by Tom Clancy
“I know. That’s why I flew out. In writing it would never sell.”
“What do you know about Russian sonar that we don’t?”
“Getting better ... approaching where we were, oh, ten or twelve years ago. They pay more attention to broad-band than we do—that’s changing now. I sold the Pentagon on taking another look at the broad-band integration system Texas Instruments has been working on. Commander, what you said before about being a black hole. It cuts both ways. You can’t see a black hole, but you can detect it. What if you track an Ohio by what should be there but isn’t?”
“Background noise?”
“Yep.” Jones nodded. “You make a hole in it. You make a black spot where there’s no noise. If he can really isolate a line of bearing on his gear, and if he’s got really good filters, and one dynamite sonar operator, I think it’s possible—if something else cues you in.”
“That’s real thin.”
Jones granted that observation. “But it’s not impossible. I ran the numbers. It’s not good, but it’s not impossible. Moreover, we can track below ambient now. Maybe they can, too. I’m hearing they’ve started turning out a new large-aperture tail—the one designed by the guys outside Murmansk. Good as a BQR-15 used to be.”
“I don’t believe it,” Mancuso said.
“I do, skipper. It’s not new technology. What do we know about Lunin?”
“She’s in overhaul right now. Let’s see.” Mancuso turned to look at the polar-projection chart on his office wall. “If that was him, then if he headed straight back to base ... it’s possible, technically speaking, but you’re assuming a hell of a lot.”
“I’m saying that this bird was just in the neighborhood when you fired that water slug, that you headed south, and so did he, that you gave him a hull transient which he reacted to, and then he broke contact on his own. The data is thin, but it fits—maybe, I grant you, maybe. That’s what they pay me for, guys.”
“I commended Ricks for rattling Omaha’s cage like that,” Mancuso said after a moment. “I want aggressive skippers.”
Jones chuckled to break the tension in the room. “I wonder why, Bart?”
“Dutch knows about that job we had on the beach, that pickup we did.”
“That was a little exciting,” Jones admitted.
“One chance in three....”
“The probability increases if you assume the other skipper is smart. Dubinin had a great teacher.”
“What are you two talking about?” Lieutenant Commander Claggett asked in some exasperation.
“You know we have all sorts of data on the Russian Typhoon class, lots more on their torpedoes. Ever wonder how we got all that data, Commander?”
“Ron, goddamn it!”
“I didn’t break any rules, skipper, and besides, he needs to know.”
“I can’t do that and you know it.”
“Fine, Bart.” Jones paused. “Commander, you may speculate on how we got all that information in one great big lump. You might even guess right.”
Claggett had heard a few rumbles, like why the Eight-Ten dock at Norfolk had been closed so long a few years before. There was a story floated about, spoken only in submarine wardrooms far at sea and well below the surface, that somehow the U.S. Navy had gotten its hands on a Russian missile sub, how a very strange reactor had turned up at the Navy’s nuclear-power school in Idaho for tests and then had disappeared, how complete drawings and some hardware from Soviet torpedoes had magically appeared in Groton, and how two night missile shots out of Vandenberg Air Force Base had not appeared to be American missiles at all. Lots of operational intelligence had come into the fleet, very good stuff, stuff that sounded like it had come from someone who knew what the hell he was talking about—not always the case with intelligence information—on Soviet submarine tactics and training. Claggett needed only look at Mancuso’s uniform to see the ribbon that denoted a Distinguished Service Medal, America’s highest peacetime decoration. The ribbon had a star on it, indicating a second such award. Mancuso was rather young for a squadron command, and very young indeed to be selected for Rear Admiral (Lower Half). And here was a former enlisted man who’d sailed with Mancuso, and now called him Bart. He nodded to Dr. Jones.
“I get the picture. Thanks.”
“You’re saying operator error?”
Jones frowned. He didn’t know all that much about Harry Ricks. “Mainly bad luck. Call it good luck, even. Nothing bad happened, and we’ve learned something. We know more about the Akula than we used to. A weird set of circumstances came together. Won’t happen again in a hundred years, maybe. Your skipper was a victim of circumstance, and the other guy—if there was another guy there—was very damned sharp. Hey, the important thing about mistakes is that you learn from them, right?”
“Harry gets back in ten days,” Mancuso said. “Can you be back here then?”
“Sorry,” Jones said with a shake of the head. “I’m going to be in England. I’m going out on HMS Turbulent for a few days of hide ‘n’ seek. The Brits have a new processor that we need to look at, and I drew the duty.”
“You’re not going to ask me to present this to the CO, are you, sir?” Claggett asked after a minute’s reflection.
“No, Dutch ... you trying to tell me something?”
It was Claggett’s turn to look unhappy. “Sir, he’s my boss, and he’s not a bad boss, but he is a little positive in his thinking.”
That was artfully done, Jones thought. Not a bad boss ... a little positive. He just called his skipper an idiot in a way that no one could ever call disloyal. Ron wondered what sort of hypernuc-engineer this Ricks was. The good news was that this XO had his act together. And a smart skipper listened to his XO.
“Skipper, how’s Mr. Chambers doing?”
