by Tom Clancy
“OP-02’s office. I’m chief of staff for Admiral Dodge.”
“Indeed?” Tyler was impressed. Vice Admiral Sam Dodge was the current OP-02. The office of the deputy chief of naval operations for submarine warfare had administrative control of all aspects of submarine operations. “Keeping you busy?”
“You know it! The crap’s really hit the fan.”
“What do you mean?” Tyler hadn’t seen the news or read a paper since Monday.
“You kidding?”
“I’ve been working on this computer program twenty hours a day since Monday, and I don’t get ops dispatches anymore.” Tyler frowned. He had heard something the other day at the Academy but not paid any attention to it. He was the sort who could focus his whole mind on a single problem.
Coleman looked up and down the corridor. It was late on a Friday evening, and they had it entirely to themselves. “Guess I can tell you. Our Russian friends have some sort of major exercise laid on. Their whole Northern Fleet’s at sea, or damned near. They have subs all over the place.”
“Doing what?”
“We’re not sure. Looks like they might have a major search and rescue operation. The question is, after what? They have four Alfas doing a max speed run for our coast right now, with a gaggle of Victors and Charlies charging in behind them. At first we were worried that they wanted to block the trade routes, but they blitzed right past those. They’re definitely heading for our coast, and whatever they’re up to, we’re getting tons of information.”
“What do they have moving?” Tyler asked.
“Fifty-eight nuclear subs, and thirty or so surface ships.”
“Gawd! CINCLANT must be going ape!”
“You know it, Skip. The fleet’s at sea, all of it. Every nuke we have is scrambling for a redeployment. Every P-3 Lockheed ever made is either over the Atlantic or heading that way.” Coleman paused. “You’re still cleared, right?”
“Sure, for the work I do for the Crystal City gang. I had a piece of the evaluation of the new Kirov.”
“I thought that sounded like your work. You always were a pretty good engineer. You know, the old man still talks about that job you did for him on the old Tecumseh. Maybe I can get you in to see what’s happening. Yeah, I’ll ask him.”
Tyler’s first cruise after graduating from nuc school in Idaho had been with Dodge. He’d done a tricky repair job on some ancillary reactor equipment two weeks earlier than estimated with a little creative effort and some back-channel procurement of spare parts. This had earned him and Dodge a flowery letter of commendation.
“I bet the old man would love to see you. When will you be finished down here?”
“Maybe half an hour.”
“You know where to find me?”
“Have they moved OP-02?”
“Same place. Call me when you’re finished. My extension is 78730. Okay? I gotta get back.”
“Right.” Tyler watched his old friend disappear down the corridor, then proceeded on his way to the men’s room, wondering what the Russians were up to. Whatever it was, it was enough to keep a three-star admiral and his four-striped captain working on a Friday night in Christmas season.
“Eleven minutes, 53.18 seconds, sir,” the sergeant reported, pocketing both bills.
The computer printout was over two hundred pages of data. The cover sheet plotted a rough-looking bell curve of speed solutions, and below it was the noise prediction curve. The case-by-case solutions were printed individually on the remaining sheets. The curves were predictably messy. The speed curve showed the majority of solutions in the ten-to twelve-knot range, the total range going from seven to eighteen knots. The noise curve was surprisingly low.
“Sergeant, that’s one hell of a machine you have here.”
“Believe it, sir. And reliable. We haven’t had an electronic fault all month.”
“Can I use a phone?”
“Sure, take your pick, sir.”
“Okay, Sarge.” Tyler picked up the nearest phone. “Oh, and dump the program.”
“Okay.” He typed in some instructions. “MORAY is…gone. Hope you kept a copy, sir.”
Tyler nodded and dialed the phone.
“OP-02A, Captain Coleman.”
“Johnnie, this is Skip.”
“Great! Hey, the old man wants to see you. Come right up.”
Tyler placed the printout in his briefcase and locked it. He thanked the sergeant one more time before hobbling out the door, giving the Cray-2 one last look. He’d have to get in here again.
He could not find an operating elevator and had to struggle up a gently sloped ramp. Five minutes later he found a marine guarding the corridor.
