His equipment was state-of-the-art, the best his government had, and he had worked with his men long enough to have confidence in their abilities. Uncertain missions were what he had trained for his entire Navy career.

He was as ready as he would ever be!

The Mystic was latched to the sub’s back, rigged for the long transit to the polar ice. The special ADCAP torpedoes were stowed in the torpedo room, ready for tube loading later. Eric Hobson, the weapons officer, had put them to bed along with the unmanned submersible.

The crew, those not manning watches for the under way, were still stowing food for the run north. Dan Perkins and his DSRV team were finishing the final checks on their baby and stowing their gear for the long, rapid ride.

“We’re ready to go, Skipper,” Hobson yelled up to Glass. The weapons officer stood in the bridge cockpit just below him. “Tugs are tied and ready to take a strain.”

The words were snatched away by the brisk wind. Glass had to lean in to hear him. “Very well. Cast off all lines.”

Once under way, Toledo jumped ahead as if she, too, sensed the urgency of once again getting to sea, out of the loch, so she could head northward to whatever awaited them.

The crusty old submarine looked as if it had long since been abandoned to the Arctic weather. The signboard dangling from the sail was faded and barely readable. VIPR, it read, in dim yellowing Cyrillic letters. Broad bands of red rust streaked down the sides of the rounded sail. Great chunks of its anechoic rubber coating were missing, as if the sub suffered from the pocking of a severe case of acne. Her deck was covered with a thick coating of ice, blackened by dirt and grit blown across the fjord from the shipyard.

Two tugs that were laced to the decrepit hulk maneuvered it across the lead gray waters of Polyarnyy Harbor. Wind whipped the water into whitecaps, spraying everything with icy cold mist as the trio inched toward the lonely pier. There, four more dilapidated submarine hulks sat bobbing listlessly, apparently abandoned and wasting away.

A half dozen slovenly dressed sailors loitered there, ready to grab the lines as soon as the tug pushed the sub a little closer to the pier. They swung their arms across their chests and stamped their feet, all in a vain attempt to keep the blood flowing to their freezing extremities. Heavy clouds, laden with snow, hung overhead, their dark gray bunting hiding the stars in the night sky. The overcast also prevented any curious overhead eyes from looking down. Mercury vapor lights hanging on poles along the pier reflected off the low-hanging clouds, bathing the scene in a ghostly cold blue light.