"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."