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 theprisoners. 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 truehorrorwas sailing toward that region—upon the last order of Glazkov. In addition to the massive patrol boat and Turov’s forces, theadmiral 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.
