“Not too bad, Skipper.” The chief of the boat read from the Plexiglas status on which he was writing. “Number-two chill water pump breaker tripped open. They reshut it and it works fine. Small electrical fire in number one CO2 scrubber. Fire is out. Reflash watch is stationed. Atmosphere is normal.”

“That all? Any injuries, other than the XO?”

“Bunch of bruises and scrapes is all,” Wallich reported. “Nothing serious. Doc Halliday is busy with our new VIP patient. He reports Smitrov is being taken to the wardroom.”

“Everyone out of the ASDV?”

“Yes, sir. Last man, Commander Beaman, was in the escape trunk when the blast happened. I guess he got bruised pretty good. Upper and lower trunk hatches are shut. The ASDV is secured for transit.”

Glass could picture his big SEAL friend in the cramped little escape trunk, being banged around by the blast. With all the pipes, gauges, and hand wheels in there, it was most likely the same as being trapped in a clothes dryer. It was a wonder that Beaman wasn’t more seriously hurt. Altogether, it appeared they were very lucky. No significant damage to the boat or serious injury to the crew.

Wallich talked on the phone headset for a few seconds. He turned back to Glass and reported, “Skipper, that was Doc on the line. He asked if you could come down to the wardroom. President Smitrov is requesting to speak with you immediately.”

“On my way,” Glass said. He turned to O’Malley as he headed out the aft control room door. “Eng, I’ll be in the wardroom for a few minutes. Run north at full for another ten minutes and then slow to four knots. Stay slow, quiet, and deep.”

“Aye, sir. Ten minutes at full, then slow, quiet, and deep.”

Glass stopped by where Edwards was being helped to his feet. He had a handkerchief pressed to a nasty gash on the back of his head.

“XO, sit there for a bit,” Glass ordered. “Then get down to see Doc when you are steady enough.” Edwards tried to protest, but the skipper raised his hand to stop him. “We’ve got a handle on this. You get down and get that head looked at. Even a skull as thick as yours can’t stand up to HY-80.”

Glass slid down the ladder to the middle level and headed forward to the wardroom. He wasn’t prepared for what he saw when he opened the door. The place was being turned into a trauma center. The counters were filled with medical supplies. A half dozen crewmen sat on the Naugahyde couches, either waiting to be treated or already being attended to by other crew members.

Doc Halliday was working on Bill Dooley at the far end of the room. The torpedo man sat stoically while Halliday stitched up a nasty gash on his arm. Dooley looked up and smiled wanly when Glass walked in.