“You Commander Tyler, sir?” the guard asked. “Can I see some ID, please?”
Tyler showed the corporal his Pentagon pass, wondering how many one-legged former submarine officers there might be.
“Thank you, Commander. Please go down the corridor. You know the room, sir?”
“Sure. Thanks, Corporal.”
Vice Admiral Dodge was sitting on the corner of a desk reading over some message flimsies. Dodge was a small, combative man who’d made his mark commanding three separate boats, then pushing the Los Angeles-class attack submarines through their lengthy development program. Now he was “Grand Dolphin,” the senior admiral who fought all the battles with Congress.
“Skip Tyler! You’re looking good, laddy.” Dodge gave Tyler’s leg a furtive glance as he came over to take his hand. “I hear you’re doing a great job at the Academy.”
“It’s all right, sir. They even let me scout the occasional ballgame.”
“Hmph, shame they didn’t let you scout Army.”
Tyler hung his head theatrically. “I did scout Army, sir. They were just too tough this year. You heard about their middle linebacker, didn’t you?”
“No, what about him?” Dodge asked.
“He picked armor as his duty assignment, and they gave him an early trip to Fort Knox—not to learn about tanks. To be a tank.”
“Ha!” Dodge laughed. “Johnnie says you have a bunch of new kids.”
“Number six is due the end of February,” Tyler said proudly.
“Six? You’re not a Catholic or a Mormon, are you? What’s with all this bird hatching?”
Tyler gave his former boss a wry look. He’d never understood that prejudice in the nuclear navy. It came from Rickover, who had invented the disparaging term bird hatching for fathering more than one child. What the hell was wrong with having kids?
“Admiral, since I’m not a nuc anymore, I have to do something on nights and weekends.” Tyler arched his eyebrows lecherously. “I hear the Russkies are playing games.”
Dodge was instantly serious. “They sure are. Fifty-eight attack boats—every nuclear boat in the Northern Fleet—heading this way with a big surface group, and most of their service forces tagging along.”
“Doing what?”
“Maybe you can tell me. Come on back to my inner sanctum.” Dodge led Tyler into a room where he saw another new gadget, a projection screen that displayed the North Atlantic from the Tropic of Cancer to the polar ice pack. Hundreds of ships were represented. The merchantmen were white, with flags to identify their nationality; the Soviet ships were red, and their shapes depicted their ship type; the American and allied ships were blue. The ocean was getting crowded.
“Christ.”
“You got that one right, lad,” Tyler nodded grimly. “How are you cleared?”
“Top secret and some special things, sir. I see everything we have on their hardware, and I do a lot of work with Sea Systems on the side.”
“Johnnie said you did the evaluation of the new Kirov they just sent out to the Pacific—not bad, by the way.”
“These two Alfas heading for Norfolk?”
“Looks like it. And they’re burning a lot of neutrons doing it.” Dodge pointed. “That one’s heading to Long Island Sound as though to block the entrance to New London and that o
ne’s heading to Boston, I think. These Victors are not far behind. They already have most of the British ports staked out. By Monday they’ll have two or more subs off every major port we have.”
“I don’t like the looks of this, sir.”
“Neither do I. As you see, we’re nearly a hundred percent at sea ourselves. The interesting thing, though—what they’re doing just doesn’t figure. I—” Captain Coleman came in.
“I see you let the prodigal son in, sir,” Coleman said.
“Be nice to him, Johnnie. I seem to remember when he was a right fair sub driver. Anyway, at first it looked like they were going to block the SLOCs, but they went right past. What with these Alfas, they might be trying to blockade our coast.”
“What about out west?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all, just routine activity.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Tyler objected. “You don’t ignore half the fleet. Of course, if you’re going to war you don’t announce it by kicking every boat to max power either.”
“The Russians are a funny bunch, Skip,” Coleman pointed out.
“Admiral, if we start shooting at them—”
“We hurt ’em,” Dodge said. “With all the noise they’re making we have good locations on near all of ’em. They have to know that, too. That’s the one thing that makes me believe they’re not up to anything really bad. They’re smart enough not to be that obvious—unless that’s what they want us to think.”