“Just took over Key West. Got a kid you trained as his leading sonarman. Billy Zerwinski, just made chief, I hear.”
“Oh, yeah? Good for him. I figured Mr. Chambers was going places, but Billy Z as a chief? What is my Navy coming to?”
“This is taking forever,” Qati observed sourly. His skin was pasty white. The man was suffering again from his drug treatment.
“That is false,” Fromm replied sternly. “I told you several months, and it will be several months. The first time this was done, it took three years and the resources of the world’s richest nation. I will do it for you in an eighth of that time, and on a shoestring budget. In a few days we’ll start to work on the rhodium. That will be much easier.”
“And the plutonium?” Ghosn asked.
“That will be the last metal work—you know why, of course.”
“Yes, Herr Fromm, and we must be extremely careful, since when you work with a critical mass you must be careful that it does not become critical while you are forming it,” Ghosn replied, allowing his exacerbation to show for a change. He was tired. He’d been at work for eighteen hours now, supervising the workers. “And the tritium?”
“Last of all. Again the obvious reason. It is relatively unstable, and we want the tritium we use to be as pure as possible.”
“Quite so.” Ghosn yawned, barely having heard the answer to his question, and not troubling himself to wonder why Fromm had answered as he had.
For his part Fromm made a mental note. Palladium. He needed a small quantity of palladium. How had he forgotten that? He grunted to himself. Long hours, miserable climate, surly workers and associates. A small price to pay, of course, for this opportunity. He was doing what only a handful of men had ever done, and he was doing it in such a way as to equal the work of Fermi and the rest in 1944-5. It was not often that a man could measure himself against the giants and come off well in the comparison. He found himself wondering idly what the weapon would be used for, but admitted to himself that he didn’t care, not really. Well, he had other work to do.
The German walked across the room to where the milling machines were. Here another team of technicians were at work. The beryllium piece now o
n the machine had the most intricate shape and had been the hardest to program, with concave, convex, and other complex curves. The machine was computer-controlled, of course, but was kept under constant observation through the Lexan panels that isolated the machining area from the outside world. The area was ventilated upwards into an electrostatic air-cleaner. There was no sense in just dumping the metallic dust into the external air—in fact, doing so constituted a major security hazard. Over the electrostatic collection plates was a solid two meters of earth. Beryllium was not radioactive, but plutonium was, and plutonium would presently be worked on this very same machine. The beryllium was both necessary to the device and good practice for later tasks.
The milling machine was everything Fromm had hoped for when he’d ordered it several years before. The computer-driven tools were monitored by lasers, producing a degree of perfection that could not have been achieved so quickly as recently as five years ago. The surface of the beryllium was jeweled from the machining, already looking like the finish on a particularly fine rifle bolt, and this was only the first stage of machining. The data readout on the machine showed tolerances measured in angstroms. The toolhead was spinning at 25,000 rpm, not so much grinding as burning off irregularities. Separate instruments kept a computer eye on the work being done, both measuring tolerances and waiting for the toolhead to show signs of wear, at which point the machine would automatically stop and replace the tool with a fresh one. Technology was wonderful. What had once been the work of specially trained master machinists overseen by Nobel Prize winners was now being done by microchips.
The actual casing for the device was already fabricated. Ellipsoidal in shape, it was 98 centimeters in length by 52 in extreme breadth. Made of steel one centimeter in thickness, it had to be strong, but not grossly so, just enough to hold a vacuum. Also ready for installation were curved blocks of polyethylene and polyurethane foam, because a device of this sort required the special properties of both the strongest and the flimsiest materials. They had gotten ahead of themselves in some areas, of course, but there was no sense in wasting time or idle hands. On another machine, workers were practicing yet again on a stainless-steel blank that simulated the folded-cylinder plutonium reaction-mass primary. It was their seventh such practice session. Despite the sophistication of the machines, the first two had gone badly, as expected. By number five they had figured most of the process out, and the sixth attempt had been good enough to work—but not good enough for Fromm. The German had a simple mental model for the overall task, one formulated by America’s National Aeronautics and Space Administration to describe the first moon landing. In order for the device to perform as desired, a complex series of individual events had to take place in an inhumanly precise sequence. He viewed the process as a walk through a series of gates. The wider the gates were, the easier it would be to walk through them quickly. Plus/minus tolerances reflected slight closure of the individual gates. Fromm wanted zero tolerances. He wanted every single part of the weapon to match his design criteria as exactly as the available technology made possible. The closer to perfection he could get, the more likely it was that the device would perform exactly as he predicted ... or even better, part of him thought. Unable to experiment, unable to find empirical solutions to complex theoretical problems, he’d overengineered the weapon, provided an energy budget that was several orders of magnitude beyond what was really necessary for the projected yield. That explained the vast quantity of tritium he planned to use, more than five times what was really needed in a theoretical sense. That carried its own problems, of course. His tritium supply was several years old, and some parts of it had decayed into 3He, a decidedly undesirable isotope of helium, but by filtering the tritium through palladium he’d separate the tritium out, ensuring a proper total yield. American and Soviet bombmakers could get away with far less of it, because of their extensive experimentation, but Fromm had his own advantage. He did not have to concern himself with a long shelf-life for his device, and that was a luxury that his Soviet and American counterparts did not have. It was the only advantage he had over them, and Fromm planned to make full use of it. As with most parts of bomb design, it was an advantage that cut both ways, but Fromm knew he had full control over the device. Palladium, he told himself. Mustn’t forget that. But he had plenty of time.
