As if on cue, the Russian president emitted a low moan. His eyes fluttered open. He tried to rise and muttered something unintelligible.

Hall gently pushed him back down and urged him, in Russian, to lie still. As he became more aware of his surroundings, recognition came slowly to the injured man. He coughed once and strained to speak.

“Where am I? What happened?”

Beaman recounted the shoot-out and rescue from Polyarnyy. “You have been shot, President Smitrov. We are trying our best to get you to medical help. You must stay still and not waste your strength. We will give you a shot for the pain.”

The little Russian man tried to rise. “No shot! I must stay awake! I need to communicate with the Kremlin. That traitor Durov must be crushed.”

Depleted by the effort of his words, he groaned and fell back. Hall was already pumping up the blood pressure cuff.

Chief Johnston squatted down next to Beaman. “Skipper, Gonzales sent me back to fill you in. That Grisha is getting closer. Sam Donlan doesn’t think we’ve been detected yet, though. He does say the guy might get lucky. He said signal strength was up to forty-two.”

Smitrov, his eyes closed, overheard the conversation. He forced his words between his cracked lips, his English surprisingly good. “That will be one of Admiral Durov’s harbor defense ships. They will be trying to kill us, not capture us. They will have to make sure I am out of the way. How can we escape?”

Beaman chuckled as he answered, “Don’t worry. We still have a few tricks up our sleeve.”

“I sure as hell wish you’d tell me what they are,” Johnston growled. “That Grisha has a playmate on the other side of the fjord. It looks like they’re trying to herd us right on out of town.”

Beaman rubbed his eyes and blinked. A thought had occurred to him. “Chief, I figure that there must be something waiting for us further up the fjord. Us and our pickup submarine, too. You don’t think they’re trying to herd us all into a trap, do you?”

Johnston looked hard at him, then down at the president of Russia. The little man grimaced in pain, but he was nodding.

“I know Admiral Durov,” he whispered. “That is precisely what he is doing.”

Commander Joe Glass sat at the back of Toledo’s control room and talked with Brian Edwards. It was time to do a little planning. They had to penetrate into the Murmansk Fjord again to pick up the ASDV, Gonzales, and hopefully by now, his passengers. It would not be as easy this time, after Bill Beaman and his guys stirred up a hornet’s nest in the process of trying to rescue Gregor Smitrov. No telling what kind of reception might be waiting.