It was dark when the bus pulled through the gate into the facility, and everyone aboard was tired. Morozov was not terribly disappointed at the housing. All the beds were two-level bunks. He was assigned the top berth in a corner. Signs on the wall demanded silence in the sleeping area, since the workers here worked three shifts around the clock. The young engineer was perfectly content to change his clothes and go to sleep. He was assigned to the Directional Applications Section for a month of project orientation, after which he’d receive a permanent job assignment. He was wondering what “directional applications” meant when he drifted off to sleep.
The nice thing about vans was that lots of people owned them, and the casual observer couldn’t see who was inside, Jack thought as the white one pulled into his carport. The driver was CIA, of course, as was the security man in the right seat. He dismounted and surveyed the area for a moment before pulling the side door open. It revealed a familiar face.
“Hello, Marko,” Ryan said.
“So, this is house of spy!” Captain First Rank Marko Aleksandrovich Ramius, Soviet Navy (retired), said boisterously. His English was better, but like many Russian émigrés he often forgot to use articles in his speech. “No, house of helmsman!”
Jack smiled and shook his head. “Marko, we can’t talk about that.”
“Your family does not know?”
“Nobody knows. But you can relax. My family’s away.”
“Understand.” Marko Ramius followed Jack into the house. On his passport, Social Security card, and Virginia driver’s license he was now known as Mark Ramsey. Yet another piece of CIA originality, though it made perfect sense; you wanted people to remember their names. He was, Jack saw, a little thinner now that he was eating a less starchy diet. And tan. When they’d first met, at the forward escape trunk of the missile submarine Red October, Marko—Mark!—had worn the pasty-white skin of a submarine officer. Now he looked like an ad for Club Med.
“You seem tired,” “Mark Ramsey” observed.
“They fly me around a lot. How do you like the Bahamas?”
“You see my tan, yes? White sand, sun, warm every day. Like Cuba when I went there, but nicer people.”
“AUTEC, right?” Jack asked.
“Yes, but I cannot discuss this,” Marko replied. Both men shared a look. AUTEC—Atlantic Underwater Test and Evaluation Center—was the Navy’s submarine test range, where men and ships engaged in exercises called miniwars. What happened there was classified, of course. The Navy was very protective of its submarine operations. So Marko was at work developing tactics for the Navy, doubtless playing the role of a Soviet commander in the war games, lecturing, teaching. Ramius had been known as “the Schoolmaster” in the Soviet Navy. The important things never change.
“How do you like it?”
“Tell this to nobody, but they let me be captain of American submarine for a week—the real Captain he let me do everything, yes? I kill carrier! Yes! I kill Forrestal. They would be proud of me at Red Banner Northern Fleet, yes?”
Jack laughed. “How’d the Navy like that?”
“Captain of submarine and me get very drunk. Forrestal Captain angry, but—good sport, yes? He join us next week and we discuss exercise. He learn something, so good for all of us.” Ramius paused. “Where is family?”
“Cathy’s visiting her father. Joe and I don’t get along very well.”
“Because you are spy?” Mark/Marko asked.
“Personal reasons. Can I get you a drink?”
“Beer is good,” he replied. Ramius looked around while Jack went into the kitchen. The house’s cathedral ceiling towered fifteen feet—five meters, he thought—above the lush carpeting. Everything about the house testified to the money spent to make it so. He was frowning when .Ryan returned.
“Ryan, I am not fool,” he said sternly. “CIA does not pay so good as this.”
“Do you know about the stock market?” Ryan asked with a chuckle.
“Yes, some of my money is invested there.” All of the officers from Red October had enough money salted away that they’d never need to work again.
“Well, I made a lot of money there, and then I decided to quit and do something else.”
That was a new thought for Captain Ramius. “You are not—what is word? Greed. You have no more greed?”
“How much money does one man need?” Ryan asked rhetorically. The Captain nodded thoughtfully. “So, I have some questions for you.”
“Ah, business.” Marko laughed. “This you have not forgotten!”
“In your debriefing, you mentioned that you ran an exercise in which you fired a missile, and then a missile was fired at you.”
“Yes, years ago—was 1981 . . . April, yes, it was twenty April. I command Delta-class missile submarine, and we fire two rockets from White Sea, one into Okhotsk Sea, other at Sary Shagan. We test submarine rockets, of course, but also the missile defense radar and counterbattery system—they simulated firing a missile at my submarine.”
“You said it failed.”
Marko nodded. “Submarine rockets fly perfectly. The Sary Shagan radar work, but too slow to intercept—was computer problem, they say. They say get new computer, last thing I hear. Third part of test almost work.”
“The counterfire part. That’s the first we heard of it,” Ryan noted. “How did they actually run the test?”
“They not fire land rocket, of course,” Marko said. He held up a finger. “They do this, and you understand nature of test, yes? Soviets are not so stupid as you think. Of course you know that entire Soviet border covered with radar fence. These see rocket launch and compute where submarine is— very easy thing to do. Next they call Strategic Rocket Force Headquarters. Strategic Rocket Force have regiment of old rockets on alert for this. They were ready to shoot back three minutes after detecting my missile on radar.” He stopped for a moment. “You not have this in America?”
“No, not that I know of. But our new missiles fire from much farther away.”
“Is true, but still good thing for Soviets, you see.”
“How reliable is the system?”
That drew a shrug. “Not very. Problem is how alert the people are. In time of—how you say?—time of crisis, yes? In time of crisis, everyone is alert, and system may work some of time. But every time system works, many, many bombs do not explode in Soviet Union. Even one could save hundred thousand citizens. This is important to Soviet leadership. Hundred thousand more slaves to have after war end,” he added to show his distaste for the government of his former homeland. “You have nothing like this in America?”
“Not that I have ever heard about,” Ryan said truthfully.
Ramius shook his head. “They tell us you do. When we fire our rockets, then we dive deep and race at flank speed, straight line in any direction.”
“Right now I’m trying to figure out how interested the Soviet government is in copying our SDI research.”
“Interested?” Ramius snorted. “Twenty million Russians died in Great Patriotic War. You think they want to have this happen again? I tell you, Soviets are more intelligent about this than Americans—we have harder lesson, and we learn better. Someday I tell you about my home city after war, destruction of everything. Yes, we have very good lesson in protect Rodina.”
That’s the other thing to remember about the Russians, Jack reminded himself. It wasn’t so much that they had abnormally long memories; they had things in their history that no one would forget. To expect the Soviets to forget their losses in the Second World War was as futile as asking Jews to forget the Holocaust, and just as unreasonable.
So, a little over three years ago, the Russians staged a major ABM exercise against submarine-launched ballistic missiles. The acquisition and tracking radar worked, but the system failed due to a computer problem. That was important. But—
“The reason the computer didn’t work well enough—”
“That is all I know. All I can say is was honest test.”
“What do you mean?” Jack asked.
“Our first . . . yes, our original orders were to fire from known location. But the orders were changed just as submarine left dock. Eyes-only to Captain, new orders signed by aide to Defense Minister. Was Red Army colonel, I think. Do not remember name. Orders from Minister, but Colonel sign them, yes? He wanted the test to be—how you say?”
“Spontaneous?”
“Yes! Not spontaneous. Real test should be surprise. So my orders sent me to different place and said to shoot at different time. We have general aboard from Voyska PVO, and when see new orders he is banana. Very, very angry, but what kind of test is it without no surprise? American missile submarines do not call on telephone and tell Russians day that they shoot. You either are ready or not ready,” Ramius noted.
“We did not know that you were coming,” General Pokryshkin noted dryly.