The problem was carbon dioxide. Each crew member breathed out one hundred and fifty grams of it every day, and without the air being cleansed, it would soon grow to toxic levels. If they had power, the scrubbers would remove it from the air. Without them, the alternative was to let the lithium hydroxide pellets absorb it. If they had power, the pellets would be held in canisters and fans would force the carbon dioxide–laden air through them. Without power, the fans and canisters were useless. The best way to get the lithium hydroxide in contact with the air was to lay a thin layer wherever they could. The pellets were already spread out on most of the horizontal surfaces in the submarine, on tables, empty bunks, even on the deck. The pellets disintegrated so that a cloud of obnoxious dust rose whenever they were disturbed.

Gepard carried enough lithium hydroxide to last for a complete patrol without the scrubbers, but the storage lockers where most of it was kept were all in the flooded after compartment. The ready stores were all they had now. Even if they were careful, there was only enough to keep the air breathable for a few more days.

“Otherwise” was a proposition Sergei Andropoyov did not want to ponder.

He paused in his tour at the reactor hatch. It seemed strange to see the doorway gaping open when they were at sea. Normally it would have been locked shut. If anyone were crazy enough to enter the hatch while the reactor was operating, the radiation would kill him in a few minutes.

Now the reactor was shut down. It presented no danger from radiation.

The captain ducked his head and stepped through. The place was huge, but crammed full with piping, valves, pumps, and wires. He noticed the temperature difference. After the cold in the rest of the sub, it was very warm in here. Even two days after the explosion that had sunk them, the reactor system was still quite hot. Andropoyov took advantage of the heat, removed his coat, and allowed the warmth to soak into his body. His hands tingled as the circulation returned.

Now, where was the first officer?

He found Dimitriy Pishkovski staring forlornly into an open electrical panel.

“Captain, I have found why the rods will not latch,” he announced, the defeat heavy in his voice.

He pointed into the electrical panel. It was filled with charred insulation and melted wiring. All the interior surfaces were blackened with a heavy layer of sticky, oily soot.

“How did that happen?” Andropoyov asked.

“Damn shipyard! The lugs weren’t tight. When the explosion happened, the wires must have gotten crossed. Burnt it all. Nothing we can do here.”

Andropoyov looked over Pishkovski’s shoulder at the confused, blackened mess. Even in a shipyard, it would take weeks to repair damage this extensive, and now there was no way to float this thing to a shipyard.