by Tom Clancy
“I got a message from the Pentagon for you.” The superintendent of the Naval Academy, a former submarine officer, sat down. “You have an appointment tonight at 1930 hours. That’s all they said.”
“Great!” Tyler was just finishing his lunch. He’d been working on the simulation program nearly around the clock since Monday. The appointment meant that he would have access to the air force’s Cray-2 tonight. His program was just about ready.
“What’s this all about anyway?”
“Sorry, sir, I can’t say. You know how it is.”
The White House
The Soviet ambassador was back at four in the afternoon. To avoid press notice he had been taken into the Treasury building across the street from the White House and brought through a connecting tunnel which few knew existed. The president hoped that he had found this unsettling. Pelt hustled in to be there when Arbatov arrived.
“Mr. President,” Arbatov reported, standing at attention. The president had not known that he had any military experience. “I am instructed to convey to you the regrets of my government that there has not been time to inform you of this. One of our nuclear submarines is missing and presumed lost. We are conducting an emergency rescue operation.”
The president nodded soberly, motioning the ambassador to a chair. Pelt sat next to him.
“This is somewhat embarrassing, Mr. President. You see, in our navy as in yours, duty on a nuclear submarine is a posting of the greatest importance, and consequently those selected for it are among our best educated and trusted men. In this particular case several members of the crew — the officers, that is — are sons of high Party officials. One is even the son of a Central Committee member — I cannot say which, of course. The Soviet Navy’s great effort to find her sons is understandable, though I admit a bit undisciplined.” Arbatov feigned embarrassment beautifully, speaking as though he were confiding a great family secret. “Therefore, this has developed into what your people call an ‘all hands’ operation. As you undoubtedly know, it was undertaken virtually overnight.”
“I see,” the president said sympathetically. “That makes me feel a little better, Alex. Jeff, I think it’s late enough in the day. How about you fix us all a drink. Bourbon, Alex?”
“Yes, thank you, sir.”
Pelt walked over to a rosewood cabinet against the wall. The ornate antique contained a small bar, complete with an ice bucket which was stocked every afternoon. The president often liked to have a drink or two before dinner, something else that reminded Arbatov of his countrymen. Dr. Pelt had had ample experience playing presidential bartender. In a few minutes he came back with three glasses in his hands.
“To tell you the truth, we rather suspected this was a rescue operation,” Pelt said.
“I don’t know how we get our young men to do this sort of work.” The president sipped at his drink. Arbatov worked hard on his. He had said frequently at local cocktail parties that he preferred American bourbon to his native vodka. Maybe it was true. “We’ve lost a pair of nuclear boats, I believe. How many does this make for you, three, four?”
“I don’t know, Mr. President. I expect your information on this is better than my own.” The president noted that he had just told the truth for the first time today. “Certainly I can agree with you that such duty is both dangerous and demanding.”
“How many men aboard, Alex?” the president asked.
“I have no idea. A hundred more or less, I suppose. I’ve never been aboard a naval vessel.”
“Mostly kids, probably, just like our crews. It is indeed a sad commentary on both our countries that our mutual suspicions must condemn so many of our best young men to such hazards, when we know that some won’t be coming back. But — how can it be otherwise?” The president paused, turning to look out the windows. The snow was melting on the South Lawn. It was time for his next line.
“Perhaps we can help,” the president offered speculatively. “Yes, perhaps we can use this tragedy as an opportunity to reduce those suspicions by some small amount. Perhaps we can make something good come from this to demonstrate that our relations really have improved.”
Pelt turned away, fumbling for his pipe. In their many years of friendship he could never understand how the president got away with so much. Pelt had met him at Washington University, when he was majoring in political science, the president in prelaw. Back then the chief executive had been president of the dramatics society. Certainly amateur theatrics had helped his legal career. It was said that at least one Mafia don had been sent up the river by sheer rhetoric. The president referred to it as his sincere act.
“Mr. Ambassador, I offer you the assistance and the resources of the United States in the search for your missing countrymen.”
“That is most kind of you, Mr. President, but—”
The president held his hand up. “No buts, Alex. If we cannot cooperate in something like this, how can we hope to cooperate in more serious matters? If memory serves, last year when one of our navy patrol aircraft crashed off the Aleutians, one of your fishing vessels”—it had been an intelligence trawler—“picked up the crew, saved their lives. Alex, we owe you a debt for that, a debt of honor, and the United States will not be said to be ungrateful.” He paused for effect. “They’re probably all dead, you know. I don’t suppose there’s more chance of surviving a sub accident than of surviving a plane crash. But at least the crew’s families will know. Jeff, don’t we have some specialized submarine rescue equipment?”
“With all the money we give the navy? We damned well ought to. I’ll call Foster about it.”
“Good,” the president said. “Alex, it is too much to expect that your mutual suspicions will be allayed by something so small as this. Your history and ours conspire against us. But let’s make a small beginning with this. If we can shake hands in space or over a conference table in Vienna, maybe we can do it here also. I will give the necessary instructions to my commanders as soon as we’re finished here.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.” Arbatov concealed his uneasiness.
“And please convey my respects to Chairman Narmonov and my sympathy for the families of your missing men. I appreciate his effort, and yours, in getting this information to us.”
“Yes. Mr. President.” Arbatov rose. He left after shaking hands. What were the Americans really up to? He’d warned Moscow: call it a rescue mission and they’d demand to help. It was their stupid Christmas season, and Americans were addicted to happy endings. It was madness not to call it something else — to hell with the protocol.
