Jack Ryan 7 - The Sum of All Fears (72 page)

As was the crew. He'd gotten rid of eighteen conscript sailors and replaced them with eighteen new officers. The radical down-sizing of the Soviet submarine fleet had eliminated a large number of officer billets. It would have been a waste of skilled manpower to return them to civilian life—besides which there were not enough jobs for them—and as a result they'd been retrained and assigned to the remaining submarines as technical experts. His sonar department would now be almost exclusively officers—two michmaniy would assist with the maintenance—and all of them were genuine experts. Surprisingly, there was little grumbling among them. The Akula class had what was for Soviet submarines very comfortable accommodations, but more important than that was the fact that the new members of the wardroom had been fully briefed on their mission, and what the boat had done—probably done, Dubinin corrected himself—on the previous cruise. It was the sort of thing that appealed to the sportsman in them. This was for the submariner the ultimate test of skill. For that they would do their best.

Dubinin would do the same. Pulling in a lot of old professional debts, and leaning heavily on the yard's Master Shipwright, he'd performed miracles during the refit. Bedding had all been replaced. The ship had been scrubbed surgically clean, and repainted with bright, airy colors. Dubinin had worked with the local supply officers and obtained the best food he could find. A well-fed crew was a happy crew, and men responded to a commander who worked hard for them. That was the whole point of the new professional spirit in the Soviet Navy. Valentin Borissovich Dubinin had learned his trade from the best teacher his navy had ever had, and he was determined that he would be the new Marko Ramius. He had the best ship, had the best crew, and he would on this cruise set the standard for the Soviet Pacific Fleet.

He would also have to be lucky, of course.

“That's the hardware,” Fromm said. “From now on . . .”

“Yes, from now on we are assembling the actual device. I see you've changed the design somewhat. . . ?”

“Yes. Two tritium reservoirs. I prefer the shorter injection piping. Mechanically, it is no different. The timing is not critical, and the pressurization ensures that it will function properly.”

“Also makes loading the tritium easier,” Ghosn observed. “That's why you did it.”

“Correct.”

The inside of the device made Ghosn think of the half-assembled body of some alien airplane. There was the delicacy and precision of aircraft parts, but the almost baffling configuration in which they were placed. Something from a science-fiction movie, Ghosn thought, whimsical for a brief moment . . . but then this was science-fiction, or had been until recently. The first public discussion of nuclear weapons had been in H. G. Wells, hadn't it? That hadn't been so long ago.

“Commander, I saw your doctor,” Achmed said in the far corner.

“And—you still look ill, my friend,” Qati noted. “What is the problem?”

“He wants me to see another doctor in
Damascus
.”

Qati instantly did not like that. Did not like it at all. But Achmed was a comrade who had served the movement for years. How could he say no to someone who had twice saved his life, once stopping a bullet himself to do so?

“You know that what goes on here . . .”

“Commander, I will die before I speak of this place. Even though I know nothing of this—this project. I will die first.”

There was no doubting the man, and Qati knew what it was to be seriously ill at a young and healthy age. He could not deny the man medical care while he himself regularly visited a physician. How could his men respect him if he did such a thing?

“Two men will go with you. I will select them.”

“Thank you, Commander. Please forgive my weakness.”

“Weakness?” Qati grabbed the man by the shoulder. “You are the strongest among us! We need you back, and we need you healthy! Go tomorrow.”

Achmed nodded and withdrew to another place, embarrassed and shamed by his illness. His commander, he knew, faced death. It had to be cancer, he had so often visited the physician. Whatever it was, the Commander had not let it stop him. There was courage, he thought.

“Break for the night?” Ghosn asked.

Fromm shook his head. “No, let's take another hour or two to assemble the explosive bed. We should be able to get part of it in place before we're too weary.” Both men looked up as Qati approached.

“Still on schedule?”

“Herr Qati, whatever arrangements you have in mind, we will be ready a day early. Ibrahim saved us that day with his work on the explosives.” The German held one of the small, hexagonal blocks. The squibs were already in place, the wire trailing off. Fromm looked at the other two, then bent down, setting the first block in its nesting place. Fromm made sure the block was exactly in place, then attached a numbered tag on the wire, and draped it into a plastic tray that held a number of dividers, like the trays of a tool box. Qati attached the wire to a terminal, checking three times to make sure the number on the wire was the same as that on the terminal. Fromm watched also. The process took four minutes. The electrical components had already been pre-tested. They could not be tested again. The first part of the bomb was now live.

