He knew Andropoyov would never allow such an easy, cowardly way out. He had served too long with that old fighter. The captain would never allow anyone to quit. Not until the aloof, icy waters of the sea had overpowered them, strangling out the last breath from their lungs. The tough bastard would still be at the helm, trying to give marching orders to the sea.

When Dimitriy released the TALK button on the phone to listen yet again for a reply, there was a voice there. An odd voice.

“Gepard. Gepard. This is the American submarine Miami. We heard your underwater telephone. What is your status?”

Pishkovski shook himself. Had he imagined the voice? Who else would be up here in this place? Besides Volk, who, as far as he knew, had not yet arrived?

He raised his head. He winced as the pain shot through his temple and down the back of his neck.

“Captain, come quickly! Listen!” he shouted.

Andropoyov rose from the table where he was planning their survival. He listened to the words on the phone, spoken in Russian but with an unmistakable halting American accent.

“Dimitriy, we have been found by the Americans.” He ran through his mind what the proper procedures would be. There had been a time when they would have refused any assistance from the Americans. When they would have taken their chances on the eventual arrival of Volk, wherever the tardy bastard might now be. When they would have accepted any fate besides surrendering themselves and their boat to the hated Americans. That was another day and time. “Tell them we need help, and we need it soon.”

Pishkovski held the microphone to his lips. “Miami, this is Gepard. We are bottomed. An explosion…some kind of explosion…destroyed our propulsion and flooded the after compartment. We have injured on board. We need help.”

The acknowledgment of receipt of the transmission from the American was the sweetest sound Dimitriy Pishkovski had ever heard.

Brad Crawford looked up at Gerson, a wry smile on his lips. “Well, XO, that tells the story. Only way to get them help is to get the DSRV here on a mother sub, and get it here quick.” He turned to Schutte. “Nav, find me a polynya. We need to talk real bad.”

They would have to surface to radio back word of the sunken Russian submarine and get a deep-sea rescue vehicle en route. No telling how long that might take or how much longer the Gepard’s crew could hold on.

Schutte checked the charts. “Skipper, I think our luck may have just changed. There should be one three miles east of here, toward Novaya Zemlya.”

Crawford called over to Croley. “Doc, tell them we’re going for help. We’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

Croley relayed the message while Miami ran for the hole in the ice as fast as she could go.