“Finished.” The head of the team waved for Fromm to look. The stainless-steel blank came off the machine easily, and he handed it to Fromm. It was thirty centimeters in length. The shape was complex, what one would get from taking a large water tumbler and bending its top outside and down toward the base. It would not hold water because of a hole in the center of what might have been the bottom—actually it would, Fromm told himself a second later, just in the wrong way. The blank weighed about three kilograms, and every surface was mirror-smooth. He held it up to the light to check for imperfections and irregularities. His eyes were not that good. The quality of the finish was easier to understand mathematically than visually. The surface, so said the machine, was accurate to a thousandth of a micron, or a fraction of a single wavelength of light.
“It is a jewel,” Ghosn observed, standing behind Fromm. The machinist beamed.
“Adequate,” was Fromm’s judgment. He looked at the machinist. “When you’ve made five more equally as good, I will be satisfied. Every metal segment must be of this quality. Begin another,” he told the machinist. Fromm handed the blank to Ghosn and walked away.
“Infidel,” the machinist growled under his breath.
“Yes, he is,” Ghosn agreed. “But he is the most skilled man I have ever met.”
“I’d rather work for a Jew.”
“This is magnificent work,” Ghosn said to change the subject.
“I would not have believed it possible to polish metal so precisely. This machine is incredible. I could make anything with it.”
“That is good. Make another of these,” Ghosn told him with a smile.
“As you say.”
Ghosn walked to Qati’s room. The Commander was looking at a plate of simple foods, but unable to touch it for fear of retching.
“Perhaps this will make you feel better,” Ghosn told him.
“That is?” Qati said, taking it.
“That is what the plutonium will look like.”
“Like glass ...”
“Smoother than that. Smooth enough for a laser mirror. I could tell you the accuracy of the surface, but you’ve never seen anything that small in your life anyway. Fromm is a genius.”
“He’s an arrogant, overbearing—”
“Yes, Commander, he is all of that, but he is exactly the man we need. I could never have done this myself. Perhaps, given a year or two, perhaps I might have been able to rework that Israeli bomb into something that would work—the problems were far more complex than I knew only a few weeks ago. But this Fromm ... what I am learning from him! By the time we are finished, I will be able to do it again on my own!”
“Really?”
“Commander, do you know what engineering is?” Ghosn asked. “It is like cooking. If you have the right recipe, the right book, and the right ingredients, anyone can do it. Certainly this task is a hard one, but the principle holds. You must know how to use the various mathematical formulae, but they are all in books also. It is merely a question of education. With computers, the proper tools—and a good teacher, which this Fromm bastard is ...”
“Then why haven’t more—”
“The hard part is getting the ingredients, specifically the plutonium or U-235. That requires a nuclear reactor plant of a specific type or the new centrifuge technology. Either represents a vast investment, and one which is difficult to conceal. It also explains the remarkable security measures taken in the handling and transport of bombs and their components. The oft-told tale that bombs are hard to make is a lie.”
18
PROGRESS
Wellington had three men working for him. Each was an experienced investigator, a
ccustomed to politically sensitive cases which demanded the utmost discretion. His job was to identify likely areas of field investigation, then to examine and correlate the information they returned to his office in the Justice Department. The tricky part was to gather the information without notice going back to the target of the probe, and Wellington correctly thought that that part of the task would be particularly difficult with a target like Ryan. The DDCI was nothing if not perceptive. His previous job had qualified him as a man who could hear the grass grow and read tea leaves with the best of them. That meant going slow ... but not too slow. It also seemed likely to the young attorney that the purpose of his investigation was not to produce data suitable for a grand jury, which gave him quite a bit more leeway than he might otherwise have had. He doubted that Ryan could have been so foolish as to have actually broken any law. The SEC rules had been grazed, perhaps bent, but on inspection of the SEC investigation documents, it was clear that Ryan’s action had, arguably, been made in good faith and full expectation that he had not violated any statute. That judgment might have been technical on Ryan’s part, but the law was technical. The Securities and Exchange Commission could have pushed, and might even have gotten an indictment, but they would never have gotten a conviction ... maybe they could have muscled him into a settlement and/or a consent decree, but Wellington doubted that also. They’d suggested it as a sign of good faith and he had answered with a flat no. Ryan was not a man to tolerate being pushed around. This man had killed people. That didn’t frighten Wellington in any way. It was merely an indicator of the man’s strength of character. Ryan was a tough, formidable son of a bitch who met things head-on when he had to.
That’s his weakness, Wellington told himself.
He prefers to meet things head-on. He lacks subtlety. It was a common failing of the honest, and a grievous weakness in a political environment.
Ryan had political protectors, however. Trent and Fellows were nothing if not canny political craftsmen.