He opened the rescue vehicle’s hatch and grabbed the hammer that was clipped to the bulkhead. He stepped down onto the deck of the Russian sub and banged hard on the cold, wet hull. After the third strike, he saw the hatch almost imperceptibly crack open. He felt the freezing-cold air blast up around his feet. It filled the DSRV with a dreadful, chilling presence, like the breath of the Grim Reaper himself. It would take a while for Mystic’s air systems to expel the noxious cold gas and replace it with breathable air.

The hatch was swung open and that allowed Nichols to stare down into a darkness that was as deep as that of hell. In that instant, he knew why he had dedicated his life to the DSRV. The faces squinting up into his light were visible, even through their fogged masks. The expressions confirmed the unspoken horror and fear these men had lived under for the past fourteen days.

He grabbed the hand of the man at the top of the ladder. Though the man’s grip was weak, the everlasting gratitude was effectively conveyed.

Gary Nichols passed several flashlights and Arctic clothing down through the hatch. He picked up one of Mystic’s masks, on a long hose, and dropped it down through the hatch. He signed for one of the crew to take off his mask and put on the one from the DSRV. A seaman, either much braver or much more anxious than the rest, grabbed the mask. He ripped his off, put the new one on, and scurried up the ladder. One after another, seventeen of the crew climbed up and sat quietly in the rescue chamber where Nichols directed them. Some of them seemed too exhausted to move. Others awkwardly hugged their shipmates.

They now knew for certain that their long night of terror was over.

When all seventeen survivors were on board, Nichols passed a note down to one of the crew waiting for his turn. Someone on board knew enough English to do the tapping when they first found the beleaguered sub. Now he was telling them he would be back in an hour, to just keep praying and be patient for a little bit longer.

Still, shutting the hatch on the remaining men, even with the knowledge that he would be back soon to get them, too, was the hardest thing Gary Nichols had ever experienced.

When Nichols gave the sign, Perkins flooded and equalized the skirt so the DSRV could lift back off the stricken Russian boat. It turned and headed toward Toledo, which was still hovering a thousand yards away and four hundred feet higher in the water.

The survivors huddled together in the rescue chamber, wrapped in the thick, coarse Navy blankets Nichols passed around. Most still had their eyes closed, protecting them from the bright lights after the darkness of their watery crypt. They breathed deeply from the abundant, clear, clean air.