— 27 —

DATA FUSION

“I've had my say, Bart,” Jones said on the way to the airport.

“That bad?”

“The crew hates him—the training they just went through didn't help. Hey, I was there, okay? I was in with the sonar guys, in the simulator, and he was there, and I wouldn't want to work for him. He almost yelled at me.”

“Oh?” That surprised Mancuso.

“Yeah, he said something that I didn't like—something plain wrong, skipper—and I called him on it, and you should have seen his reaction. Shit, I thought he'd have a stroke or something. And he was wrong, Bart. It was my tape. He was hassling his people for not cueing on something that wasn't there, okay? It was one of my trick tapes, and they saw that it was bogus, but he didn't and he started raisin' hell. That's a good sonar department. He doesn't know how to use it, but he sure likes to kibbitz like he does. Anyway, after he left, the guys started talking, okay? That isn't the only bunch he gives a hard time to. I hear the engineers are going nuts, trying to keep this clown happy. Is it true they maxed an ORSE?”

Mancuso nodded, despite the fact he didn't like hearing this. “They came within a whisker of setting a record.”

“Well, the guy doesn't want a record, he wants a perfect. He wants to redefine what perfect is. I'm telling you, man, if I was stuck on that boat, after the first cruise the first thing up through the hatch would be my sea bag. I'd fuckin' desert before I worked for that guy!” Jones paused. He'd gone too far. “I caught the signal his XO gave you; I even thought he might have been a little out of line, maybe. I was wrong. That's one very loyal XO. Ricks hates one of his JOs, the kid does tracking-party duty. The quartermaster who's breaking him in—Ensign Shaw, I think his name is—says he's a real good kid, but the skipper's riding him like a broke-down horse.”

“Great, what am I supposed to do about it?”

“Beats me, Bart. I retired as an E-6, remember?” Relieve the son of a bitch, Jones thought, though he knew better. You could only relieve for cause.

“I'll talk to him,” Mancuso promised.

“You know, I heard about skippers like that. Never did believe the stories. Guess I got spoiled working for you,” Dr. Jones observed as they approached the terminal. “You haven't changed a bit, you know that? You still listen when somebody talks to you.”

“You have to listen, Ron. You can't know it all yourself.”

“I got news: not everyone knows that. I got one more suggestion.”

“Don't let him go hunting?”

“If I were in your position, I wouldn't.” Jones opened the door. “I don't want to rain on the parade, skipper. That's my professional observation. He isn't up to the game. Ricks is nothing near the captain you used to be.”

Used to be.
A singularly poor choice of words, Mancuso thought, but it was true. It was a hell of a lot easier to run a boat than to run a squadron, and a hell of a lot more fun, too.

“Better hustle if you want to catch that flight.” Mancuso held out his hand.

“Skipper, always a pleasure.”

Mancuso watched him walk into the terminal. Jones had never once given him bad advice, and if anything he'd gotten smarter. A pity he hadn't stayed in and gone for a commission. That wasn't true, the Commodore thought next. Ron would have made one hell of a CO, but he would never have had a chance. The system didn't allow it, and that was that.

The driver headed back without being told, leaving Mancuso in his rear seat with his thoughts. The system hadn't changed enough. He'd come up the old way, power school, an engineer tour before he got command. There was too much engineering in the Navy, not enough leadership. He'd made the transition, as did most of the skippers—but not all. Too many people made it through who thought that other people were just numbers, machines to be fixed, things to order, who measured people by numbers that were more easily understood than real results. Jim Rosselli wasn't like that. Neither was Bart Mancuso, but Harry Ricks was.

So. Now what the hell do I do?

