Jack Ryan 4 - The Hunt for Red October (16 page)

It was Ryan's turn to smile. “Ever meet a sub driver, sir? No? How about an astronaut?”

“Sure, I've met a bunch of the Shuttle pilots.”

“They're the same breed of cat, Mr. President. As to why he left the letter, there's two parts to that. First, he's probably mad about something, exactly what we'll find out when we see him. Second, he figures he can pull this off regardless of what they try to stop him with—and he wants them to know that. Mr. President, the men who drive subs for a living are aggressive, confident, and very, very smart. They like nothing better than making somebody else, a surface ship operator for example, look like an idiot.”

“You just scored another point, Jack. The astronauts I've met, on most things they're downright humble, but they think they're gods when it comes to flying. I'll keep that in mind. Jeff, let's get back to work. Jack, keep me posted.”

Ryan shook his hand again. After the president and his senior adviser left, he turned to Judge Moore. “Judge, what the hell did you tell him about me?”

“Only the truth, Jack.” Actually, the judge had wanted this operation to be run by one of the CIA's senior case officers. Ryan had not been part of this scheme, but presidents have been known to spoil many carefully laid plans. The judge took this philosophically. “This is a big move up in the world for you, if you do your job right. Hell, you might even like it.”

Ryan was sure he wouldn't, and he was right.

CIA Headquarters

He didn't speak the whole way back to
Langley
. The director's car pulled into the basement parking garage, where they got out and entered a private elevator that took them directly to
Moore
's office. The elevator door was disguised as a wall panel, which was convenient but melodramatic, Ryan thought. The DCI went right to his desk and lifted a phone.

“Bob, I need you in here right now.” He glanced at Ryan, standing in the middle of the room. “Looking forward to this, Jack?”

“Sure, Judge,” Ryan said without enthusiasm.

“I can see how you feel about this spying business, but the whole thing could develop into an extremely sensitive situation. You ought to be damned flattered you're being trusted with it.”

Ryan caught the between-the-line message just as Ritter breezed in.

“What's up, Judge?”

“We're laying an operation on. Ryan is flying out to the Kennedy with Charlie Davenport to brief the fleet commanders on this October business. The president bought it.”

“Guess so. Greer left for Andrews just before you pulled in. Ryan gets to fly out, eh?”

“Yes. Jack, the rules is this: you can brief the fleet commander and
Davenport
, that's all. Same for the Brits, just the boss-sailor. If Bob can confirm
W
ILLOW
, the data can be spread out, but only as much as is absolutely necessary. Clear?”

“Yes, sir. I suppose somebody has told the president that it's hard to accomplish anything if nobody knows what the hell is going on. Especially the guys who're doing the work.”

“I know what you're saying, Jack. We have to change the president's mind on that. We will, but until we do, remember—he is the boss. Bob, we'll need to rustle something up so he'll fit in.”

“Naval officer's uniform? Let's make him a commander, three stripes, usual ribbons.” Ritter looked Ryan over. “Say a forty-two long. We can have him outfitted in an hour, I expect. This operation have a name?”

“That's next.”
Moore
lifted his phone again and tapped in five numbers. “I need two words . . .  Uh-huh, thank you.” He wrote a few things down. “Okay, gentlemen, you're calling this Operation M
ANDOLIN
. You, Ryan, are M
AGI
. Ought to be easy to remember, given the time of year. We'll work up a series of code words based on those while you're being fitted. Bob, take him down there yourself. I'll call
Davenport
and have him arrange the flight.”

Ryan followed Ritter to the elevator. It was going too fast, everyone was being too clever, he thought. This Operation M
ANDOLIN
was racing forward before they knew what the hell they were going to do, much less how. And the choice of his code name struck Ryan as singularly inappropriate. He wasn't anyone's wise man. The name should have been something more like “Halloween.”

