'We're going to raid the fuckers,' a bosun's mate third observed to his chief.
'Don't spread that one around,' the twenty-eight-year veteran growled back.
'Who the fuck am I gonna tell, Boats? Hey, man, I'm for it, okay?'
What ismy Navy coming to? the veteran of Leyte Gulf asked himself.
'You, you, you,' the junior man called, pointing to some new seamen. 'Let's do a FOD walkdown.' That started a detailed examination of the flight deck, searching for any object that might get sucked into an engine intake. He turned back to the bosun. 'With your permission, Boats.'
'Carry on.' College boys, the senior chief thought, avoiding the draft.
'And if I see anybody smoking out here, I'll tear him a new asshole!' the salty third-class told the new kids.
But the real action was in officers' country.
'A lot of routine stuff,' the intelligence officer told his visitors.
'We've been working on their phone systems lately,' Podulski explained. 'It makes them use radios more.'
'Clever,' Kelly noted. 'Traffic from the objective?'
'Some, and one last night was in Russian.'
'That's the indicator we want!' the Admiral said at once: There was only one reason for a Russian to be at sender green. 'I hope we get that son of a bitch!'
'Sir,' Albie promised with a smile, 'if he's there, he's got.'
Demeanors had changed again. Rested now, and close to the objective, thoughts turned away from abstract dread and back into focus on the hard facts of the matter. Confidence had returned - leavened with caution and concern, but they had trained for this. They were now thinking of the things that would go right.
The latest set of photos had come aboard, taken by an RA-5 Vigilante that had screamed low over no less than three SAM sites to cover its interest in a minor and secret place. Kelly lifted the blowups.
'Still people in the towers.'
'Guarding something,' Albie agreed.
'No changes I see,' Kelly went on. 'Only one car. No trucks... nothing much in the immediate area. Gentlemen, it looks pretty normal to me.'
'Connie will hold position forty miles off seaward. The medics cross-deck today. The command team arrives tomorrow, and the next day -' Franks looked across the table.
'I go swimming,' Kelly said.
The film cassette sat, undeveloped, in a safe in the office of a section chief of the KGB's Washington Station, in turn part of the Soviet Embassy, just a few blocks up 16th Street from the White House. Once the palatial home of George Mortimer Pullman - it had been purchased by the government of Nikolay II - it contained both the second-oldest elevator and the largest espionage operation in the city. The volume of material generated by over a hundred trained field officers meant that not all the information that came in through the door was processed locally; and Captain Yegorov was sufficiently junior that his section chief didn't deem his information worthy of inspection. The cassette finally went into a small manila envelope which was sealed with wax, then found its way into the awkward canvas bag of a diplomatic courier who boarded a flight to Paris, flying first class courtesy of Air France. At Orly, eight hours later, the courier walked to catch an Aeroflot jet to Moscow, which developed into three and a half hours of pleasant conversation with a KGB security officer who was his official escort for this part of the journey. In addition to his official duties, the courier did quite well for himself by purchasing various consumer goods on his regular trips west. The current item of choice was pantyhose, two pairs of which went to the KGB escort.
Upon arriving in Moscow and walking past customs control, the waiting car took him into the city, where the first stop was not the Foreign Ministry, but KGB Headquarters at #2 Dzerzhinskiy Square. More than half the contents of the diplomatic pouch were handed over there, which included most of the flat pantyhose packages. Two more hours allowed the courier to find his family flat, a bottle of vodka, and some needed sleep.
The cassette landed on the desk of a KGB major. The identification chit told him which of his field force had originated it, and the desk officer filled out a form of his own, then called a subordinate to convey it to the photo lab for development. The lab, while large, was also quite busy today, and he'd have to wait a day, perhaps two, his lieutenant told him on returning. The Major nodded. Yegorov was a new though promising field officer, and was starting to develop an agent with interesting legislative connections, but it was expected that it would be a while before cassius turned over anything of great importance.
Raymond Brown left the University of Pittsburgh Medical School struggling not to quiver with anger after their first visit to Dr Bryant. It had actually gone quite well. Doris had explained many of the events of the preceding three years with a forthright if brittle voice, and throughout he'd held her hand to lend support, both physical and moral. Raymond Brown actually blamed himself for everything that had happened to his daughter. If only he'd controlled his temper that Friday night so long before - but he hadn't. It was done. He couldn't change things. He'd been a different person then. Now he was older and wiser, and so he controlled his rage on the walk to the car. This process was about the future, not the past. The psychiatrist had been very clear about that. He was determined to follow her guidance on everything.
Father and daughter had dinner at a quiet family restaurant - he'd never learned to cook well - and talked about the neighborhood, which of Doris's childhood friends were doing what, in a gentle exercise at catching up on things. Raymond kept his voice low, telling himself to smile a lot and let Doris do most of the talking. Every so often her voice would slow, and the hurt look would reappear. That was his cue to change the subject, to say something nice about her appearance, maybe relate a story from the shop. Most of all he had to be strong and steady for her. Over the ninety minutes of their first session with the doctor, he'd learned that the things he'd feared for three years had indeed come to pass, and somehow he knew that other things as yet unspoken were even worse. He would have to tap on undiscovered resources to keep his anger in, but his little girl needed him to be a - a rock, he told himself. A great big rock that she could hold on to, as solid as the hills on which his city was built. She needed other things, too. She needed to rediscover God. The doctor had agreed with him about it, and Ray Brown was going to take care of it, with the help of his pastor, he promised himself, staring into his little girl's eyes.
It was good to be back at work. Sandy was running her floor again, her two-week absence written off by Sam Rosen as a special-duty assignment, which his status as a department chairman guaranteed would pass without question. The post-op patients were the usual collection of major and minor cases. Sandy's team organized and managed their care. Two of her fellow nurses asked a few questions about her absence. She answered merely by saying she'd done a special research project for Dr Rosen, and that was enough, especially with a full and busy patient load. The other members of the nursing team saw that she was somewhat distracted. There was a distant look in her eyes from time to time, her thoughts elsewhere, dwelling on something. They didn't know what. Perhaps a man, they all hoped, glad to have the team leader back. Sandy was better at handling the surgeons than anyone else on the service, and with Professor Rosen backing her up, it made for a comfortable routine.
'So, you replace Billy and Rick yet?' Morello asked.
'That'll take a while, Eddie,' Henry replied. 'This is going to mess up our deliveries.'
'Aw, crap? You got that too complicated anyway.'
'Back off, Eddie,' Tony Piaggi said. 'Henry has a good routine set up. It's safe and it works -'
'And it's too complicated. Who's gonna take care of Philadelphia now?' Morello demanded.