"Your verbal maneuvering is as skillful as ever."
"See? I haven't lost it yet." Jack was rather pleased with himself.
"I will insist that you bring the family out to Wyoming with us."
"You can always go over my head--talk to Cathy."
His Highness laughed. "Perhaps I will. Flying back tomorrow?"
"Yes, sir. I'm going to hit Hamleys for some toys."
"Get yourself some sleep, Jack. We'll have this argument again next year."
It was five hours earlier in Washington. Liz Elliot stared across her desk at Bob Holtzman, who covered the White House. Like the permanent staffers here, Holtzman had seen them come and go, outlasting them all. His greater experience in the building was something of a paradox. Though necessarily cut out of the really good stuff--Holtzman knew that there were some secrets he'd never see until years too late to make a story of them; that was the work of historians--his skill at reading nuances and catching whiffs would have earned him a senior place at any intelligence agency. But his paper paid much better than any government agency, especially since he'd also penned a few best-selling books on life at the highest levels of government.
"This is deep background?"
"That's right," the National Security Advisor said.
Holtzman nodded and made his notes. That set the rules. No direct quotes. Elizabeth Elliot could be referred to as an "administration official," or in the plural as "sources within." He looked up from his notebook--tape recorders were also out for this sort of interview--and waited. Liz Elliot liked her drama. She was a bright woman, somewhat elitist--not an uncommon trait in White House officialdom--and definitely the person closest to the President, if he was reading the signals right. But that was none of the public's business. The probable love affair between the President and his National Security Advisor was no longer a complete secret. The White House staffers were as discreet as ever--more, in fact. He found it odd that they should be so. Fowler was not the most lovable of men. Perhaps they felt sympathy for what had to be a lonely man. The circumstances of his wife's death were well known, and had probably added a percentage point of sympathy votes in the last election. Maybe the staffers thought he'd change with a steady romance in his life. Maybe they were just being good professionals. (That distinguished them from political appointees, Holtzman thought. Nothing was sacred to them.) Maybe Fowler and Elliot were just being very careful. In any case, the White House press had discussed it off and on at The Confidential Source, the bar at the National Press Club building, just two blocks away, and it had been decided that Fowler's love life was not properly a matter of public interest so long as it did not injure his job performance. After all, his foreign-policy performance was pretty good. Euphoria from the Vatican Treaty and its stunningly favorable aftermath had never gone away. You couldn't slam a president who was doing so fine a job.
"We may have a problem with the Russians," Elliot began.
"Oh?" Holtzman was caught by surprise for once.
"We have reason to believe that Narmonov is having considerable difficulty dealing with his senior military commanders. That could have effects on final compliance with the arms treaty."
"How so?"
"We have reason to believe that the Soviets will resist elimination of some of their SS-18 stocks. They're already behind in destruction of the missiles."
Reason to believe. Twice. Holtzman thought about that for a moment. A very sensitive source, probably a spy rather than an intercept. "They say that there's a problem with the destruct facility. The inspectors we have over there seem to believe them."
"Possibly the factory was designed with--what do you call it? Creative incompetence."
"What's the Agency say?" Holtzman asked, scribbling his notes just as fast as he could.
"They gave us the initial report, but so far they've been unable to get us a real opinion."
"What about Ryan? He's pretty good on the Soviets."
"Ryan's turning into a disappointment," Liz said. "As a matter of fact--and this is something you can't say, you can't use his name--we have a little investigation going that's turned up some disturbing data."
"Like?"
"Like I think we're getting skewed data. Like I think a senior Agency official is having an affair with a person of foreign birth, and there may be a child involved."
"Ryan?"
The National Security Advisor shook her head. "Can't confirm or deny. Remember the rules."
"I won't forget," Holtzman replied, hiding his annoyance. Did she think she was dealing with Jimmy Olsen?
"The problem is, it looks like he knows we don't like what he's telling us, and as a result he's trying to put a spin on the data to please us. This is a time when we really need good stuff from Langley, but we're not getting it."
Holtzman nodded thoughtfully. That was not exactly a new problem at Langley, but Ryan wasn't that sort, was he? The reporter set that aside. "And Narmonov?"
"If what we're getting is in any way correct, he may be on the way out, whether from the right or the left, we can't say. It may be that he's losing it."
"That's solid?"
"It appears so. The part about blackmail from his security forces is very disturbing. But with our problems at Langley . . ." Liz held up her hands.
"Just when things were going so well, too. I guess you're having problems with Cabot?"
"He's learning his job pretty well. If he had better support, he'd be okay."
"How worried are you?" Holtzman asked.
"Very much so. This is a time when we need good intel, but we're not getting it. How the hell can we figure out what to do about Narmonov unless we get good information. So what do we get?" Liz asked in exasperation. "Our hero is running around doing stuff that really doesn't concern his agency--he's gone over people's heads to the Hill on some things--doing a Chicken Little act on one thing while at the same time he's not getting Cabot good analysis on what appears to be a major issue. Of course, he has his distractions...."