“Have they said anything?” Tyler asked.
“Their ambassador says they’ve lost a boat, and since it has a bunch of big shots’ kids aboard, they laid on an all-hands rescue mission. For what that’s worth.”
Tyler set his briefcase down and walked closer to the screen. “I can see the pattern for a search and rescue, but why blockade our ports?” He paused, thinking rapidly as his eyes scanned the top of the display. “Sir, I don’t see any boomers up here.”
“They’re in port—all of ’em, on both oceans. The last Delta tied up a few hours ago. That’s funny, too,” Dodge said, looking at the screen again.
“All of them, sir?” Tyler asked as offhandedly as he could. Something had just occurred to him. The display screen showed the Bremerton in the Barents Sea but not her supposed quarry. He waited a few seconds for an answer. Getting none, he turned to see the two officers observing him closely.
“Why do you ask, son?” Dodge said quietly. In Sam Dodge, gentleness could be a real warning flag.
Tyler thought this one over for a few seconds. He’d given Ryan his word. Could he phrase his answer without compromising it and still find out what he wanted? Yes, he decided. There was an investigative side to Skip Tyler’s character, and once he was onto something, his psyche compelled him to run it down.
“Admiral, do they have a missile sub at sea, a brand new one?”
Dodge stood very straight. Even so he still had to look up at the younger man. When he spoke, his voice was glacial. “Exactly where did you get that information, Commander?”
Tyler shook his head. “Admiral, I’m sorry, but I can’t say. It’s compartmented, sir. I think this is something you ought to know, and I’ll try to get it to you.”
Dodge backed off to try a different tack. “You used to work for me, Skip.” The admiral was unhappy. He’d bent a rule to show something to his former subordinate because he knew him well and was sorry that he had not received the command he had worked so hard for. Tyler was technically a civilian, even though his suits were still navy blue. What made it really bad was that he knew something himself. Dodge had given him some information, and Tyler wasn’t giving any back.
“Sir, I gave my word,” Skip apologized. “I will try to get this to you. That’s a promise, sir. May I use a phone?”
“Outer office,” Dodge said flatly. There were four telephones within sight.
Tyler went out and sat at a secretary’s desk. He took his notebook from a coat pocket and dialed the number on the card Ryan had left him.
“Acres,” a female voice answered.
“Could I speak to Dr. Ryan, please?”
“Dr. Ryan is not here at the moment.”
“Then…give me Admiral Greer, please.”
“One moment, please.”
“James Greer?” Dodge was behind him. “Is that who you’re working for?”
“This is Greer. Your name Skip Tyler?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You have that information for me?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“Where are you?”
“In the Pentagon, sir.”
“Okay, I want you to drive right up here. You know how to find the place? The guards at the main gate will be waiting for you. Get moving, son.” Greer hung up.
“You’re working for the CIA?” Dodge asked.
“Sir—I can’t say. If you will excuse me, sir, I have some information to deliver.”
“Mine?” the admiral demanded.
“No, sir. I already had it when I came in here. That’s the truth, Admiral. And I will try to get this back to you.”
“Call me,” Dodge ordered. “We’ll be here all night.”
CIA Headquarters
The drive up the George Washington Parkway was easier than he expected. The decrepit old highway was crowded with shoppers but moved along at a steady crawl. He got off at the right exit and presently found himself at the guard post for the main highway entrance to the CIA. The barrier was down.
“Your name Tyler, Oliver W.?” the guard asked. “ID please.” Tyler handed him his Pentagon pass.
“Okay, Commander. Pull your car right to the main entrance. Somebody will be there to meet you.”
It was another two minutes to the main entrance through mostly empty parking lots glazed with ice from yesterday’s melted snow. The armed guard who was waiting for him tried to help him out of the car. Tyler didn’t like to be helped. He shrugged him off. Another man was waiting for him under the canopied main entrance. They were waved right through to the elevator.
