Jack Ryan 5 - The Cardinal of the Kremlin (60 page)

“Enjoy the flight home,” he said.

“Yeah.” Ryan chuckled.

“Thought I'd give you a hand.” He hefted the two-suiter, and Jack merely had to grab his briefcase. Together they walked to the elevator, which took them from the seventh floor up to the ninth, where they waited for another elevator to take them down to the lobby.

“Do you know who designed this building?”

“Obviously someone with a sense of humor,” Candela replied. “They hired the same fellow to handle construction of the new embassy.” Both men laughed. That story was worthy of a
Hollywood
disaster epic. There were enough electronic devices in that building to cobble up a mainframe computer. The elevator came a minute later, taking both men to the lobby. Candela handed Ryan his suitcase.

“Break a leg,” he said before walking away.

Jack walked out to where the cars were waiting and dropped his case in the open trunk. The night was clear. There were stars in the sky, and the hint of the aurora borealis on the northern horizon. He'd heard that this natural phenomenon was occasionally seen from
Moscow
, but it was something that he'd never witnessed.

The motorcade left ten minutes later and made its way south to the Foreign Ministry, repeating the route that nearly encapsulated Ryan's slim knowledge of this city of eight million souls. One by one the cars curved onto the small traffic circle and their occupants were guided into the building. This reception was not nearly as elaborate as the last one in the Kremlin had been, but this session had not accomplished quite as much. The next one would be a bear, as the summit deadline approached, but the next session was scheduled to be in
Washington
. The reporters were already waiting, mainly print, with a few TV cameras present. Someone approached Jack as soon as he handed off his topcoat.

“Dr. Ryan?”

“Yeah?” He turned.

“Mike Paster,
Washington
Post
. There's a report in
Washington
that your SEC problems have been settled.”

Jack laughed. “God, it's nice not to talk about the arms business for a change! As I said earlier, I didn't do anything wrong. I guess those—jerks, but don't quote me on that—folks finally figured it out. Good. I didn't want to have to hire a lawyer.”

“There's talk that CIA had a hand in—” Ryan cut him off.

“Tell you what. Tell your
Washington
bureau that if they give me a couple days to unwind from this business, I'll show them everything I did. I do all my transactions by computer, and I keep hard copies of everything. Fair enough?”

“Sure—but why didn't—”

“You tell me,” Jack said, reaching for a glass of wine as a waiter went past. He had to have one, but tonight it would be one only, “Maybe some people in D.C. have a hard-on for the Agency. For Christ's sake don't quote me on that, either.”

“So how'd the talks go?” the reporter asked next.

“You can get the details from Ernie, but off the record, pretty good. Not as good as last time, and there's a lot left to handle, but we settled a couple of tough ones, and that's about all we expected for this trip.”

“Will the agreement go through in time for the summit?” Paster inquired next.

“Off the record,” Jack said immediately. The reporter nodded. “I'd call the chances better than two out of three.”

“How's the Agency feel about it?”

“We're not supposed to be political, remember? From a technical point of view, the fifty-percent reduction is something I think we can live with. It doesn't really change anything, does it? But it is 'nice.' I grant you that.”

“How do you want me to quote this?” Paster asked.

“Call me a Very Junior Administration Official.” Jack grinned. “Fair enough? Uncle Ernie can speak on the record, but I'm not allowed to.”

“What about the effect this will have on Narmonov's remaining in power?”

“Not my turf,” Ryan lied smoothly. “My opinions on that are private, not professional.”

“So ...”

“So ask somebody else about that,” Jack suggested, “Ask me the really important things, like who the 'Skins ought to draft in the first round.”

“Olson, the quarterback at Baylor,” the reporter said at once.

“I like that defensive end at
Penn
State
myself, but he'll probably go too early.”

“Good trip,” the reporter said as he closed his note pad.

“Yeah, you enjoy the rest of the winter, pal. ”The reporter made to go away, then paused. “Can you say anything, completely off the record, about the Foley couple that the Russians sent home last—”

“Who? Oh, the ones they accused of spying? Off the record, and you never heard this from me, it's bullshit. Any other way, no comment.”

“Right.” The reporter walked off with a smile.