At the same time he was forced to admire the American president. A strange man, very open, yet full of guile. A friendly man most of the time, yet always ready to seize the advantage. He remembered stories his grandmother had told, about how the gypsies switched babies. The American president was very Russian.
“Well,” the president said after the doors closed, “now we can keep a nice close eye on them, and they can’t complain. They’re lying and we know it — but they don’t know we know. And we’re lying, and they certainly suspect it, but not why we’re lying. Gawd! and I told him this morning that not knowing was dangerous! Jeff, I’ve been thinking about this. I do not like the fact that so much of their navy is operating off our coast. Ryan was right, the Atlantic is our ocean. I want the air force and the navy to cover them like a goddamned blanket! That’s our ocean, and I damned well want them to know it.” The president finished off his drink. “On the question of the sub, I want our people to have a good look at it, and whoever of the crew wants to defect, we take care of. Quietly, of course.”
“Of course. As a practical matter, having the officers is as great a coup as having the submarine.”
“But the navy still wants to keep it.”
“I just don’t see how we can do that, not without eliminating the crewmen, and we can’t do that.”
“Agreed.” The president buzzed his secretary. “Get me General Hilton.”
The Pentagon
The air force’s computer center was in a subbasement of the Pentagon. The room temperature was well below seventy degrees. It was enough to make Tyler’s leg ache where it met the metal-plastic prothesis. He was used to that.
Tyler was sitting at a control console. He had just finished a trial run of his program, named MORAY after the vicious eel that inhabited oceanic reefs. Skip Tyler was proud of his programming ability. He’d taken the old dinosaur program from the files of the Taylor Lab, adapted it to the common Defense Department computer language, ADA — named for Lady Ada Lovelace, daughter of Lord Byron — and then tightened it up. For most people this would have been a month’s work. He’d done it in four days, working almost around the clock not only because the money was an attractive incentive but also because the project was a professional challenge. He ended the job quietly satisfied that he could still meet an impossible deadline with time to spare. It was eight in the evening. MORAY had just run through a one-variable-value test and not crashed. He was ready.
He’d never seen the Cray-2 before, except in photographs, and he was pleased to have a chance to use it. The -2 was five units of raw electrical power, each one roughly pentagonal in shape, about six feet high and four across. The largest unit was the main-frame processor bank; the other four were memory banks, arrayed around it in a cruciform configuration. Tyler typed in the command to load his variable sets. For each of the Red October’s main dimensions — length, beam, height — he input ten discrete numerical values. Then came six subtly different values for her hull form block and prismatic coefficients. There were five sets of tunnel dimensions. This aggregated to over thirty thousand possible permutations. Next he keyed in eighteen power variables to cover the range of possible engine systems. The Cray-2 absorbed this information and placed each number in its proper slot. It was ready to run.
“Okay,” he announced to the system operator, an air force master sergeant.
“Roge.” The sergeant typed “XQT” into his terminal. The Cray-2 went to work.
Tyler walked over to the sergeant’s console.
“That’s a right lengthy program you’ve input, sir.” The sergeant laid a ten-dollar bill on the top of the console. “Betcha my baby can run it in ten minutes.”
“Not a chance.” Tyler laid his own bill next to the sergeant’s. “Fifteen minutes, easy.”
“Split the difference?”
“Alright. Where’s the head around here?”
“Out the door, sir, turn right, go down the hall and it’s on the left.”
Tyler moved towards the door. It annoyed him that he could not walk gracefully, but after four years the inconvenience was a minor one. He was alive — that’s what counted. The accident had occurred on a cold, clear night in Groton, Connecticut, only a block from the shipyard’s main gate. On Friday at three in the morning he was driving home after a twenty-hour day getting his new command ready for sea. The civilian yard worker had had a long day also, stopping off at a favorite watering hole for a few too many, as the police established afterwards. He got into his car, started it, and ran a red light, ramming Tyler’s Pontiac broadside at fifty miles per hour. For him the accident was fatal. Skip was luckier. It was at an intersection, and he had the green light; when he saw the front end of the Ford not a foot from his left-side door, it was far too late. He did not remember going through a pawnshop window, and the next week, when he hovered near death at the Yale-New Haven hospital, was a complete blank. His most vivid memory was of waking up, eight days later he was to learn, to see his wife, Jean, holding his hand. His marriage up to that point had been a troubled one, not an uncommon problem for nuclear submarine officers. His first sight of her was not a complimentary one — her eyes were bloodshot, her hair was tousled — but she had never looked quite so good. He had never appreciated just how important she was. A lot more important than half a leg.
“Skip? Skip Tyler!”
The former submariner turned awkwardly to see a naval officer running towards him.
“Johnnie Coleman! How the hell are you!”
It was Captain Coleman now, Tyler noted. They had served together twice, a year on the Tecumseh, another on the Shark. Coleman, a weapons expert, had commanded a pair of nuclear subs.
“How’s the family, Skip?”
“Jean’s fine. Five kids now, and another on the way.”
“Damn!” they shook hands with enthusiasm. “You always were a randy bugger. I hear you’re teaching at Annapolis.”
“Yeah, and a little engineering stuff on the side.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m running a program on the air force computer. Checking a new ship configuration for Sea Systems Command.” It was an accurate enough cover story. “What do they have you doing?”
“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.<
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“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.