Our hero, Holtzman thought. What an interesting choice of words. She really hates the guy, doesn't she. Holtzman knew the fact, but not the reason. There was no reason for her to be jealous of him. Ryan had never shown great ambition, at least not in a political sense. He was a pretty good man, by all accounts. The reporter remembered his one public faux pas, a confrontation with Al Trent which, Holtzman was certain, must have been staged. Ryan and Trent got along very well now by all accounts. What could possibly have been important enough to stage something like that? Ryan had two intelligence stars--what for, Holtzman had never been able to find out. Just rumors, five different versions of four different stories, probably all of them false. Ryan wasn't all that popular with the press. The reason was that he had never really leaked anything. He took secrecy a little too seriously. On the other hand, he didn't try to curry favor either, and Holtzman respected anyone who avoided that. Of one thing he was sure: he had gravely underestimated the antipathy for Ryan in the Fowler Administration.
I'm being manipulated. That was as obvious as a peacock in a barnyard. Very cleverly, of course. The bit about the Russians was probably genuine. The Central Intelligence Agency's inability to get vital information to the White House wasn't exactly new either, was it? That was probably true also. So where was the lie? Or was there a lie at all? Maybe they just wanted to get truthful but sensitive information out ... in the normal way. It wasn't the first time he'd learned things in the northwest-corner office of the White House West Wing.
Could Holtzman not do a story on this?
Not hardly, Bobby boy, the reporter told himself.
The ride home was smooth as silk. Ryan caught as much sleep as he could, while the sergeant who took care of the cabin read through assembly instructions for some of the toys Jack had picked up.
"Yo, Sarge." The pilot was back in the cabin for a stretch. "Whatcha doin'?"
"Well, Maj, our DV here picked up some stuff for the kiddies." The NCO handed ove
r a page of directions. Tab-1 into Slot-A, use 7/8ths bolt, tighten with a wrench, using ...
"I think I'd rather tinker with broke engines."
"Roger that," the sergeant agreed. "This guy's got some bad times ahead."
24
REVELATION
"I don't like being used," Holtzman said, leaning back with his hands clasped at the base of his neck.
He sat in the conference room with his managing editor, another long-term Washington-watcher who'd won his spurs in the feeding frenzy that had ended the presidency of Richard Nixon. Those had been heady times. It had given the entire American media a taste for blood that had never gone away. The only good part about it, Holtzman thought, was that they didn't cozy up to anyone now. Any politician was a potential target for the righteous wrath of America's investigatorial priesthood. The fact of it was healthy, though the extent of it occasionally was not.
"That's beside the point. Who does? So what do we know is true?" the editor asked.
"We have to believe her that the White House isn't getting good data. That's nothing new at CIA, though it's not as bad as it used to be. The fact of the matter is that Agency performance has improved somewhat--well, there is the problem that Cabot has lopped off a lot of heads. We also have to believe what she says about Narmonov and his military."
"And Ryan?"
"I've met him at social functions, never officially. He's actually a fairly nice guy, good sense of humor. He must have a hell of a record. Two Intelligence Stars--what for, we do not know. He fought Cabot on downsizing the Operations Directorate, evidently saved a few jobs. He's moved up very fast. Al Trent likes him despite that run-in they had a few years ago. There's gotta be a story in that, but Trent flatly refused to discuss it the only time I asked him. Supposedly they kissed and made up, and I believe that like I believe in the Easter Bunny."
"Is he the sort to play around?" the editor asked next.
"What sort is that? You expect they're issued a scarlet 'A' for their shirts?"
"Very clever, Bob. So what the hell are you asking me?"
"Do we run a story on this or not?"
The editor's eyes widened in surprise. "Are you kidding? How can we not run a story on this?"
"I just don't like being used."
"We've been through that! I don't either. Granted that it's obvious in this case, but it's still an important story, and if we don't run it, then the Times will. How soon will you have it ready?"
"Soon," Holtzman promised. Now he knew why he'd declined a promotion to assistant managing editor. He didn't need the money; his book income absolved him of the necessity of working at all. He liked being a journalist, still had his idealism, still cared about what he did. It was a further blessing, he thought, that he was absolved of the necessity of making executive decisions.
The new feed-water pump was everything the Master Shipwright had promised on the installation side, Captain Dubinin noted. They'd practically had to dismantle a whole compartment to get it in, plus torch a hole through the submarine's double hull. He could still look up and see sky through what should have been a curved steel overhead, something very unnerving indeed for a submarine officer. They had to make sure that the pump worked satisfactorily before they welded shut the "soft patch" through which it had arrived. It could have been worse. This submarine had a steel hull. Those Soviet submarines made of titanium were the devil to weld shut.
The pump/steam-generator room was immediately aft of the reactor compartment. In fact the reactor vessel abutted the bulkhead on the forward side, and the pump assembly on the after side. The pump circulated water in and out of the reactor. The saturated steam went into the steam-generator, where it ran through an interface. There its heat caused water in the "outside" or nonradioactive loop to flash to steam, which then turned the submarine's turbine engines (in turn driving the propeller through reduction gears). The "inner loop" steam, with most of its energy lost, then ran through a condenser that was cooled by seawater from outside the hull, and was pumped as water back into the bottom of the reactor vessel for reheating to continue the cycle. The steam-generator and condenser were actually the same large structure, and the same multistage pump handled all of the circulation. This one mechanical object was the acoustical Achilles' heel of all nuclear-powered ships. The pump had to exchange vast quantities of water that was "hot" both thermally and radioactively. Doing that much mechanical work had always meant making a large amount of noise. Until now.