Jack was left standing alone. He looked around for Golovko, but couldn't find him. He was disappointed. Enemy or not, they could always talk, and Ryan had come to enjoy their conversations. The Foreign Minister showed up, then Narmonov. All the other fixtures were there: the violins, the tables laden with snacks, the circulating waiters with silver trays of wine, vodka, and champagne. The State Department people were knotted in conversation with their Soviet colleagues. Ernie Allen was laughing with his Soviet counterpart. Only Jack was standing alone, and that wouldn't do. He walked over to the nearest group and hung on the periphery, scarcely noticed as he checked his watch from time to time and took tiny sips of the wine.

“Time,”
Clark
said.

Getting to this point had been difficult enough.
Clark
's equipment was already set in the watertight trunk that ran from the
Attack
Center
to the top of the sail. It had hatches at both ends and was completely watertight, unlike the rest of the sail, which was free-flooding. One more sailor had volunteered to go in with him, and then the bottom hatch was closed and dogged down tight. Mancuso lifted a phone.

“Communications check.”

“Loud and clear, sir,”
Clark
replied. “Ready whenever you are.”

“Don't touch the hatch until I say so.”

“Aye aye, Cap'n.”

The Captain turned around. “I have the conn,” he announced.

“Captain has the conn,” the officer of the deck agreed.

“Diving Officer, pump out three thousand pounds. We're taking her off the bottom. Engine room, stand by to answer bells.”

“Aye.” The diving officer, who was also Chief of the Boat, gave the necessary orders. Electric trim pumps ejected a ton and a half of saltwater, and
Dallas
slowly righted herself. Mancuso looked around. The submarine was at battle stations. The fire-control tracking party stood ready. Ramius was with the navigator. The weapons-control panels were manned. Below in the torpedo room, all four tubes were loaded, and one was already flooded.

“Sonar, conn. Anything to report?” Mancuso asked next.

“Negative, conn. Nothing at all, sir.”

“Very well. Diving Officer, make your depth nine-zero feet.”

“Nine-zero feet, aye.”

They had to get off the bottom before giving the submarine any forward movement. Mancuso watched the depth gauge change slowly as the Chief of the Boat, also known as the Cob, slowly and skillfully adjusted the submarine's trim.

“Depth nine-zero feet, sir. It'll be very hard to hold.”

“Maneuvering, give me turns for five knots. Helm, right fifteen degrees rudder, come to new heading zero-three-eight.”

“Right fifteen degrees rudder, aye, coming to new heading zero-three-eight,” the helmsman acknowledged. “Sir, my rudder is right fifteen degrees.”

“Very well.” Mancuso watched the gyrocompass click around to the northeasterly course. It took five minutes to get out from under the ice. The Captain ordered periscope depth. Another minute.

“Up 'scope!” Mancuso said next. A quartermaster twisted the control wheel, and the Captain met the rising instrument as the eyepiece cleared the deck. “Hold!”

The periscope stopped a foot below the surface. Mancuso looked for shadows and possible ice, but saw nothing. “Up two feet.” He was on his knees now. “Two more and hold.”

He used the slender attack periscope, not the larger search one. The search periscope had better light-gathering capacity, but he didn't want to risk the larger radar cross-section, and the submarine for the past twelve hours had been using red internal lights only. It made the food look odd, but it also gave everyone better night vision. He made a slow sweep of the horizon. There was nothing to be seen but drifting ice on the surface.

“Clear,” he announced. “All clear. Raise the ESM.” There was the hiss of hydraulics as the electronic-sensor mast went up. The thin reed of fiberglass was only half an inch wide, and nearly invisible on radar. “Down 'scope.”

“I got that one surface-surveillance radar, bearing zero-three-eight,” the ESM technician announced, giving frequency and pulse characteristics, “Signal is weak.”

“Here we go, people.” Mancuso lifted a phone to the bridge tube. “You ready?”

“Yes, sir,”
Clark
replied.

“Stand by. Good luck.” The Captain replaced the phone and turned. “Put her on the roof and stand by to take her down fast.”

It took a total of four minutes. The top of
Dallas
' black sail broached the surface, pointing directly at the nearest Soviet radar to minimize its radar cross-section. It was more than tricky to hold depth.

“
Clark
, go!”

“Right.”

With all the drifting ice on the water, the screen for that radar should be heavily cluttered, Mancuso thought. He watched the indicator light for the hatch change from a dash, meaning closed, to a circle, meaning open.

