by Tom Clancy
At the moment he was reading alone in White’s sea cabin, which had become his permanent home aboard. Ritter had thoughtfully tucked a CIA staff study into his duffle bag. Entitled “Lost Children: A Psychological Profile of East Bloc Defectors,” the three-hundred-page document had been drafted by a committee of psychologists and psychiatrists who worked with the CIA and other intelligence agencies helping defectors settle into American life—and, he was sure, helping spot security risks in the CIA. Not that there were many of those, but there were two sides to everything the Company did.
Ryan admitted to himself that this was pretty interesting stuff. He had never really thought about what makes a defector, figuring that there were enough things happening on the other side of the Iron Curtain to make any rational person want to take whatever chance he got to run west. But it was not that simple, he read, not that simple at all. Everyone who came over was a fairly unique individual. While one might recognize the inequities of life under Communism and yearn for justice, religious freedom, a chance to develop as an individual, another might simply want to get rich, having read about how greedy capitalists exploit the masses and decided that being an exploiter has its good points. Ryan found this interesting if cynical.
Another defector type was the fake, the imposter, someone planted on the CIA as a living piece of disinformation. But this kind of character could cut both ways. He might ultimately turn out to be a genuine defector. America, Ryan smiled, could be pretty seductive to someone used to the gray life in the Soviet Union. Most of the plants, however, were dangerous enemies. For this reason a defector was never trusted. Never. A man who had changed countries once could do it again. Even the idealists had doubts, great pangs of conscience at having deserted their motherland. In a footnote a doctor commented that the most wounding punishment for Aleksander Solzhenitsyn was exile. As a patriot, being alive far from his home was more of a torment than living in a gulag. Ryan found that curious, but enough so to be true.
The rest of the document addressed the problem of getting them settled. Not a few Soviet defectors had committed suicide after a few years. Some had simply been unable to cope with freedom, the way that long-term prison inmates often fail to function without highly structured control over their lives and commit new crimes hoping to return to their safe environment. Over the years the CIA had developed a protocol for dealing with this problem, and a graph in an appendix showed that the severe maladjustment cases were trending dramatically down. Ryan took his time reading. While getting his doctorate in history at Georgetown University he had used a little free time to audit some psychology classes. He had come away with the gut suspicion that shrinks didn’t really know much of anything, that they got together and agreed on random ideas they could all use…He shook his head. His wife occasionally said that, too. A clinical instructor in ophthalmic surgery on an exchange program at St. Guy’s Hospital in London, Caroline Ryan regarded everything as cut and dried. If someone had eye trouble, she would either fix it or not fix it. A mind was different, Jack decided after reading through the document a second time, and each defector had to be treated as an individual, handled carefully by a sympathetic case officer who had both the time and inclination to look after him properly. He wondered if he’d be good at it.
Admiral White walked in. “Bored, Jack?”
“Not exactly, Admiral. When do we make contact with the Soviets?”
“This evening. Your chaps have given them a very rough time over that Tomcat incident.”
“Good. Maybe people will wake up before something really bad happens.”
“You think it will?” White sat down.
“Well, Admiral, if they really are hunting a missing sub, yes. If not, then they’re here for another purpose entirely, and I’ve guessed wrong. Worse than that, I’ll have to live with that misjudgment—or die with it.”
Norfolk Naval Medical Center
Tait was feeling better. Dr. Jameson had taken over for several hours, allowing him to curl up on a couch in the doctor’s lounge for five hours. That was the most sleep he ever seemed to get in one shot, but it was sufficient to make him look indecently chipper to the rest of the floor staff. He made a quick phone call and some milk was sent up. As a Mormon, Tait avoided everything with caffeine—coffee, tea, even cola drinks—and though this type of self-discipline was unusual for a physician, to say nothing of a uniformed officer, he scarcely thought about it except on rare occasions when he pointed out its longevity benefits to his brother practitioners. Tait drank his milk and shaved in the restroom, emerging ready to face another day.
