Inspired from real events.
Chapter 1: Routine Orders
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Pitch black.
Not just the absence of light — but the kind of darkness that lives thousands of meters below the ocean's surface, where sunlight has never touched, and the water pressure can crush steel like a tin can.
Jagged cliffs and stone formations jutted out of the seabed like the bones of the earth.
And there—drifting quietly above them—crawled a massive black submarine.
A predator in hibernation.
Its hull groaned softly under pressure.
Its lights were dim.
The name stenciled in fading white letters:
> Б-59
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Inside the submarine, the emergency lights cast long red shadows along the narrow corridors.
Steam hissed from overhead pipes.
Metal clanked softly in the distance, echoing like a beast shifting in its sleep.
A man moved quietly through the maintenance passageways.
His black hair hung damp, brushing the top of his collar.
A rough stubble covered his jaw—three days old.
He wore a standard Soviet sailor's uniform.
But something about him didn't fit.
Too clean.
Too calm.
Too aware of every step, every turn.
He carried a metal toolbox.
Walked with quiet purpose.
Like a man who'd walked these halls many times... maybe more than he should have.
> "Hey, Alexei," a crewman mumbled as he passed.
"Morning — or whatever time it is down here."
The man gave a nod, an easy smile. Then continued on.
Alexei. That's what they called him.
But he wasn't Alexei.
And he wasn't Soviet.
He ducked into a narrow crawlspace and knelt beside a ventilation pipe.
Opened his toolbox.
Pulled out a wrench.
The valve was slightly loose. It wouldn't fail now — but in a few hours, it could.
He began tightening it with deliberate precision.
Every turn slow, measured.
Not maintenance.
Prevention.
---
In three hours, this pipe would've started to leak.
Carbon dioxide would've begun rising — not enough to kill, but enough to dull reflexes. Cloud judgment.
The B-59 was already suffocating in heat — over 40 degrees Celsius in most compartments.
He couldn't risk it. Not yet.
Everything had to unfold just right.
---
In the captain's quarters, the heat clung to the walls like sweat.
Captain Valentin Savitsky sat hunched over paperwork.
The fan above him clicked uselessly.
His sleeves were rolled up, his collar soaked.
A knock at the door.
"Enter," he said.
The radio officer stepped in and saluted.
"Sir. Communications are still down. The last signal we received was... explosions. Then silence. Nothing since. No reply from command. Not even on backup frequencies."
Savitsky leaned back and wiped his brow.
His badge reflected the red light as he shifted his weight.
"You followed protocol?"
"Yes, sir. Ran diagnostics twice. All frequencies swept."
Savitsky picked up an old walkie-talkie from the desk.
Clicked it.
Static.
"Bring us up slowly," he said. "Not to the surface. Just enough to get a cleaner signal."
---
Three days later.
Still no radio contact.
Still no orders.
But now they could hear it.
Blasts.
Muffled. Distant. Faint, but real.
The sound of missiles.
Or depth charges.
Or something worse.
Inside the sub, fear bloomed like mold in the heat.
The oxygen scrubbers were working, barely.
The air was thick. Heavy.
Faces pale. Eyes twitchy. Some men hallucinated. Others whispered.
Alexei moved through it all like a ghost.
Not hiding. Not speaking much.
But present. Always.
He talked to the officers.
Smiled.
Even made two forgettable conversations with Savitsky — subtle, calculated.
In the faint light of his bunk, Alexei sat hunched over a small leather notebook.
He scribbled with care.
His final entry that night:
> "Maintained internal systems.
Attempted to preserve cognitive baseline across command crew.
Psychological conditions remain stable… for now."
He paused.
Closed the book.
His hand rested on it longer than necessary — as if he hated what he was doing.
Or maybe he hated what he knew was coming.
---
The mess hall was silent.
Plates untouched.
Coffee cold.
Men sat around in soaked uniforms, whispering about the three senior officers who had locked themselves away:
> Captain Savitsky.
Political Officer Maslennikov.
Flotilla Commander Vasily Arkhipov.
Their meetings were becoming more frequent.
Every hour.
Tension was thick enough to choke on.
One vote.
One breath.
One flicker of doubt.
Alexei leaned near a circuit panel nearby, pretending to inspect it.
But his eyes were focused.
Watching.
Measuring.
He hadn't come to kill.
He came to tilt history — quietly, invisibly, irreversibly.
---
The pressure outside was crushing.
But the pressure inside...
That was worse.
Above them, the world was holding its breath.
And one man — who didn't belong in this time — was counting down to the moment that would decide whether the world burned...
Or survived.
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[To be continued…]