Smitrov opened his eyes and tried to focus on the two men standing over him. His voice was strained and weak when he answered in passable English, “Captain, I am very thankful for your hospitality.” He stopped to swallow, to take in more breath. “I must request to use your radio room. I must talk with my government at once.”

The Russian president was pasty white in the harsh light. The pallor of his skin was a good indication of the suffering he had endured. It was clear, though, that the man still had fight left in him.

Glass wondered if he would live, let alone be able to fight for the survival of his country’s rightful government.

“I’d be happy to allow you use of the radio room, Mr. President, but I’m afraid a contingent of your countrymen are up there on the surface right now trying to kill us. We’re a little busy at the moment trying to lose them.”

“Those are rebels, fighting with that dog, Durov,” Smitrov growled, his face growing red as much with anger as from the strain of speaking. “They are, in truth, trying to kill me. You are no more than collateral damage. You must help me stop Durov and his evil plot. Sink the miserable traitors. You have my permission! Sink them!”

Smitrov tried to rise, but Hall restrained him. The president fell back on the makeshift operating table. He closed his eyes for a moment and Glass thought he might have passed out. Then he opened them again and looked up at Glass. His words were soft but pleading when he spoke again.

“Please. I must talk to my government. Captain, please get me somewhere that I can. The fate of my country depends on it. Time is of the essence.”

The man was clearly drained. His breath came in ragged gasps. What little strength he had kept in reserve was now spent.

Doc Halliday grabbed Glass’s arm and spun him around. When he spoke, his words were surprisingly forceful. “Captain, you have to leave my patient alone. He’s lost a lot of blood. He’s slipping in and out of hypovolemic shock. I’ve got him on a saline drip to get some blood volume back and I’m giving him epinephrine to get his blood pressure up.” The medic reached over and placed Smitrov’s legs back up on the stack of books that were substituting for leg rests. “You’ve got to let him rest.”

“What are his chances?”

Doc shook his head sadly. He spoke softly so that only Glass could hear him. “Even if he was in Portsmouth Hospital, I would give him even money at best. Out here, we just have to pray and depend on luck.”

Glass nodded. “Doc, give me one second to tell him we’ll do all we can. It’ll ease his mind.”