The skipper looked around him as he waited for the Mystic to settle in and the hatch to open. The room was filled with the Russian survivors. They were a haggard bunch, but many of them smiled thankfully as they sucked in deep breaths of clean air.

Doug O’Malley leaned against the bulkhead just outside the maneuvering room door, ten feet forward of where Glass stood. The guy was keeping a close watch on his little kingdom. If he was the “master of all he beheld,” he was a cautious master indeed. Glass had never met an engineer who was more dedicated to his equipment than O’Malley was. That included Joe Glass, back when he was the engineer on the old Hammerhead. O’Malley knew every nuance of this complex power plant and was dedicated to making it perform.

The hatch clanged open above Glass and a pair of legs appeared at the top of the ladder. A short, paunchy man descended the ladder, gripping the rungs as if he was on the verge of losing his hold and falling. His slow, halting movements were those of an exhausted man. Glass watched the painful descent, wondering if he should step over and assist the man. There was something in the Russian’s bearing that held Glass back. He was proud, determined to make the descent on his own. Glass stood where he was, waiting at the bottom of the ladder.

The man stepped onto the deck and found the strength to pull to attention. He lifted his arm and executed a reasonably snappy salute. “Captain Second Rank Sergei Andropoyov. Request permission to come aboard.”

Glass looked at the battered man. Even after all the hardships he had been through, he could still find great dignity. Glass smiled and returned the salute. “Welcome aboard the Toledo, Captain. Please accept my condolences for the loss of your crew members. We’ll try to make you and the rest of your crew as comfortable as possible.”

“Thank you, Captain. For my crew’s sake, I thank you.” He turned and introduced the haggard, worn man who had come down the ladder after him. The man was now attempting to stand at attention beside his commander. “This is Captain Third Rank Dimitriy Pishkovski. He is my first officer.”

Glass returned Pishkovski’s weak but sincere salute and shook hands with the two Russians.

The other survivors were already arrayed around the room, forming a ragtag, exhausted group. Sam Wallich had been busy passing out warm, dry blankets and steaming mugs of hot coffee. Others were leading the survivors off in groups of three or four, headed forward to a hot meal and a warm bunk.

Glass invited the two officers to accompany him to his stateroom. He walked with Andropoyov as they made their way forward. When they were out of earshot of the other survivors, Andropoyov made a quiet inquiry.