It was surprisingly austere, considering that the English liked their comforts and that White was a peer. There were two curtained portholes, a desk, and a couple of chairs. The only human touch was a color photograph of his wife. The entire port wall was covered with a chart of the North Atlantic.
“You look tired, Jack.” White waved him to the upholstered chair.
“I am tired. I’ve been on the go since — hell, since 6:00 A.M. yesterday. I don’t know about time changes, I think my watch is still on European time.”
“I have a message for you.” White pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and handed it over.
“Greer to Ryan. WILLOW confirmed,” Ryan read. “Basil sends regards. Ends.” Somebody had confirmed WILLOW. Who? Maybe Sir Basil, maybe Ritter. Ryan would not quote odds on that one.
Jack tucked it in his pocket. “This is good news, sir.”
“Why the uniform?”
“Not my idea, Admiral. You know who I work for, right? They figured I’d be less conspicuous this way.”
“At least it fits.” The admiral lifted a phone and ordered refreshments sent to them. “How’s the family, Jack?”
“Fine, thank you, sir. The day before I came over Cathy and Toni were playing over at Nigel Ford’s place. I missed it. You know, if they get much better, we ought to have a record cut. There aren’t too many violin players better than your wife.”
A steward arrived with a plateful of sandwiches. Jack had never figured out the British taste for cucumbers on bread.
“So, what’s the flap?”
“Admiral, the significance of the message you just gave me is that I can tell this to you and three other officers. This is very hot stuff, sir. You’ll want to make your choices accordingly.”
“Hot enough to turn my little fleet around.” White thought it over before lifting the phone and ordering three of his officers to the cabin. He hung up. “Captain Carstairs, Captain Hunter, and Commander Barclay — they are, respectively, Invincible’s commanding officer, my fleet operations officer, and my fleet intelligence officer.”
“No chief of staff?”
“Flew home, death in the family. Something for your coffee?” White extracted what looked like a brandy bottle from a desk drawer.
“Thank you, Admiral.” He was grateful for the brandy. The coffee needed the help. He watched the admiral pour a generous amount, perhaps with the ulterior motive of making him speak more freely. White had been a British sailor longer than he’d been Ryan’s friend.
The three officers arrived together, two carrying folding metal chairs.
“Admiral,” Ryan began, “you might want to leave that bottle out. After you hear this story, we might all need a drink.” He passed out his two remaining briefing folders and talked from memory. His delivery took fifteen minutes.
“Gentlemen,” he concluded, “I must insist that this information be kept strictly confidential. For the moment no one outside this room may learn it.”
“That is too bad,” Carstairs said. “This makes for a bloody good sea story.”
“And our mission?” White was holding the photographs. He poured Ryan another shot of brandy, gave the bottle a brief look, then stowed it back in the desk.
“Thank you, Admiral. For the moment our mission is to locate Red October. After that we’re not sure. I imagine just locating her will be hard enough.”
“An astute observation, Commander Ryan,” Hunter said.
“The good news is that Admiral Painter has requested that CINCLANT assign you control of several U.S. Navy vessels, probably three 1052-class frigates, and a pair of FFG Perrys. They all carry a chopper or two.”
“Well, Geoffrey?” White asked.
“It’s a start,” Hunter agreed.
“They’ll be arriving in a day or two. Admiral Painter asked me to express his confidence in your group and its personnel.”
“A whole fucking Russian missile submarine…” Barclay said almost to himself. Ryan laughed.
“Like the idea, Commander?” At least he had one convert.
“What if the sub is heading for the U.K.? Does it then become a British operation?” Barclay asked pointedly.
“I suppose it would, but from the way I read the map, if Ramius was heading for England, he’d already be there. I saw a copy of the president’s letter to the prime minister. In return for your assistance, the Royal Navy gets the same access to the data we develop as our guys get. We’re on the same side, gentlemen. The question is, can we do it?”
“Hunter?” the admiral asked.
“If this intelligence is correct… I’d say we have a good chance, perhaps as good as fifty percent. On one hand, we have a missile submarine attempting to evade detection. On the other, we have a great deal of ASW arrayed to locate her, and she will be heading towards one of only a few discrete locations. Norfolk, of course, Newport, Groton, King’s Bay, Port Everglades, Charleston. A civilian port such as New York is less likely, I think. The problem is, what with Ivan sending all his Alfas racing to your coast, they will get there ahead of October. They may have a specific port target in mind. We’ll know that in another day. So, I’d say they have an equal chance. They’ll be able to operate far enough off your coast that your government will have no viable legal reason to object to whatever they do. If anything, I’d say the Soviets have the advantage. They have both a clearer idea of the submarine’s capabilities and a simpler overall mission. That more than balances their less capable sensors.”
“Why isn’t Ramius coming on faster?” Ryan asked. “That’s the one thing I can’t figure. Once he clears the SOSUS lines off Iceland, he’s clear into the deep basin — so why not crack his throttles wide open and race for our coast?”
“At least two reasons,” Barclay answered. “How much operational intelligence data do you see?”
“I handle individual assignments. That means I hop around a lot from one thing to another. I know a good deal about their boomers, for example, but not as much about their attack boats.” Ryan didn’t have to explain he was CIA.
“Well, you know how compartmentalized the Sovs are. Ramius probably doesn’t know where their attack submarines are, not all of them. So, if he were to race about, he’d run the off chance of blundering into a stray Victor and being sunk without ever knowing what was happening. Second, what if the Soviets did enlist American assistance, saying perhaps that a missile sub had been taken over by a mutinous crew of Maoist counter revolutionaries — and then your navy detects a missile submarine racing down the North Atlantic towards the American coast. What would your president do?”
“Yeah,” Ryan nodded. “We’d blow it the hell out of the water.”
“There you have it. Ramius is in the trade of stealth, and he’ll likely stick to what he knows,” Barclay concluded. “Fortunately or unfortunately, he’s jolly good at it.”
“How soon will we have performance data on this quiet drive system?” Carstairs wanted to know.
“Next couple of days, we hope.”
“Where does Admiral Painter want us?” White asked.
“The plan he submitted to Norfolk puts you on the right flank. He wants Kennedy inshore to handle the threat from their surface force. He wants your force farther out. You see, Painter thinks there’s the chance that Ramius will come straight south from the G-I-U.K. gap into the Atlantic basin and just sit for a while. The odds favor his not being detected there, and if the Soviets send the fleet after him, he’s got the time and supplies to sit out there longer than they can maintain a force off our coast — both for technical and political reasons. Additionally, he wants your striking power out here to threaten their flank. It has to be approved by the commander in chief of the Atlantic Fleet, and a lot of details, remain to be worked out. For example, Painter requested some E-3 Sentries to support you out here.”
“A month in the middle of the North Atlantic in winter?” Carstairs winced. He had been the Invincible’s executive officer during the war around the Falklands and had ridden in the violent South Atlantic for endless weeks.
“Be happy for the E-3s.” The admiral smiled. “Hunter, I want to see plans for using all these ships the Yanks are giving us, and how we can cover a maximum area. Barclay, I want to see your evaluation of what our friend Ramius will do. Assume he’s still the clever bastard we’ve come to know and love.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Barclay stood with the others.
“Jack, how long will you be with us?”
“I don’t know, Admiral. Until they recall me to the Kennedy, I guess. From where I sit, this operation was laid on too fast. Nobody really knows what the hell we’re supposed to do.”
“Well, why don’t you let us see to this for a while? You look exhausted. Get some sleep.”