“Golf, this is Juliet. ‘Almost’ doesn’t count out here, Skipper. Y’all owe for the next round. Ready to start operations. On course zero-one-five, depth one-five-zero, slowing to two knots.”

Glass glanced over at Edwards. “XO, tell Mr. Perkins to get ready. Have the COB go ahead and send the first group of our passengers into the Mystic.” He spoke into the microphone. “Juliet, this is Golf. Roger course zero-one-five, speed two, depth one-five-zero. I am coming to course zero-one-five, depth three hundred, will slow to two when range is five hundred. Over.”

Glass maneuvered Toledo until he was below the Tennessee and five hundred yards to the side. Although neither skipper could see the other boat, they steamed in close formation, as if a steel rod connected them.

Dan Perkins climbed up into the deep-sea rescue vehicle’s pilot seat. Seventeen of the rescued Russian submariners were already sitting in the passenger sphere watching him. Gary Nichols was already in the copilot’s seat and flashed him a thumbs-up.

Perkins keyed his microphone. “Toledo, this is Mystic. All systems ready for transfer. On internal power. Commencing disconnect sequence.”

The locking ring with its power umbilical dropped loose. As Perkins flooded and equalized the skirt, Mystic came free from its grasp on Toledo’s back and drifted upward. At a top speed of three knots, the short distance took fifteen minutes to cover. The Mystic passed along the long, broad missile deck until Nichols saw the engine room hatch. He pointed to Perkins, who nodded, then keyed his microphone.

“Tennessee, this is Mystic. Landing on your engine room hatch in one minute.”

“Mystic, Tennessee. Roger. Red carpet is rolled out for y’all. Welcome aboard.”

Perkins maneuvered the DSRV until the skirt was above the hatch. He let it settle until it gently touched down; then Nichols started the pump to empty the water from the skirt. In just a few minutes, fifty pounds per square inch of sea pressure was firmly holding them attached to the Trident. Nichols opened the hatch and climbed down into the skirt.

The engine room hatch popped open and he looked down into the smiling face of Charlie “Red” Granger, the Tennessee’s skipper. The Russian sailors climbed down the ladder into what would be their new home for a while. Tennessee was out on patrol and wasn’t scheduled to return to her home base at Kings Bay, Georgia, for another two months. The former Gepard crew would be safely hidden here, though, away from the eyes of the world and Durov’s reach until things had played out.

Once the Russians were unloaded, Mystic lifted away for the return trip to the Toledo. The transfer, performed deep under the icy-cold Norwegian Sea, had been completed as though it were no more than a simple bus ride.