“Any word on the radiation exposure, Jamie?”
The radiology lab had struck out. “They brought a nucleonics officer over from a sub tender, and he scanned the clothes. There was a possible twenty-rad contamination, not enough for frank physiological effects. I think what it might have been was that the nurse took the sample from the back of his hand. The extremities might still have been suffering from the vascular shutdown. That could explain the depleted white count. Maybe.”
“How is he otherwise?”
“Better. Not much, but better. I think maybe the keflin’s taking hold.” The doctor flipped open the chart. “White count is coming back. I put a unit of whole blood into him two hours ago. The blood chemistry is approaching normal limits. Blood pressure is one hundred over sixty-five, heart rate is ninety-four. Temperature ten minutes ago was 100.8—it’s been fluctuating for several hours.
“His heart looks pretty good. In fact, I think he’s going to make it, unless something unexpected crops up.” Jameson reminded himself that in extreme hypothermia cases the unexpected can take a month or more to appear.
Tait examined the chart, remembering what he had been like years ago. A bright young doc, just like Jamie, certain that he could cure the world. It was a good feeling. A pity that experience—in his case, two years at Danang—beat that out of you. Jamie was right, though; there was enough improvement here to make the patient’s chances appear measurably better.
“What are the Russians doing?” Tait asked.
“Petchkin has the watch at the moment. When it came his turn, and he changed into scrubs—you know he has that Captain Smirnov holding onto his clothes, like he expected us to steal them or something?”
Tait explained that Petchkin was a KGB agent.
“No kidding? Maybe he has a gun tucked away.” Jameson chuckled. “If he does, he’d better watch it. We got three marines up here with us.”
“Marines. What for?”
“Forgot to tell you. Some reporter found out we had a Russkie up here and tried to bluff his way onto the floor. A nurse stopped him. Admiral Blackburn found out and went ape. The whole floor’s sealed off. What’s the big secret, anyway?”
“Beats me, but that’s the way it is. What do you think of this Petchkin guy?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never met any Russians before. They don’t smile a whole lot. The way they’re taking turns watching the patient, you’d think they expect us to make off with him.”
“Or maybe that he’ll say something they don’t want us to hear?” Tait wondered. “Did you get the feeling that they might not want him to make it? I mean, when they didn’t want to tell us about what his sub was?”
Jameson thought about that. “No. The Russians are supposed to make a secret of everything, aren’t they? Anyway, Smirnov did come through with it.”
“Get some sleep, Jamie.”
“Aye, Cap’n.” Jameson walked off toward the lounge.
We asked them what kind of a sub, the captain thought, meaning whether it was a nuke or not. What if they thought we were asking if it was a missile sub? That makes sense, doesn’t it? Yeah. A missile sub right off our coast, and all this activity in the North Atlantic. Christmas season. Dear God! If they were going to do it, they’d do it right now, wouldn’t they? He walked down the hall. A nurse came out of the room with a blood sample to be taken down to the lab. This was being done hourly, and it left Pet
chkin alone with the patient for a few minutes.
Tait walked around the corner and saw Petchkin through the window, sitting in a chair at the corner of the bed and watching his countryman, who was still unconscious. He had on green scrubs. Made to put on in a hurry, these were reversible, with a pocket on both sides so a surgeon didn’t have to waste a second to see if they were inside out. As Tait watched, Petchkin reached for something through the low collar.
“Oh, God!” Tait raced around the corner and shot through the swinging door. Petchkin’s look of surprise changed to amazement as the doctor batted a cigarette and lighter from his hand, then to outrage as he was lifted from his chair and flung towards the door. Tait was the smaller of the two, but his sudden burst of energy was sufficient to eject the man from the room. “Security!” Tait screamed.
“What is the meaning of this?” Petchkin demanded. Tait was holding him in a bearhug. Immediately he heard feet racing down the hall from the lobby.
“What is it, sir?” A breathless marine lance corporal with a .45 Colt in his right hand skidded to a halt on the tile floor.
