The Baltic was a mirror of black glass. No moon, no horizon — only fog and water blending into one endless void. The trawler's engine hummed low, a heartbeat buried beneath the slow slap of waves against its hull.
Koba stood on the foredeck, a dark shape in the mist. The salt air stung his face, but he welcomed it. Gone was the polished mask of the Stockholm industrialist; now he wore rough oilskins, the garb of a fisherman. It suited him better. Here, stripped of luxury and politics, he felt honest.
This was his element — not speeches, but motion; not ideology, but control. Around him, his new kind of soldiers worked in silence. Murat stood by the helm, massive and still. Ivan checked their gear with quiet efficiency. Four Finnish smugglers, weathered and grim, handled the ropes with practiced ease. They weren't revolutionaries. They were men of profit and survival — and Koba was the only man who could make both seem sacred.
Their target waited a quarter mile ahead: the SS Kronan, a Swedish freighter heavy with chromium steel bound for Russia. Somewhere inside that hull lay the lifeblood of the Tsar's new artillery. It slept, anchored in a fog-shrouded cove, unaware that death was drifting toward it.
Koba gathered the men at the stern. The hooded lantern cast a small island of light around them as he opened the canvas sacks. Inside gleamed four compact metal cylinders studded with magnets — limpet mines, handmade.
The oldest of the Finns, Lars, frowned. "Clockwork timers?" he muttered in Russian thick with accent. "In this cold? They freeze."
Koba smiled faintly. "No clockwork."
He turned one of the mines over, revealing a sealed lead plate. "Here is the detonator. Inside this chamber — a vial of sulfuric acid. Beneath it, a strip of magnesium foil. The two are separated by this lead barrier."
He scored the plate with a triangular file, the metal whispering under his hand. "When we activate it, the acid begins to eat through the lead. When it touches the magnesium… the reaction ignites the detonator, which triggers the TNT. No gears. No springs. No failure."
He looked at them — rough men hardened by cold seas — and saw awe flicker in their eyes. "It's quiet," he finished. "It doesn't care about weather. It only obeys time."
The plan was simple, brutal, and perfect. Koba and Murat would row to the freighter and set the charges themselves. The Finns would hold position for extraction.
They slipped through the fog like ghosts. The Kronan appeared out of the gray — a steel cliff rising from the water, its anchor chain creaking in the dark. A generator's low hum echoed faintly through the hull.
Murat steadied the boat with his massive hands as Koba leaned over the side, plunging his arm into the icy water. The shock burned to the bone, but his movements were steady. The first mine locked onto the hull with a dull, magnetic thump. He broke the seal — and time began its countdown.
They worked silently, moving along the ship's side, fixing each charge with surgical precision. Then came a sound — the sharp, human edge of a cough above them.
They froze.
Bootsteps crossed the deck, heavy on the steel. The two men pressed flat against the bottom of the boat, hardly daring to breathe. A single spotlight sweep would have ended them.
The footsteps faded. The fog closed again. They moved.
Four mines, evenly spaced. Perfect symmetry. Fatal beauty.
When they were done, they slipped back into the mist, paddling toward the invisible line of their waiting vessel.
On the trawler, the world was nothing but silence and anticipation. Even the sea seemed to hold its breath. The Finns kept glancing toward the cove; Murat stood by the rail, arms folded. Koba watched the luminous hands of his wristwatch tick with calm precision.
He wasn't nervous. History rarely made him nervous.
At twenty-nine minutes and forty seconds, the sea erupted.
The first explosion wasn't heard so much as felt — a deep, bone-deep vibration, as if the ocean itself convulsed. Then came three more in swift succession, each one rolling through the fog like thunder under water.
A low, agonized wail rose from the freighter — its steam whistle, screaming into the night before dying. Faint shouts echoed from the crew, swallowed by the mist.
The Kronan began to list. Slowly at first, then faster, the weight of its own cargo dragging it down. Metal shrieked. Lights flickered, then vanished. With a final groan, the ship's stern lifted toward the pale sky — propellers spinning uselessly — before it slid beneath the surface with a sigh that seemed almost peaceful.
Silence returned.
Only a few ripples remained where a war had just shifted course.
Lars stared into the fog, his weathered face pale. Then he turned to Koba — not with fear, but with reverence. "God help me," he murmured, "but you are the devil himself."
Koba didn't answer. He watched the last bubbles rise and burst, erasing the Kronan from existence. The cold satisfaction that filled him wasn't joy. It was clarity — the feeling of control made manifest.
He turned to Murat. "Signal our contact in Berlin. Tell them the shipment is gone." His voice was steady, precise. "The first half of our bargain is fulfilled."
He looked east, toward the unseen shore of Russia, and spoke quietly, almost to himself.
"Now for the second."