We'd spent four days in the dark under the Arctic ice pack tracking a Chinese ballistic missile sub. That's when the Chief of the Boat came to me ashen faced.
"...Skipper, we got a problem!" He led me forward to the isolated sonar dome in our submarine's nose. I squeezed through the tiny hatch following the chief. "You see, it's Collins." He pointed at the crumpled figure stuffed into a hollow.
My blood ran colder than the dark, watery crypt beyond our hull. Collins was dead, two fang-like puncture wounds in his throat. We have a problem.
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