Ryan stopped in his tracks and stared down at Cabot. "Sir, Mr. Goodley is not cleared for that word, much less that file."

"We are not discussing the substance of the case. When will the people downstairs"-Ryan was grateful he didn't say MERCURY-" be ready for the, uh, modified operations? I want to improve data-transfer."

"Six weeks. Until then we have to use the other methods we discussed."

The Director of Central Intelligence nodded. "Very well. The White House is very interested in that, Jack. Good job to all concerned."

"Glad to hear that, sir. See you tomorrow." Jack walked out.

"NIITAKA?" Goodley asked after the door closed. "Sounds j.a.panese."

"Sorry, Goodley. You can forget that word at your earliest opportunity." Cabot had spoken it only to remind Ryan of his place, and the honorable part of the man already regretted having done so.

"Yes, sir. May I ask an unrelated question?"

"Sure."

"Is Ryan as good as people say?"

Cabot stubbed out the remains of his cigar, to the relief of his visitor. "He's got quite a record."

"Really? I've heard that. You know, that's the whole reason I'm here, to examine the personality types that really make a difference. I mean, how does someone grow into the job? Ryan's skyrocketed up the ladder here. I'd be very interested in seeing how he managed to do that."

"He's done it by being right a lot more often than he's wrong, by making some tough calls, and with some field jobs that even I can hardly believe," Cabot said after a moment's consideration. "And you can never, ever reveal that to anyone, Dr. Goodley."

"I understand, sir. Could I see his record, his personnel file?"

The DCI's eyebrows arched. "Everything you see in there is cla.s.sified. Anything you try to write about it-"

"Excuse me, but I know that, sir. Everything I write is subject to security review. I signed off on that. It's important that I learn how a person really fits in here, and Ryan would seem to be an ideal case study for examining how that process happens. I mean, that's why the White House sent me over here," Goodley pointed out. "I'm supposed to report to them on what I find."

Cabot was silent for a moment. "I suppose that's okay, then."

Ryan's car arrived at the Pentagon's River Entrance. He was met by an Air Force one-star and conducted inside, bypa.s.sing the metal detector. Two minutes later he was in one of many subterranean rooms that lie under and around this ugliest of official buildings.

"h.e.l.lo, Jack," Dennis Bunker called from the far end of the room.

"Mr. Secretary." Jack nodded as he took his National Security Advisor's chair. The game started immediately. "What seems to be the problem?"

"Aside from the fact that Liz Elliot has decided not to grace us with her presence?" The Secretary of Defense chuckled, then went serious. "There has been an attack on one of our cruisers in the Eastern Med. The information is still sketchy, but the ship has been severely damaged and may be sinking. We presume heavy casualties."

"What do we know?" Jack asked, settling into the game. He put on a color-coded name tag that identified which part he was playing. A card hanging from the ceiling over his chair had the same purpose.

"Not much." Bunker looked up as a Navy lieutenant entered the room.

"Sir, USS Kidd Kidd reports that reports that Valley Forge Valley Forge exploded and sank five minutes ago as a result of the initial damage. There are no more than twenty survivors, and rescue operations are under way." exploded and sank five minutes ago as a result of the initial damage. There are no more than twenty survivors, and rescue operations are under way."

"What is the cause of the loss?" Ryan asked.

"Unknown, sir. Kidd Kidd was thirty miles from was thirty miles from Valley Forge Valley Forge at the time of the incident. Her helo is on the scene now. Commander Sixth Fleet has brought all his ships to full-alert status. USS at the time of the incident. Her helo is on the scene now. Commander Sixth Fleet has brought all his ships to full-alert status. USS Theodore Roosevelt Theodore Roosevelt is launching aircraft to sweep the area." is launching aircraft to sweep the area."