“This man just tried to kill my patient!”
“What!” Petchkin’s face was crimson.
“Corporal, your post is now at that door. If this man tries to get into that room, you will stop him any way you have to. Understood?”
“Aye aye, sir!” the corporal looked at the Russian. “Sir, would you please step away from the door?”
“What is the meaning of this outrage!”
“Sir, you will step away from the door, right now.” The marine holstered his pistol.
“What is going on here?” It was Ivanov, who had sense enough to ask this question in a quiet voice from ten feet away.
“Doctor, do you want your sailor to survive or not?” Tait asked, trying to calm himself.
“What—of course we wish him to survive. How can you ask this?”
“Then why did Comrade Petchkin just try to kill him?”
“I did not do such a thing!” Petchkin shouted.
“What did he do, exactly?” Ivanov asked.
Before Tait could answer, Petchkin spoke rapidly in Russian, then switched to English. “I was reaching for a smoke, that is all. I have no weapon. I wish to kill no one. I only wish to have a cigarette.”
“We have No Smoking signs all over the floor, except in the lobby—you didn’t see them? You were in a room in intensive care, with a patient on hundred-percent oxygen, the air and bedclothes saturated with oxygen, and you were going to flick your goddamned Bic!” The doctor rarely used profanity. “Oh sure, you’d get burned some, and it would look like an accident—and that kid would be dead! I know what you are, Petchkin, and I don’t think you’re that stupid. Get off my floor!”
The nurse, who had been watching this, went into the patient’s room. She came back out with a pack of cigarettes, two loose ones, a plastic butane lighter, and a curious look on her face.
Petchkin was ashen. “Dr. Tait, I assure you that I had no such intention. What are you saying would happen?”
“Comrade Petchkin,” Ivanov said slowly in English, “there would be an explosion and fire. You cannot have a flame near oxygen.”
“Nichevo!” Petchkin finally realized what he had done. He had waited for the nurse to leave—medical people never let you smoke when you ask. He didn’t know the first thing about hospitals, and as a KGB agent he was accustomed to doing whatever he wanted. He started speaking to Ivanov in Russian. The Soviet doctor looked like a parent listening to a child’s explanation for a broken glass. His response was spirited.
For his part, Tait began to wonder if he hadn’t overreacted—anyone who smoked was an idiot to begin with.
“Dr. Tait,” Petchkin said finally, “I swear to you that I had no idea of this oxygen business. Perhaps I am a fool.”
“Nurse,” Tait turned, “we will not leave this patient unattended by our personnel at any time—never. Have a corpsman come to pick up the blood samples and anything else. If you have to go to the head, get relief first.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
“No more screwing around, Mr. Petchkin. Break the rules again, sir, and you’re off the floor again. Do you understand?”
“It will be as you say, Doctor, and allow me, please, to apologize.”
“You stay put,” Tait said to the marine. He walked away shaking his head angrily, mad at the Russians, embarrassed with himself, wishing he were back at Bethesda where he belonged, and wishing he knew how to swear coherently. He took the service elevator down to the first floor and spent five minutes looking for the intelligence officer who had flown down with him. Ultimately he found him in a game room playing Pac Man. They conferred in the hospital administrator’s vacant office.
“You really thought he was trying to kill the guy?” the commander asked incredulously.
“What was I supposed to think?” Tait demanded. “What do you think?”
“I think he just screwed up. They want that kid alive—no, first they want him talking—more than you do.”
“How do you know that?”
“Petchkin calls their embassy every hour. We have the phones tapped, of course. How do you think?”
“What if it’s a trick?”
“If he’s that good an actor he belongs in the movies. You keep that kid alive, Doctor, and leave the rest to us. Good idea to have the marine close, though. That’ll rattle ’em a bit. Never pass up a chance to rattle ’em. So, when will he be conscious?”
“No telling. He’s still feverish, and very weak. Why do they want him to talk?” Tait asked.
