"That last hit cut and burst the fuel lines," the chief engineer's voice shouted out over the speaker.

"Can you make repairs?" asked Cox desperately.

"I can."

"How long will you need?"

"Two, maybe three, hours."

Cox looked at Pitt, who turned and stared at the U-boat. " We've bought the farm," Cox said.

"It looks that way" Pitt's voice was grave. "They can sit there and blast away at us until there's nothing but a hole in the ice. You'd better give the order to abandon ship, Dan. Maybe some of the crew and scientists can make it across the floe to the mainland and hold out in the ice cave until help arrives."

Gillespie wiped a stream of blood from his cheek and nodded. "Ira, please hand me the ship's phone."

Pitt stepped defeatedly onto the bridge wing, which looked as if it had been mangled by a scrapyard auto crusher. He gazed astern toward the Stars and Stripes, which flew defiantly. Then he looked up at the turquoise NUMA ensign that flapped in ragged concert with the breeze. Finally, he refocused his attention on the U-boat. He saw the muzzle of the deck gun flash and heard the shell shriek between the radar mast and the demolished funnel, dropping and exploding in the ice one hundred yards beyond. It was, Pitt knew, a minor reprieve.

Then a flash out of the corner of one eye and a quick glance past the U-boat. Abruptly, he exhaled a breath as a wild wave of relief swept over him at seeing a tiny trail of white smoke and flame against a blue sky.

Ten miles away, a surface-to-surface missile burst through the ice floe, arched above the horizon, reached its zenith, and then plunged unerringly downward toward the U-boat. One moment the sub was floating in the ice. The next, it was enveloped in a tremendous burst of orange, red, and yellow flame that mushroomed high into the gray overcast. The U-boat's hull split in two, the stern and bow rising skyward independent of each other. Amidships, there was a great maelstrom of fire and smoke. There was a billowing cloud of steam as a final stab of flame gushed across the ice. Then she slid under and fell to the bottom.

It all happened so quickly, Pitt could hardly believe his eyes. "She's gone," he muttered in astonishment.

The stunned silence that followed the demise of the U-boat was broken by a voice over the speaker. "Polar Storm, do you read me?"

Pitt snatched up the radio phone. "We read you, Good Samaritan."

"This is Captain Evan Cunningham, commander of the United States nuclear attack boat Tucson. Sorry we could not have arrived sooner."

" `Better late than never' certainly applies in this case," replied Pitt. "Can you loan us your damage-control crew? We're in a bad way."

"Are you taking on water?"

"No, but we're pretty much of a mess topside, and the engine room took a hit."

"Stand by to take on a boarding crew. We'll be alongside in twenty minutes."

"Champagne and caviar will be waiting."

"Where did they come from?" asked a stunned Cox.

"Admiral Sandecker," answered Pitt. "He must have leaned on the naval chief of staff."

"Now that the U-boat is no longer jamming… our satellite signals," said Gillespie haltingly, "I suggest you call the admiral. He'll want a report on our damage and casualties."

Cox was tending to Bushey, who appeared to be regaining consciousness. "I'll take care of it," Pitt assured the captain. "Rest easy until we get you to sick bay and the doctor can work on you."

"How's Bushey?"

"He'll live. He has a nasty wound, but he should be back on his feet in a couple of weeks. You suffered more than anybody on board."

"Thank God for that," Gillespie gasped bravely.

As Pitt dialed NUMA headquarters in Washington, his thoughts turned to Giordino on St. Paul Island less than fifteen hundred miles away. Lucky devil, he thought. He pictured his good buddy sitting in a fancy gourmet restaurant in Cape Town with a ravishing lady in a seductive dress, ordering a bottle of vintage South African wine.

"The luck of the draw," Pitt muttered to himself on the skeleton of what was left of the bridge. "He's warm, and I'm freezing half to death."

"Why is it Dirk gets all the choice projects?" groused Giordino. "I'll bet as we speak, he's sleeping in a warm, comfortable cabin on board the Polar Storm with his arms around some gorgeous female marine biologist."

He was soaked and shivering under the wind-driven sleet as he stumbled across the rocky slope toward the cave, carrying an armload of small branches he and Gunn had cut from scattered scrub brush they'd found growing around the mountain.

"We'll be warm, too, once the wood dries enough to catch fire," said Gunn. Walking slightly ahead of Giordino with his arms loaded with straggly branches almost bare of leaves, he thankfully stepped through the archway and into the tunnel. He threw his burden on the rocky floor and collapsed in a sitting position against one wall.

"I fear all we're going to do with this stuff is make a lot of smoke," Giordino murmured, removing his dripping foul-weather gear and wiping the water that had dribbled down his neck with a small hand towel.

Gunn handed Giordino a cup of the now cold coffee from the thermos, and the last of the granola bars. "The last supper," he said solemnly.

"Did Sandecker give you any idea as to when he can get us off this rock pile?"

"Only that transportation was on the way."

Giordino examined the dial of his watch. "It's been four hours. I'd like to make Cape Town before the pubs close."

"He must not have been able to charter another tilt-rotor and a pilot, or they'd have been here by now."

Giordino tilted his head, listening. He moved through the tunnel until he was standing under the archway. The sleet had fallen off to a light sprinkling rain. The overcast was breaking up, and patches of blue sky emerged between the swiftly moving clouds. For the first time in several hours, he could see far out to sea.

It was there like a flyspeck on a frosted window. As he watched, the speck grew into a black helicopter. Another mile closer, and he identified it as a McDonnell Douglas Explorer with a twin tail and no rear rotor.

"We have company," he announced. "A helicopter flying in from the northwest. Coming fast and low over the water. Looks like he's carrying air-to-ground missiles."

Gunn came and stood beside Giordino. "A helicopter doesn't have the range to fly here from Cape Town. It must have come from a ship."

"No markings. That's odd."

"Definitely not a South African military aircraft," said Gunn.

"I do not believe they're bearing gifts," said Giordino sarcastically. "Or they would have called and said to expect them."

The sound of the helicopter's turbines and rotor blades soon broke the cold air. The pilot was no daredevil, but very cautious. Flying a safe height above the cliffs, he hovered for at least three minutes while he studied the ledge that once held the tilt-rotor. Then he dropped down slowly, feeling his way through the air currents. The landing skids touched the rocky surface and the rotor blades slowly spun to a stop.

Silence then. Without the wind, the mountain slopes went quiet. After a short time lag, the big fifty-inch sliding cabin door opened and six men in black coveralls dropped to the ground. They looked as if they were carrying enough weapons and firepower to invade a small country.