"I know the CAG on TR, Robby Jackson," Ryan said to n.o.body in particular. Not that it mattered. Theodore Roosevelt Theodore Roosevelt was actually in Norfolk, and Robby was still preparing for his next cruise. The names in the war game were generic, and personal knowledge of the players didn't matter since they were not supposed to be real people. But if it were real, Robby was Commander Air Group on USS Theodore Roosevelt, and his would be the first plane off the cats. It was well to remember that though this might be a game, its purpose was deadly serious. "Background information?" Jack asked. He didn't remember all of the pre-brief on the scenario being played out. was actually in Norfolk, and Robby was still preparing for his next cruise. The names in the war game were generic, and personal knowledge of the players didn't matter since they were not supposed to be real people. But if it were real, Robby was Commander Air Group on USS Theodore Roosevelt, and his would be the first plane off the cats. It was well to remember that though this might be a game, its purpose was deadly serious. "Background information?" Jack asked. He didn't remember all of the pre-brief on the scenario being played out.

"CIA reports a possible mutiny in the Soviet Union by Red Army units in Kazakhstan, and disturbances in two Navy bases there also," the game narrator, a Navy commander, reported.

"Soviet units in the vicinity of Valley Forge?" Valley Forge?" Bunker asked. Bunker asked.

"Possibly a submarine," the naval officer answered.

"Flash Message," the wall speaker announced. "USS Kidd Kidd reports that it has destroyed an inbound surface-to-surface missile with its Close-In Weapons System. Superficial damage to the ship, no casualties." reports that it has destroyed an inbound surface-to-surface missile with its Close-In Weapons System. Superficial damage to the ship, no casualties."

Jack walked to the corner to pour himself a cup of coffee. He smiled as he did so. These games were fun, he admitted to himself. He really did enjoy them. They were also realistic. He'd been swept away from a normal day's routine, dumped in a stuffy room, given confused and fragmented information, and had no idea at all what the h.e.l.l was supposed to be going on. That was reality. The old joke: How do crisis-managers resemble mushrooms? They're kept in the dark and fed horses.h.i.t.

"Sir, we have an incoming HOTLINE message ..."

Okay, Ryan thought, Ryan thought, it's that kind of game today. The Pentagon must have come up with the scenario. Let's see if it 's still possible to blow the world up.... it's that kind of game today. The Pentagon must have come up with the scenario. Let's see if it 's still possible to blow the world up....

"More concrete?" Qati asked.

"Much more concrete," Fromm answered. "The machines each weigh several tons, and they must be totally stable. The room must be totally stable, and totally sealed. It must be clean like a hospital-no, much better than any hospital you have ever seen." Fromm looked down at his list. Not cleaner than a a German German hospital, of course. hospital, of course. "Next, electrical power. We'll need three large backup generators, and at least two UPSs-" "Next, electrical power. We'll need three large backup generators, and at least two UPSs-"

"What?" Qati asked.

"Un-interruptible power supplies," Ghosn translated. "We'll keep one of the backup generators turning at all times, of course?"

"Correct," Fromm answered. "Since this is a primitive operation, we'll try not to use more than one machine at a time. The real problem with electricity is ensuring a secure circuit. So, we take the line current through the UPSs to protect against spikes. The computer systems on the milling machines are highly sensitive.

"Next!" Fromm said. "Skilled operators."

"That will be highly difficult," Ghosn observed.

The German smiled, amazing everyone present. "Not so. It will be easier than you think."

"Really?" Qati asked. Good news Good news from this infidel? from this infidel?

"We'll need perhaps five highly trained men, but you have them in the region, I am sure."

"Where? There is no machine shop in the region that-"

"Certainly there is. People here wear spectacles, do they not?"

"But-"

"Of course!" Ghosn said, rolling his eyes in amazement.

"The degree of precision, you see," Fromm explained to Qati, "is no different from what is required for eyegla.s.ses. The machines are very similar in design, just larger, and what we are attempting to do is simply to produce precise and predictable curves in a rigid material. Nuclear bombs are produced to exacting specifications. So are spectacles. Our desired object is larger, but the principle is the same, and with the proper machinery it is merely a matter of scale, not of substance. So: can you obtain skilled lens-makers?"

