Chapter 29 - Breaking the Ice
The USS *Viper* broke through the freezing surface of the Denmark Strait like a breaching whale, displacing thousands of tons of sea foam and ice floes in a magnificent, violent roar.
The morning sun had just crested the horizon, painting the Arctic sky in brilliant streaks of amber, gold, and cold rose.
Hovering twenty feet above the submarine’s bow was a Navy MH-60 Seahawk helicopter, its rotor wash whipping the spray into a stinging mist. Beside it, the cutter *Healy* was already moving in, searchlights blazing, sirens wailing in triumph.
On the forward casing of the submarine, resting against the sail, the *Exo-Vanguard* suit sat motionless, coated in a crust of newly formed sea ice.
A rescue team of Navy divers dropped from the helicopter into the churning water, clambering onto the slippery black hull with axes and cutting torches.
"Get the visor off!" a voice shouted through the fog. "Find the emergency latch!"
Mendez’s face appeared through the salt-crusted quartz faceplate, wild with frantic worry. He slammed the manual release valve on the collar.
With a loud hiss of equalizing pressure, the locking ring rotated, and Mendez pulled the heavy quartz dome free.
The freezing, pure Arctic air hit my lungs like a bucket of liquid ice. I gasped, coughing as the sweet, crisp air replaced the metallic, stale taste of recirculated oxygen.
"You crazy, magnificent bastard," Mendez breathed, his hands trembling as he helped unlatch the titanium chest harness. "You held an attack sub with a prototype cable."
I leaned back against the steel casing, blinking into the blinding morning sun. My body felt as though every tendon had been pulled from its bone, the scars across my chest burning red-hot in the sub-zero air, but for the first time in three years, there was no weight on my chest.
The upper hatch of the submarine’s sail cracked open with a metallic heave.
A young man in torn, grease-stained naval coveralls climbed out into the freezing wind, his face blackened with diesel soot and eyes wide with shell-shocked disbelief. He looked down at the casing, seeing the diving suit, seeing me.
He raised a trembling, soot-covered hand to his brow and held a rigid, breathless salute.
Behind him, another officer emerged, then another, until the top of the sail was lined with men and women, staring out at the sun they thought they would never see again.
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Above us, over the *Healy*’s exterior PA system, Admiral Vance’s voice cut across the water, broadcast on every fleet channel from the Denmark Strait to the Pentagon:
"To all vessels, this is Vance. The *Viper* is secure. One hundred and thirty-two souls accounted for. The hero of this fleet is on the deck."