THURSDAY, 9 DECEMBER

The
North Atlantic

When Samuel Johnson compared sailing in a ship to “being in jail, with the chance of being drowned,” at least he had the consolation of travelling to his ship in a safe carriage, Ryan thought. Now he was going to sea, and before he got to his ship Ryan stood the chance of being smashed to red pulp in a plane crash. Jack sat hunched in a bucket seat on the port side of a Grumman Greyhound, known to the fleet without affection as a COD (for carrier onboard delivery), a flying delivery truck. The seats, facing aft, were too close together, and his knees jutted up against his chin. The cabin was far more amenable to cargo than to people. There were three tons of engine and electronics parts stowed in crates aft—there, no doubt, so that the impact of a plane crash on the valuable equipment would be softened by the four bodies in the passenger section. The cabin was not heated. There were no windows. A thin aluminum skin separated him from a two-hundred-knot wind that shrieked in time with the twin turbine engines. Worst of all, they were flying through a storm at five thousand feet, and the COD was jerking up and down in hundred-foot gulps like a berserk roller coaster. The only good thing was the lack of lighting, Ryan thought—at least nobody can see how green my face is. Right behind him were two pilots, talking away loudly so they could be heard over the engine noise. The bastards were enjoying themselves!

The noise lessened somewhat, or so it seemed. It was hard to tell. He'd been issued foam-rubber ear protectors along with a yellow, inflatable life preserver and a lecture on what to do in the event of a crash. The lecture had been perfunctory enough that it took no great intellect to estimate their chances of survival if they did crash on a night like this. Ryan hated flying. He had once been a marine second lieutenant, and his active career had ended after only three months when his platoon's helicopter had crashed on
Crete
during a NATO exercise. He had injured his back, nearly been crippled for life, and ever since regarded flying as something to be avoided. The COD, he thought, was bouncing more down than up. It probably meant they were close to the Kennedy. The alternative did not bear thinking about. They were only ninety minutes out of Oceana Naval Air Station at
Virginia Beach
. It felt like a month, and Ryan swore to himself that he'd never be afraid on a civilian airliner again.

The nose dropped about twenty degrees, and the aircraft seemed to be flying right at something. They were landing, the most dangerous part of carrier flight operations. He remembered a study conducted during the Vietnam War in which carrier pilots had been fitted with portable electrocardiographs to monitor stress, and it had surprised a lot of people that the most stressful time for carrier pilots wasn't while they were being shot at—it was while they were landing, particularly at night.

Christ, you're full of happy thoughts! Ryan told himself. He closed his eyes. One way or another, it would be over in a few seconds.

The deck was slick with rain and heaving up and down, a black hole surrounded by perimeter lights. The carrier landing was a controlled crash. Massive landing gear struts and shock absorbers were needed to lessen the bone-crushing impact. The aircraft surged forward only to be jerked to a halt by the arresting wire. They were down. They were safe. Probably. After a moment's pause, the COD began moving forward again. Ryan heard some odd noises as the plane taxied and realized that they came from the wings folding up. The one danger he had not considered was flying on an aircraft whose wings were supposed to collapse. It was, he decided, just as well. The plane finally stopped moving, and the rear hatch opened.

Ryan flipped off his seatbelts and stood rapidly, banging his head on the low ceiling. He didn't wait for
Davenport
. With his canvas bag clutched to his chest he darted out of the rear of the aircraft. He looked around, and was pointed to the Kennedy's island structure by a yellow-shirted deck crewman. The rain was falling heavily, and he felt rather than saw that the carrier was indeed moving on the fifteen-foot seas. He ran towards an open, lighted hatch fifty feet away. He had to wait for
Davenport
to catch up. The admiral didn't run. He walked with a precise thirty-inch step, dignified as a flag officer should be, and Ryan decided that he was probably annoyed that his semisecret arrival prohibited the usual ceremony of bosun's pipes and side boys. There was a marine standing inside the hatch, a corporal, resplendent in striped blue trousers, khaki shirt and tie, and snow-white pistol belt. He saluted, welcoming both aboard.

“Corporal, I want to see Admiral Painter.”

“The admiral's in flag quarters, sir. Do you require escort?”

“No, son. I used to command this ship. Come along, Jack.” Ryan got to carry both bags.

“Gawd, sir, you actually used to do this for a living?” Ryan asked.

