problem—time versus distance—and I will adjust my submarine’s speed to compensate for issues along the way. However, if I run into delays near the end of the transit, does an eight-hour window work?”
“That’d be fine.”
Beneath the list of the targets, Plecas wrote down a date and time and showed it to Mixell, who memorized it.
“I will launch between this time”—Plecas pointed to the paper—“and eight hours later, Greenwich Mean Time. Understand?”
Mixell nodded. The U.S. military—and apparently Russian submarines—operated on GMT, to which all other time zones were referenced, so that every unit around the world knew when to execute its orders, regardless of the local time.
Plecas folded the paper and slipped it in his pocket as the waitress returned, first with their drinks and then food. As the two men ate in silence, Mixell sensed that Plecas wasn’t enamored with the task he had agreed to, but was confident the Russian would follow through.
Meanwhile, Mixell’s thoughts turned to the second and more critical element of the plot, which Plecas was unaware of. Mixell repressed a smile as he dug into his pelmeni.