First and foremost, he had no basis for relieving Ricks. Had the story come from anyone except Jones, he would have dismissed it as personality clashes. Jones was too reliable an observer for that. Mancuso considered what he'd been told and matched it with the higher-than-usual rate of transfer requests, the rather equivocal words he'd heard from Dutch Claggett. The XO was in a very touchy spot. Already selected for command . . . one bad word from Ricks and he'd lose that; against that possibility he had his loyalty to the Navy. His job demanded loyalty to his CO even while the Navy demanded truth. It was an impossible position for Claggett, and he'd done all that he could.

The responsibility was Mancuso's. He was the squadron commander. The boats were his. The skippers and crews were his. He rated the COs. That was it, wasn't it?

But was it right? All he had was anecdotal information and coincidence. What if Jones was just pissed off at the guy? What if the transfer requests had just been a statistical blip?

Dodging the issue, Bart. They pay you to make the tough decisions. Ensigns and chiefs get the easy ones. Senior captains are supposed to know what to do.
That was one of the Navy's more entertaining fictions.

Mancuso lifted his car-phone. “I want
Maine
's XO in my office in thirty minutes.”

“Yes, sir,” his yeoman responded.

Mancuso closed his eyes and dozed for the rest of the ride. Nothing like a catnap to clear the mind. It had always worked on USS Dallas.

Hospital food, Cathy thought. Even at Hopkins, it was still hospital food. There had to be a special school somewhere for hospital chefs. The curriculum would be devoted to eliminating whatever fresh ideas they had, along with any skills they might have with spices, knowledge of recipes . . . About the only thing they couldn't ruin was the Jell-O.

“Bernie, I need some advice.”

“What's the problem, Cath?” He knew already what it had to be, just from the look on her face and the tone of her voice. He waited as sympathetically as he could. Cathy was a proud woman, as she had every right to be. This had to be dreadfully hard on her.

“It's Jack.” The words came out rapidly, as though by a spasm, then stopped again.

The pain Katz saw in her eyes was more than he could bear. “You think he's . . .”

“What? No—I mean—how, why did you . . . ?”

“Cathy, I'm not supposed to do this, but you're too important a friend for that. Screw the rules! Look, I had a guy in here last week, asking about you and Jack.”

The hurt only got worse. “What do you mean? Who was here? Where from?”

“Government guy, some kind of investigator. Cathy, I'm sorry, but he asked me if there—if you had said anything about trouble at home. This guy was checking up on Jack, and he wanted to know if I knew anything that you were saying.”

“What did you say?”

“I told him I didn't know anything. I told him that you're one of the best people I know. You are, Cathy. You're not alone. You have friends, and if there is anything I can do—that any of us can do—to help you, we will help you. Cathy, you're like family. You're probably feeling very hurt, and you're probably feeling very embarrassed. That is stupid, Cathy, that is very stupid. You know it's stupid, don't you?” Those pretty blue eyes were covered in tears, Katz saw, and in this moment he craved the chance to kill Jack Ryan, maybe do it on a table with a very sharp, very small surgical knife. “Cathy, being alone doesn't help. This is what friends are really for. You are not alone.”

“I just can't believe it, Bernie. I just can't.”

“Come on, let's talk in my office, where it's private. Food's crummy today anyway.” Katz got her out of there, and he was sure that no one noticed. Two minutes later they were in his private office. He moved a stack of case files from the only other chair and sat her in it.

“He's just been acting different lately.”

“Do you really think it's possible that Jack is fooling around?” It took half a minute. Katz watched her eyes go up and down, finally staying down as she faced reality.

“It's possible. Yes.”

Bastard!
“Have you talked to him about it?” Katz kept his voice low and reasonable, but not dispassionate. She needed a friend now, and friends had to share pain to be useful.

A shake of the head. “No, I don't know how.”

“You know that you have to do that.”

“Yeah.” Not so much a word as a gasp.

“It's not going to be easy. Remember,” Katz said with gentle hope in his voice, “it could all be a mistake. Just some crazy misunderstanding.” Which Bernie Katz didn't believe for a moment.

She looked up, and her eyes were streaming now. “Bernie, is there something wrong with me?”

“No!” Katz managed not to shout. “Cathy, if there's a better person in this hospital than you, goddamn if I've ever met them! There is nothing wrong with you! You hear me? Whatever the hell this is, it is not your fault!”