Crimson Tide [antikvár]

oIt was a muted growling sound that caused Vladimir Radchenko to cut short his stride in midstep. The solidly built, fifty-nine-year-old politician silently planted his booted right heel firmly on the narrow earthen path and intently scanned the surrounding forest. A thick wood of mature birch trees met his glance, their textured white trunks collectively bending in the gathering breeze like a bobbing fleet of sailing ships on a brownish green sea.The air temperature had noticeably dropped since he began his hike, and Radchenko pulled up the fur-trimmed collar of his greatcoat to counter the chill. The first snows of autumn had already fallen, hinting at the harsh Russian winter that would soon follow. A native Siberian by birth, Radchenko was certainly no stranger to this change in climate, and in many ways, the arrival of winter invigorated him.Beyond the softly creaking tree limbs and the distant, harsh cry of a lonely raven, rose the alien growl that had initially caught his attention. It seemed to come from somewhere ahead, and he