"It's an ingenious design," Dubinin said.
"It should be. The Americans spent ten years perfecting it for their missile submarines, then decided not to use it. The design team was crushed."
The Captain grunted. The new American reactor designs were able to use natural convection-circulation. One more technical advantage. They were so damnably clever. As both men waited, the reactor was powering up. Control rods were being withdrawn, and free neutrons from the fuel elements were beginning to interact, starting a controlled nuclear chain-reaction. At the control panel behind the Captain and the Admiral, technicians called off temperature readings in degrees Kelvin, which started at absolute zero and used Celsius measurements.
"Any time now ... ," the Master Shipwright breathed.
"You've never seen it in operation?" Dubinin asked.
"No."
Marvelous, the Captain thought, looking up at the sky. What a horrible thing to see from inside a submarine. "What was that?"
"The pump just kicked in."
"You're joking." He looked at the massive, multibarrel assembly. He couldn't--Dubinin walked over to the instrument panel and--
Dubinin laughed out loud.
"It works, Captain," the chief engineer said.
"Keep running up the power," Dubinin said.
"Ten percent now, and rising."
"Take it all the way to one-ten."
"Captain ..."
"I know, we never go over a hundred." The reactor was rated for fifty thousand horsepower, but like most such machines, the maximum power rating was conservative. It had been run at nearly fifty-eight thousand--once, on builder's trials, resulting in minor damage to the steam-generator's internal plumbing--and the maximum useful power was fifty-four-point-nine-six. Dubinin had only done that once, soon after taking command. It was something a ship's commander did, just as a fighter pilot must find out at least one time how fast he can make his aircraft lance through the air.
"Very well," the engineer agreed.
"Keep a close eye on things, Ivan Stepanovich. If you see any problems, shut down at once." Dubinin patted him on the shoulder and walked back to the front of the compartment, hoping the welders had done their jobs properly. He shrugged at the thought. The welds had all been X-rayed for possible faults. You couldn't worry about everything, and he had a fine chief engineer to keep an eye on things.
"Twenty-percent power."
The Master Shipwright looked around. The pump had also been mounted on its own small raft structure, essentially a table with spring-loaded legs. They largely prevented transmission of whatever noise the pump generated into the hull, and from there into the water. That, he thought, had been poorly designed. Well, there were always things to be done better. Building ships was one of the last true engineering art forms.
"Twenty-five."
"I can hear something now," Dubinin said.
"Speed equivalent?"
"With normal hotel load"--that meant the power required to operate various ship's systems ranging from air conditioning to reading lights--"ten knots." The Akula-class required a great deal of electric power for her internal systems. That was due mainly to the primitive air-conditioning systems, which alone ate up ten percent of reactor output. "We need seventeen-percent power for hotel loadings before we start turning the screw. Western systems are much more efficient."
The Master Shipwright nodded grumpily. "They have a vast industry concerned with environmental engineering. We do not have the infrastructure to do the
proper research yet."
"They have a much hotter climate. I was in Washington once, in July. Hell could scarcely be worse."
"That bad?"
"The embassy chap who took me around said it was once a malarial swamp. They've even had yellow fever epidemics there. Miserable climate."
"I didn't know that."
"Thirty percent," the engineer called.
"When were you there?" the Admiral asked.
"Over ten years ago, for the Incidents at Sea negotiations. My first and last diplomatic adventure. Some headquarters fool thought they needed a submariner. I was drafted out of Frunze for it. Total waste of time," Dubinin added.
"How was it?"
"Dull. The American submarine types are arrogant. Not very friendly back then." Dubinin paused. "No, that's not fair. The political climate was very different. The hospitality was cordial, but reserved. They took us to a baseball game."
"And?" the Admiral asked.
The Captain smiled. "The food and beer were enjoyable. The game was incomprehensible, and their explanations just made things worse."
"Forty percent."
"Twelve knots," Dubinin said. "The noise is picking up...."
"But?"
"But it's a fraction of what the old pump put out. My men have to wear ear protection in here. At full speed the noise is terrible."
"We'll see. Did you learn anything interesting in Washington?"
Another grunt. "Not to walk the streets alone. I went out for a stroll and saw some poor woman attacked by a street hooligan, and, you know, that was only a few blocks from the White House!"
"Really?"
"The young crook tried to run right past me with her purse. Like something from a film. It was quite amazing."
"Tried to?"
"Did I ever tell you I was a good football player? I tackled him, a little too enthusiastically. Broke his kneecap, as a matter of fact." Dubinin smiled, remembering the injury he'd inflicted on the worthless bastard. Concrete sidewalks were so much harder than a grassy football pitch....
the Sum Of All Fears (1991) Page 58