“Night carrier landings? Sure, I've done a couple of hundred. What's the big deal?”
Davenport
seemed surprised at Ryan's awe. Jack was sure it was an act.

The inside of the Kennedy was much like the interior of the USS Guam, the helicopter assault ship Ryan had been assigned to during his brief military career. It was the usual navy maze of steel bulkheads and pipes, everything painted the same shade of cave-gray. The pipes had some colored bands and stenciled acronyms which probably meant something to the men who ran the ship. To Ryan they might as well have been neolithic cave paintings.
Davenport
led him through a corridor, around a corner, down a “ladder” made entirely of steel and so steep he almost lost his balance, down another passageway, and around another comer. By this time Ryan was thoroughly lost. They came to a door with a marine stationed in front. The sergeant saluted perfectly, and opened the door for them.

Ryan followed
Davenport
in—and was amazed. Flag quarters on the USS Kennedy might have been transported as a block from a
Beacon Hill
mansion. To his right was a wall-sized mural large enough to dominate a big living room. A half-dozen oils, one of them a portrait of the ship's namesake, President John Fitzgerald Kennedy, dotted the other walls, themselves covered with expensive-looking paneling. The deck was covered in thick crimson wool, and the furniture was pure civilian, French provincial, oak and brocade. One could almost imagine they were not aboard a ship at all, except that the ceiling—“overhead”—had the usual collection of pipes, all painted gray. It was a decidedly odd contrast to the rest of the room.

“Hi ya, Charlie!” Rear Admiral Joshua Painter emerged from the next room, drying his hands with a towel. “How was it coming in?”

“Little rocky,”
Davenport
allowed, shaking hands. “This is Jack Ryan.”

Ryan had never met Painter but knew him by reputation. A Phantom pilot during the Vietnam War, he had written a book, Paddystrikes, on the conduct of the air campaigns. It had been a truthful book, not the sort of thing that wins friends. He was a small, feisty man who could not have weighed more than a hundred thirty pounds. He was also a gifted tactician and a man of puritanical integrity.

“One of yours, Charlie?”

“No, Admiral, I work for James Greer. I am not a naval officer. Please accept my apologies. I don't like pretending to be what I'm not. The uniform was the CIA's idea.” This drew a frown.

“Oh? Well, I suppose that means you're going to tell me what Ivan's up to. Good, I hope to hell somebody knows. First time on a carrier? How did you like the flight in?”

“It might be a good way to interrogate prisoners of war,” Ryan said as offhandedly as he could. The two flag officers had a good laugh at his expense, and Painter called for some food to be sent in.

The double doors to the passageway opened several minutes later and a pair of stewards—“mess management specialists”—came in, one bearing a tray of food, the other two pots of coffee. The three men were served in a style appropriate to their rank. The food, served on silver-trimmed plates, was simple but appetizing to Ryan, who hadn't eaten in twelve hours. He dished cole slaw and potato salad onto his plate and selected a pair of corned-beef-on-ryes.

“Thank you. That's all for now,” Painter said. The stewards came to attention before leaving. “Okay, let's get down to business.”

Ryan gulped down half a sandwich. “Admiral, this information is only twenty hours old.” He took the briefing folders from his bag and handed them around. His delivery took twenty minutes, during which he managed to consume the two sandwiches and a goodly portion of his cole slaw and spill coffee on his hand-written notes. The two flag officers were a perfect audience, not interrupting once, only darting a few disbelieving looks at him.

“God Almighty,” Painter said when Ryan finished.
Davenport
just stared poker-faced as he contemplated the possibility of examining a Soviet missile sub from the inside. Jack decided he'd be a formidable opponent over cards. Painter went on, “Do you really believe this?”

“Yes, sir, I do.” Ryan poured himself another cup of coffee. He would have preferred a beer to go with his corned beef. It hadn't been bad at all, and good kosher corned beef was something he'd been unable to find in
London
.

Painter leaned back and looked at
Davenport
. “Charlie, you tell Greer to teach this lad a few lessons—like how a bureaucrat ain't supposed to stick his neck this far out on the block. Don't you think this is a little far-fetched?”

