Two of the cooks were hanging big stainless steel operating room lights in the overhead above the wardroom table, bathing it with a harsh white light. The table, covered with sterile white cloth, had been transformed into an operating table. President Smitrov lay in the center of it. One of the SEALs, Jason Hall, was inserting an IV needle into the crook of the Russian president’s arm. The tubing led up to a plastic pouch of clear liquid.

Glass noticed that several of the people giving first aid appeared to be other members of Bill Beaman’s SEAL team. That made sense. They would have had extensive training in emergency medicine. A lot more than his crew would.

Beaman sat in a chair at the head of the table. He was shirtless. Chief Johnston was cleaning a mass of ugly contusions and scrapes on the big SEAL’s left shoulder. Beaman jumped up when he saw the skipper and sprang over to greet his old friend. He grabbed Glass’s outstretched hand.

“Joe, it’s damn good to see you. Thanks for all the welcoming fireworks when we came on board.”

“Don’t mention it. Least we could do for you guys.”

“Hey, it’s just like old times. If Jon Ward were here, we’d have the old band back together and ready to go out on tour.”

It had been a while since the three men had worked together. That time, they had teamed up to help stop a notorious Colombian drug smuggler, Juan de Santiago, in a steaming jungle. Now here they were, again working together, but this time in frigid Russia.

“Yeah, that would be great. I’m afraid Jon is off playing on some skimmer. He’s probably mad as hell he’s missing all the fun up here, though,” Glass said. He nodded at Gregor Smitrov. “I see you brought along an extra passenger.”

The 7MC loudspeaker blared, interrupting the conversation.

“Captain, Officer of the Deck. I have slowed to four knots and come to course north.”

Glass reached under the head of the table and grabbed a microphone that was hanging there. He keyed the mike. “Captain, aye. Eng, where are the Grishas by now?”

“Captain, they are still pinging away like a son of a bitch,” Doug O’Malley answered. “Best estimate is eight thousand yards astern. We have ten minutes on this course before we need to turn.”

“I’ll be up in a minute.”

Beaman picked up the conversation as if the interruption hadn’t happened. “I kept bragging about what a good bus driver you were. He insisted on taking a ride. Let me introduce you.” Beaman looked down at Smitrov and spoke in Russian. “President Smitrov, this is my old friend Commander Joe Glass. He is the captain of the USS Toledo, the fine submarine on which we now find ourselves.”