“To find out what sub he was on. Petchkin’s KGB contact blurted that out on the phone—sloppy! Very sloppy! They must be real excited about this.”
“Do we know what sub it was?”
“Sure,” the intelligence officer said mischievously.
“Then what’s going on, for Lord’s sake!”
“Can’t say, Doc.” The commander smiled as if he knew, though he was as much in the dark as anyone.
Norfolk Naval Shipyard
The USS Scamp sat at the dock while a large overhead crane settled the Avalon in its support rack. The captain watched impatiently from atop the sail. He and his boat had been called in from hunting a pair of Victors, and he did not like it one bit. The attack boat skipper had only run a DSRV exercise a few weeks before, and right now he had better things to do than play mother whale to this damned useless toy. Besides, having the minisub perched on his after escape trunk would knock ten knots off his top speed. And there’d be four more men to bunk and feed. The Scamp was not all that large.
At least they’d get good food out of this. The Scamp had been out five weeks when the recall order arrived. Their supply of fresh vegetables was exhausted, and they availed themselves of the opportunity to have fresh food trucked down to the dock. A man tires quickly of three-bean salad. Tonight they’d have real lettuce, tomatoes, fresh corn instead of canned. But that didn’t make up for the fact that there were Russians out there to worry about.
“All secure?” the captain called down to the curved after deck.
“Yes, Captain. We’re ready when you are,” Lieutenant Ames answered.
“Engine room,” the captain called down on intercom. “I want you ready to answer bells in ten minutes.”
“Ready now, Skipper.”
A harbor tug was standing by to help maneuver them from the dock. Ames had their orders, something else that the captain didn’t like. Surely they would not be doing any more hunting, not with that damned Avalon strapped on.
The Red October
“Look here, Svyadov,” Melekhin pointed, “I will show you how a saboteur thinks.”
The lieutenant came over and looked. The chief engineer was pointing at an inspection valve on the heat exchanger. Before he got an explanation, Melekhin went to the bulkhead phone.
“Comrade Captain, this is Melekhin. I have found it. I require the reactor to be s
topped for an hour. We can operate the caterpillar on batteries, no?”
“Of course, Comrade Chief Engineer,” Ramius said, “proceed.”
Melekhin turned to the assistant engineering officer. “You will shut the reactor down and connect the batteries to the caterpillar motors.”
“At once, Comrade.” The officer began to work the controls.
The time taken to find the leak had been a burden on everyone. Once they had discovered that the Geiger counters were sabotaged and Melekhin and Borodin had repaired them, they had begun a complete check of the reactor spaces, a devilishly tricky task. There had never been a question of a major steam leak, else Svyadov would have gone looking for it with a broomstick—even a tiny leak could easily shave off an arm. They reasoned that it had to be a small leak in the low-pressure part of the system. Didn’t it? It was the not knowing that had troubled everyone.
The check made by the chief engineer and executive officer had lasted no less than eight hours, during which the reactor had again been shut down. This cut all electricity off throughout the ship except for emergency lights and the caterpillar motors. Even the air systems had been curtailed. That had set the crew muttering to themselves.
The problem was, Melekhin could still not find the leak, and when the badges had been developed a day earlier, there was nothing on them! How was this possible?
“Come, Svyadov, tell me what you see.” Melekhin came back over and pointed.
“The water test valve.” Opened only in port, when the reactor was cold, it was used to flush the cooling system and to check for unusual water contamination. The thing was grossly unremarkable, a heavy-duty valve with a large wheel. The spout underneath it, below the pressurized part of the pipe, was threaded rather than welded.
“A large wrench, if you please, Lieutenant.” Melekhin was drawing the lesson out, Svyadov thought. He was the slowest of teachers when he was trying to communicate something important. Svyadov returned with a meter-long pipe wrench. The chief engineer waited until the plant was closed down, then double-checked a gauge to make sure the pipes were depressurized. He was a careful man. The wrench was set on the fitting, and he turned it. It came off easily.
