The michman who had been taking the reports from the crew gave a wrap-up. “Captain, all compartments except the after compartment have reported. Fifteen dead, ten seriously injured, one missing. Compartment seven is reporting some leakage through the stuffing tubes from the aft compartment. They are attempting to tighten the tubes, but the bilges are full. No other flooding reported.”

Andropoyov nodded. They were better off than he had any right to expect. Flooding controlled, damage apparently confined to the sub’s rear end, resting reasonably upright and stable on the bottom. Deep, but not too deep for rescue. Thankfully, a comrade would be along shortly to get that process started.

At least they weren’t out here all alone.

Meanwhile, there were fifteen killed and ten injured from his crew of sixty. That left thirty-five crewmen to work.

Trouble was, just now he had no idea what they should be working on.

Miami steamed toward the last known position for the mystery sub. Brad Crawford was torn between rushing in as quickly as possible to see how he could help and easing in cautiously until he could determine what in hell had happened.

He decided to err on the side of caution. Miami was coming in carefully and quietly.

Aaron Miller first heard the voice in his headphones. He couldn’t understand what the man was saying. It was a foreign language, maybe Russian, but a weak, strained human voice saying the same thing over and over in a tired singsong. The frequency was the same 4.7 kilohertz as the newest Russian long-range underwater telephone.

Someone out there was alive and talking. Given the range of a typical underwater telephone, he was within a couple of miles.

“Conn, sonar. Hearing underwater telephone. Best bearing three-two-one. I think it’s Russian, but I can’t tell.”

Crawford looked hard at the plot. The bearing pointed pretty close to where they believed the last position of the mystery sub had been. The Russian underwater telephone communications could be a plea for help. The problem was Crawford didn’t know of anyone on board who spoke Russian.

A thought hit him. Maybe one of the Woods Hole scientists. Hell, they spoke “whale.” Maybe they could manage a little Russian. Crawford sent for Dr. Croley.

The tall, gangly scientist arrived in the control room with a puzzled look on his face. Ever since the Miami had gone sub hunting, the crew seemed to lose all interest in narwhals and his research. He and his colleagues had busied themselves transcribing notes and listening to whale songs on tape.

Crawford looked up from the navigation charts. “Dr. Croley, thanks for joining us. We need some help. Does anyone on your team speak Russian?”

Croley smiled. “Captain, it’s hard to do research on Arctic whales without speaking and reading some margin of conversational Russian. Most of us are fluent.”