The bridge trunk ended on a platform a few feet below the bridge itself. Clark wrenched open the hatch and climbed up. Next he hauled out his raft with the help of the seaman below on the ladder. Alone now in the submarine's tiny bridge-the control station atop the sail—he set the thing athwart the top of the sail and pulled the rope that inflated it. The high-pitched rasp of the rushing air seemed to scream into the night, and Clark winced to hear it. As soon as the rubberized fabric became taut, he called to the sailor to close the trunk hatch, then grabbed the bridge phone.

“All ready here. The hatch is closed. See you in a couple of hours.”

“Right. Good luck,” Mancuso said again.

Aloft,
Clark
climbed smoothly into the raft as the submarine sank beneath him, and started the electric motor, Below, the bottom hatch of the bridge tube was opened only long enough for the sailor to leap down, then he and the Captain levered it shut.

“Straight board shut, we are rigged for dive,” the Cob reported when the last indicator light changed back lo a dash.

“That's it,” Mancuso noted. “Mr. Goodman, you have the conn, and you know what to do.”

“I have the conn,” the OOD replied as the Captain went forward to the sonar room. Lieutenant Goodman immediately dived the boat, heading her for the bottom.

It was like old times, Mancuso thought, with Jones as lead sonarman. The submarine came right, pointing her bow-mounted sonar array at the path that Clark was taking. Ramius arrived a minute later to observe.

“How come you didn't want to use the ”scope?" Mancuso asked.

“A hard thing to see one's home and know that one cannot—”

“There he goes.” Jones tapped his ringer on the video display. “Doing turns for eighteen knots. Pretty quiet for an outboard. Electric, eh?”

“Right.”

“I sure hope he's got good batteries, skipper.”

“Rotating-anode lithium. I asked.”

“Cute.” Jones grunted. He tapped a cigarette out of his pack and offered one to the Captain, who forgot for the moment that he'd quit, again. Jones lit it and took on a contemplative expression.

“You know, sir, now I remember why I retired . . .” His voice trailed off as Jonesy watched the sonar trail stretch off in the distance. Aft, the fire-control party updated the range, just to have something to do. Jones craned his neck and listened.
Dallas
was about as quiet as she ever got, and the tension filled the air far more thickly than cigarette smoke ever could.

Clark
lay nearly flat in the boat. Made of rubberized nylon, its color scheme was green and gray stripes, not very different from the sea. They'd thought of some white patches because of the ice to be found in the area in winter, but then it was realized that the channel here was always tended by an icebreaker, and a rapidly moving white spot on a dark surface might not be a terribly good idea. Mainly Clark was concerned about radar. The submarine's sail might not have been picked up through all the clutter, but if the Russian radar sets had a moving-target-indicator setting, the simple computer that monitored the returning signals might well lock in on something traveling at twenty miles per hour. The boat itself was only a foot out of the water, the motor a foot higher than that and coated with radar-absorbing material.
Clark
kept his head level with the motor and wondered again if the half-dozen metal fragments that decorated his anatomy were large enough to be seen. He knew that this was irrational—they didn't even set off an airport metal-detector—but lonely men in dangerous places tended to develop unusually active minds. It was better, really, to be stupid, he told himself. Intelligence only allowed you to realize how dangerous things like this were. After such missions were over, after the shakes went away, after the hot shower, you could bask in the glow of how brave and clever you were, but not now. Now it just seemed dangerous, not to say crazy, to be doing something like this.

The coastline was clearly visible, a clean series of dots that covered the visible horizon. It seemed ordinary enough, but it was enemy territory. That knowledge was far more chilling than the clean night air.

At least the seas were calm, he told himself. Actually a few feet of chop would have made for more favorable radar conditions, but the smooth, oily surface made for speed, and speed always made him feel better. He looked aft. The boat didn't make much of a wake, and he'd reduce it further by slowing when he got close to the harbor.

Patience
, he told himself uselessly. He hated the idea of patience. Who likes to wait for anything? Clark asked himself. If it has to happen, let it happen and be done with it. That wasn't the safe way, rushing into things, but at least when you were up and moving, you were doing something. But when he taught people how to do this sort of thing, which was his normal occupation, he always told them to be patient. You friggin' hypocrite! he observed silently.