“Josh, Ryan here's the guy who did the report last June on Soviet missile-sub patrol patterns.”

“Oh? That was a nice piece of work. It confirmed something I've been saying for two or three years.” Painter rose and walked to the corner to look out at the stormy sea. “So, what are we supposed to do about all this?”

“The exact details of the operation have not been determined. What I expect is that you will be directed to locate Red October and attempt to establish communications with her skipper. After that? We'll have to figure a way to get her to a safe place. You see, the president doesn't think we'll be able to hold onto her once we get her—if we get her.”

“What?” Painter spun around and spoke a tenth of a second before
Davenport
did. Ryan explained for several minutes.

“Dear God above! You give me one impossible task, then you tell me that if we succeed in it, we gotta give the goddamned thing back to them!”

“Admiral, my recommendation—the president asked me for one—was that we keep the submarine. For what it's worth, the Joint Chiefs are on your side, too, along with the CIA. As it is, though, if the crewmen want to go back home, we have to send them back, and then the Soviets will know we have the boat for sure. As a practical matter, I can see the other side's point. The vessel is worth a pile of money, and it is their property. And how would we hide a 30,000-ton submarine?”

“You hide a submarine by sinking it,” Painter said angrily. “They're designed to do that, you know. ”Their property!' We're not talking about a damned passenger liner. That's something designed to kill people—our people!"

“Admiral, I am on your side,” Ryan said quietly. “Sir, you said we've given you an impossible task, Why?”

“Ryan, finding a boomer that does not want to be found is not the easiest thing in the world. We practice against our own. We damned near always fail, and you say this one's already passed all the northeast SOSUS lines. The
Atlantic
's a rather large ocean, and a missile sub's noise footprint is very small.”

“Yes, sir.” Ryan noted to himself that he might have been overly optimistic about their chances for success.

“What sort of shape are you in, Josh?”
Davenport
asked.

“Pretty good, really. The exercise we just ran, N
IFTY
D
OLPHIN
, worked out all right. Our part of it,” Painter corrected himself. “
Dallas
raised some hell on the other side. My ASW crews are functioning very well. What sort of help are we getting?”

“When I left the Pentagon, the CNO was checking the availability of P-3s out on the Pacific, so you'll probably be seeing more of those. Everything that'll move is putting to sea. You're the only carrier, so you've got overall tactical command, right? Come on, Josh, you're our best ASW operator.”

Painter poured some coffee for himself. “Okay, we have one carrier deck.
America
and Nimitz are still a good week away. Ryan, you said you're flying out to Invincible. We get her, too, right?”

“The president was working on that. Want her?”

“Sure. Admiral White has a good nose for ASW, and his boys really lucked out during D
OLPHIN
. They killed two of our attack boats, and
Vince
Gallery
was some kind of pissed about that. Luck's a big part of this game. That would give us two decks instead of one. I wonder if we can get some more S-3s?” Painter referred to the Lockheed Vikings, carrier-borne antisubmarine aircraft.

“Why?”
Davenport
asked.

“I can transfer my F-18s to shore, and that'll give us room for twenty more Vikings. I don't like losing the striking power, but what we're going to need is more ASW muscle. That means more S-3s. Jack, you know that if you're wrong, that Russkie surface force is going to be a handful to deal with. You know how many surface-to-surface missiles they're packing?”

“No, sir.” Ryan was certain it was too many.

“We're one carrier, and that makes us their primary target. If they start shooting at us, it'll get awful lonesome—then it'll get awful exciting.” The phone rang. “Painter here . . .  Yes. Thank you. Well, Invincible just turned around. Good, they're giving her to us along with two tin cans. The rest of the escorts and the three attack subs are still heading home.” He frowned. “I can't really fault them for that. That means we have to give them some escorts, but it's a good trade. I want that flight deck.”

“Can we chopper Jack out to her?” Ryan wondered if
Davenport
knew what the president had ordered him to do. The admiral seemed interested in getting him off the Kennedy.

Painter shook his head. 'Too far for a chopper. Maybe they can send a Harrier back for him."