"I don't see why not," Qati replied, hiding his annoyance.

"They must be highly skilled," Fromm said like a schoolmaster. "The best you can find, people with long experience, preferably with training in Germany or England."

"There will be a security problem," Ghosn said quietly.

"Oh? Why is that?" Fromm asked with a feigned bafflement that struck both of the others as the summit of arrogance.

"Quite so," Qati agreed.

"Next, we need st.u.r.dy tables on which to mount the machines."

Halfway point, Lieutenant Commander Walter Claggett told himself. In forty-five more days, USS Maine would surface outside Juan de Fuca Straits, link up with the tugboat, and follow Little Toot into Bangor, where she would then tie up and begin the handoff process to the "Blue" crew for the next deterrence-patrol cycle. Lieutenant Commander Walter Claggett told himself. In forty-five more days, USS Maine would surface outside Juan de Fuca Straits, link up with the tugboat, and follow Little Toot into Bangor, where she would then tie up and begin the handoff process to the "Blue" crew for the next deterrence-patrol cycle. And not a moment too soon. And not a moment too soon.

Walter Claggett-friends called him Dutch, a nickname that had originated at the Naval Academy for a reason he no longer remembered; Claggett was Black-was thirty-six years old, and it had been made known to him before sailing that he was being "deep-dipped" for early selection to commander and had a chance for an early crack at a fast-attack boat. That was fine with him. His two attempts at marriage had both ended in failure, which was not uncommon for submariners-thank-fully, there were no kids involved in either union-and the Navy was his life. He was just as happy to spend all of his time at sea, saving his carousing time for those not really brief intervals on the beach. To be at sea, to slide through black water in control of a majestic ship of war, that was the best of all things to Walter Claggett. The company of good men, respect truly earned in a most demanding profession, the acquired ability to know every time what the right thing to do was, the relaxed banter in the wardroom, the responsibility he had to counsel his men-Claggett relished every aspect of his career.

It was just his commanding officer he couldn't stand.

How the h.e.l.l did Captain Harry Ricks ever make it this far? he asked himself for the twentieth time this week. The man was brilliant. He could have designed a submarine reactor system on the back of an envelope, or maybe even in his head during a rare daydream. He knew things about submarine design that Electric Boat's shipwrights had never even thought about. He could discuss the ins and outs of periscope design with the Navy's chief optics expert, and knew more about satellite-navigation aids than NASA or TRW or whoever the h.e.l.l was running that that program. Surely he knew more about the guidance packages on their Trident-II D-5 sea-launched ballistic missiles than anyone this side of Lockheed's Missile Systems Division. Over dinner two weeks earlier, he'd recited a whole page from the maintenance manual. From a technical point of view, Ricks might have been the most thoroughly prepared officer in the United States Navy. program. Surely he knew more about the guidance packages on their Trident-II D-5 sea-launched ballistic missiles than anyone this side of Lockheed's Missile Systems Division. Over dinner two weeks earlier, he'd recited a whole page from the maintenance manual. From a technical point of view, Ricks might have been the most thoroughly prepared officer in the United States Navy.

Harry Ricks was the quintessential product of the Nuclear Navy. As an engineer he was unequaled. The technical aspects of his job were almost instinctive to him. Claggett was good, and knew it; he also knew that he'd never be as good as Harry Ricks.

It's just that he doesn't know d.i.c.k about submarining or submariners, Claggett reflected bleakly. It was incredible, but true, that Ricks had little feeling for seamanship and none at all for sailors. Claggett reflected bleakly. It was incredible, but true, that Ricks had little feeling for seamanship and none at all for sailors.

"Sir," Claggett said slowly, "this is a very good chief. He's young, but he's sharp."

"He can't keep control of his people," Ricks replied.

"Captain, I don't know what you mean by that."

"His training methods aren't what they're supposed to be."

