Murmansk Port in the dead of night was like a steel wound at the end of the world. The blizzard roared above this ice-free harbor within the Arctic Circle like an out-of-control white beast.
Searchlight beams struggled to carve out a limited field of vision through the wildly swirling snow. Their patches of light swept over the black seawater, ice-covered dock cranes, and the massive vessel that had just docked—the Yamal.
This top-tier luxury cruise ship, converted from an icebreaker, lay amid the howling snow like a weary yet still majestic steel whale.
The luxurious lights of its superstructure spread into a hazy glow behind the curtain of snow, utterly at odds with the port's crude, frigid industrial atmosphere.
Wind and snow lashed against its hull, producing a ceaseless shriek.
Several unmarked black armored vehicles stood in a sheltered shadow of the port. A small team clad in heavy polar combat gear and armed to the teeth stood silently nearby, white frost gathering over their masks.
They belonged to a department of the Federal Security Service of Russia that rarely appeared on paper.
"Captain," a young voice came over the internal comms, carrying confusion stiffened by the cold, "all nonessential personnel at the port have been cleared out. Three sniper teams are in position, and the heavy weapons team brought Kornets and enough ammunition to level the docks once over. This setup... are we stopping an armored company here, or wiping out an entire rebel camp entrenched in Siberia?"
Only the noise of wind and snow flooding the channel answered him.
A few seconds later, a low, hoarse voice answered, as though it had been eroded by both vodka and Arctic Ocean winds. It was their commanding officer, Vasily Zaitsev. "Sergei, shut your mouth and conserve heat. The targets are