"I'm Captain Rydman," he said to the newcomers, "and this is Helmsman Osipow. If you'll follow me, we can get under way."

Turning, he led Peggy and Private George on a walkway that went around the sides of the dark shed. The other man followed close behind.

They passed several sleek, new patrol boats bobbing gently on the water and stopped by a slipway in a corner of the shed. There, rocking gently beside a short aluminum ladder, was the dark gray mini-sub. The hatch was open though no light came from within. Having read a file en route to Finland, Peggy had learned that the midgets were brought up every six months for maintenance, hauled from the water by ropes run through eyebolts welded to the hull, then literally cracked like an eggshell by unbolting the engine room from the forward bulkhead. Only fifteen meters long, the steel cylinders were capable of carrying four passengers at a top speed of nine knots. The trip to St. Petersburg would take until two o'clock, local time, which also included the vessel breaking surface after six hours to extend the induction mast and let the diesel engines run for a half hour to restock the batteries and air.

She was not claustrophobic. But peering into what looked like a large thermos bottle with its cap on the side, she knew that an uncomfortable ten hours lay before them. Peggy saw three seats, and very little room aft to sit or even stand. She wondered where the captain was going to be.

Osipow climbed down the ladder into the darkness and threw a switch. The midget marauder's dim lighting came on and the helmsman took his seat at the steering controls-- a short column with a joystick for maneuvering and an autopilot switch to maintain depth and azimuth. Beside it was a pump used to siphon off the condensation that collected inside the tight cabin, and a portside mine release handwheel. After Osipow had checked to make sure the controls, engine, and air were working, Rydman told George to enter.

"I feel like a monkey's fist," the Private said as he limboed to his seat, thrusting his chest up and twisting to the right, one arm behind him, steadying himself on the chair as he slid in.

"Ah, you've sailed," said Osipow, his voice nasal but strangely melodious.

"Back home, sir," said George, extending a hand to help Peggy in. "I once won a contest for who could tie the fastest fist at the end of a heavy line." He looked at Peggy when she'd squeezed into her chair. "A monkey's fist is a decorative knot you tie at the end of a line."

"Formed around a weight, though typically not on a lanyard. There isn't enough rope." She looked at George's face in the dull glow of the interior. It seemed slightly paler than her own. "You have a talent for underestimating me, Private. Or do you patronize all women?"