He found Admiral Greer sitting in front of his office fireplace, seemingly half asleep. Skip didn’t know that the DDI had only returned from England a few hours earlier. The admiral came to and ordered his plain-clothes security officer to withdraw. “You must be Skip Tyler. Come on over and sit down.”
“That’s quite a fire you have going there, sir.”
“I shouldn’t bother. Looking at a fire makes me go to sleep. Of course, I could use a little sleep right now. So, what do you have for me?”
“May I ask where Jack is?”
“You may ask. He’s away.”
“Oh.” Tyler unlocked his briefcase and removed the printout. “Sir, I ran the performance model for this Russian sub. May I ask her name?”
Greer chuckled. “Okay, you’ve earned that much. Her name is Red October. You’ll have to excuse me, son. I’ve had a busy couple of days, and being tired makes me forget my manners. Jack says you’re pretty sharp. So does your personnel file. Now, you tell me. What’ll she do?”
“Well, Admiral, we have a wide choice of data here, and—”
“The short version, Commander. I don’t play with computers. I have people who do that for me.”
“From seven to eighteen knots, the best bet is ten to twelve. With that speed range, you can figure a radiated noise level about the same as that of a Yankee doing six knots, but you’d have to factor reactor plant noise into that also. Moreover, the character of the noise will be different from what we’re used to. These multiple impeller models don’t put out normal propulsion noises. They seem to generate an irregular harmonic rumble. Did Jack tell you about this? It results from a back-pressure wave in the tunnels. This fights the water flow, and that makes the rumble. Evidently there’s no way around it. Our guys spent two years trying to find one. What they got was a new principle of hydrodynamics. The water almost acts like air in a jet engine at idle or low speed, except that water doesn’t compress like air
does. So, our guys will be able to detect something, but it will be different. They’re going to have to get used to a wholly new acoustical signature. Add to that the lower signal intensity, and you have a boat that will be harder to detect than anything they have at this time.”
“So that’s what all this says.” Greer riffled through the pages.
“Yes, sir. You’ll want to have your own people look through it. The model—the program, that is—could stand a little improvement. I didn’t have much time. Jack said you wanted this in a hurry. May I ask a question, sir?”
“You can try.” Greer leaned back, rubbing his eyes.
“Is, ah, Red October at sea? That’s it, isn’t it? They’re trying to locate her right now?” Tyler asked innocently.
“Uh huh, something like that. We couldn’t figure what these doors meant. Ryan said you might be able to, and I suppose he was right. You’ve earned your money, Commander. This data might just enable us to find her.”
“Admiral, I think Red October is up to something, maybe even trying to defect to the United States.”
Greer’s head came around. “Whatever makes you think that?”
“The Russkies have a major fleet operation in progress. They have subs all over the Atlantic, and it looks like they’re trying to blockade our coast. The story is a rescue job for a lost boat. Okay, but Jack shows up Monday with pictures of a new missile boat—and today I hear that all of their other missile boats have been recalled to port.” Tyler smiled. “That’s kind of an odd set of coincidences, sir.”
Greer turned and stared at the fire. He had just joined the DIA when the army and air force had pulled off the daring raid on the Song Tay prison camp twenty miles west of Hanoi. The raid had been a failure because the North Vietnamese had removed all of the captured pilots a few weeks before, something that aerial photographs could not determine. But everything else had gone perfectly. After penetrating hundreds of miles into hostile territory, the raiding force appeared entirely by surprise and caught many of the camp guards literally with their pants down. The Green Berets did a letter-perfect job of getting in and out. In the process they killed several hundred enemy troops, themselves sustaining a single casualty, a broken ankle. The most impressive part of the mission, however, was its secrecy. Operation KINGPIN had been rehearsed for months, and despite this its nature and objective had not been guessed by friend or enemy—until the day of the raid itself. On that day a young air force captain of intelligence went into his general’s office to ask if a deep-penetration raid into North Vietnam had been laid on for the Song Tay prisoner-of-war camp. His astonished commander proceeded to grill the captain at length, only to learn that the bright young officer had seen enough disjointed bits and pieces to construct a clear picture of what was about to happen. Events like this gave security officers peptic ulcers.