"He is a little unconventional, but he has cut six seconds off the average reload time. The fish are all fully functional, even the one that came over from the beach bad. The compartment is completely squared away. What more can we ask of the man?"

"I don't ask. I direct. I order. I expect things to be done my way, the right way. And they will be done that way," Ricks observed in a dangerously quiet voice.

It made no sense at all to cross the skipper on issues like this, especially when he posed them in this way, but Claggett's job as executive officer was to stand between the crew and the captain, especially when the captain was wrong.

"Sir, I must respectfully disagree. I think we look at results, and the results here are just about perfect. A good chief is one who stretches the envelope, and this one hasn't stretched it very far. If you slap him down, it will have a negative effect on him and his department."

"X, I expect support from all my officers, and especially from you."

Claggett sat straight up in his chair as though from a blow. He managed to speak calmly. "Captain, you have my support and my loyalty. It is not my job to be a robot. I'm supposed to offer alternatives. At least," he added, "that's what they told me at PXO School." Claggett regretted the last sentence even before it was spoken, but somehow it had come out anyway. The CO's cabin was quite small, and immediately got smaller still.

That was a very foolish thing to say, Lieutenant Commander Lieutenant Commander Walter Martin Claggett, Walter Martin Claggett, Ricks thought with a blank look. Ricks thought with a blank look.

"Next, the reactor drills," Ricks said.

"Another one? So soon?" For Christ's sake, the last one was friggin' friggin' PERFECT. PERFECT. Almost perfect, Almost perfect, Claggett corrected himself. Claggett corrected himself. The kids might have saved ten or fifteen seconds somewhere. The kids might have saved ten or fifteen seconds somewhere. The The Executive Officer didn't know where that might have been, though.

"Proficiency means every day, X."

"Indeed it does, sir, but they are proficient. I mean, the ORSE we ran right before Captain Rosselli left missed setting the squadron record by a whisker, and the last drill we ran beat that!" that!"

"No matter how good drill results are, always demand better. That way you always get get better. Next ORSE, I want the squadron record, X." better. Next ORSE, I want the squadron record, X."

He wants the Navy record, the world record, maybe even a certificate from G.o.d, Claggett thought. Claggett thought. More than that, he wants it on his record. More than that, he wants it on his record.

The growler phone on the bulkhead rattled. Ricks lifted it.

"Commanding Officer ... yes, on the way." He hung up. "Sonar contact."

Claggett was out the door in two seconds, the Captain right behind him.

"What is it?" Claggett asked first. As executive officer, he was also the approach officer for tactical engagements.

"Took me a couple minutes to recognize it," the leading sonarman reported. "Real fluky contact. I think it's a 688, bearing about one-nine-five. Direct-path contact, sir."

"Playback," Ricks ordered. The sonarman took over another screen-his had grease-pencil marks on it and he didn't want to remove those yet-and ran the display back a few minutes.

"See here, Cap'n? Real fluky... right about here it started firming up. That's when I called in."

The Captain stabbed his finger on the screen. "You should have had it there, petty officer. That's two minutes wasted. Pay closer attention next time."

"Aye aye, Cap'n." What else could a twenty-three-year-old sonarman second-cla.s.s say? Ricks left the sonar room. Claggett followed, patting the sonar operator on the shoulder as he went.

G.o.dd.a.m.n it, Captain!

"Course two-seven-zero, speed five, depth five hundred even. We're under the layer," the Officer of the Deck reported. "Holding contact Sierra-Eleven at bearing one-nine-five, broad on the port beam. Fire-control tracking party is manned. We have fish in tubes one, three, and four. Tube two is empty for service. Doors closed, tubes dry."

"Tell me about Sierra-Eleven," Ricks ordered.

"Direct-path contact. He's below the layer, range unknown."

"Environmental conditions?"

"Flat calm on the roof, a moderate layer at about one hundred feet. We have good isothermal water around us. Sonar conditions are excellent."

"First read on Sierra-Eleven is over ten thousand yards." It was Ensign Shaw on the tracking party.