The Cardinal of the Kremlin - Tom Clancy [178]
I wonder how you predict fate? I wonder how you predict the future At first playful, in a moment the thought chilled him.
Your business is predicting the future, but what makes you think that you can really do it? What have you guessed wrong on this time, Jack?
Goddamn it! he raged at himself. Every time I get on a fucking airplane He strapped himself in, facing across the airplane some State Department technical expert who loved to fly.
The engines started a minute later, and presently the airplane started to roll. The announcements over the intercom weren't very different from that on an airliner, just enough to let you know that the ownership of the plane was not corporate. Jack had already deduced that. The stewardess had a mustache. It was something to chuckle about as the aircraft taxied to the end of runway One-Left.
The winds were northerly, and the VC-137 took off into them, turning right a minute after it lifted off. Jack turned, too, looking down at U.S. Route 50. It was the road that led to his home in Annapolis. He lost sight of it as the aircraft entered the clouds. The impersonal white veil had often seemed a beautiful curtain, but now but now it just meant that he couldn't see the way home. Well, there wasn't much he could do about that. Ryan had the couch to himself, and decided to take advantage of the fact. He kicked off his shoes and stretched out for a nap. One thing he'd need would be rest. He was sure of that.
Dallas had surfaced at the appointed time and place, then been told of a hitch in the plans. Now she surfaced again. Mancuso was the first one up the ladder to the control station atop the sail, followed by a junior officer and a pair of lookouts. Already the periscope was up, scanning the surface for traffic, of course. The night was calm and clear, the sort of sky you get only at sea, ablaze with stars, like gemstones on a velvet sheet.
"Bridge, conn."
Mancuso pressed the button. "Bridge, aye."
"ESM reports an airborne radar transmitter bearing one-four-zero, bearing appears steady."
"Very well." The Captain turned. "You can flip on the running lights."
"All clear starboard," one lookout said.
"All clear port," echoed the other.
"ESM reports contact is still steady on one-four-zero. Signal strength is increasing."
"Possible aircraft fine on the port bow!" a lookout called.
Mancuso raised his binoculars to his eyes and started searching the blackness. If it was here already, it didn't have his running lights on but then he saw a handful of stars disappear, occulted by something
"I got him. Good eye, Everly! Oh, there go his flying lights,"
"Bridge, conn, we have a radio message coming in."
"Patch it," Mancuso replied at once. "Done, sir."
"Echo-Golf-Nine, this is Alfa-Whiskey-Five, over."
"Alfa-Whiskey-Five, this is Echo-Golf-Nine. I read you loud and clear. Authenticate, over."
"Bravo-Delta-Hotel, over."
"Roger, thank you. We are standing by. Wind is calm. Sea is flat." Mancuso reached down and flipped on the lights for the control station instruments. Not actually needed at the moment-the Attack Center still had the conn-they'd give the approaching helicopter a target.
They heard it a moment later, first the flutter of the rotor blades, then the whine of the turboshaft engines. Less than a minute later they could feel the downdraft as the helicopter circled twice overhead for the pilot to orient himself. Mancuso wondered if he'd turn on his landing lights or hot-dog it.
He hot-dogged it, or more properly, he treated it as what it was, a covert personnel transfer: a "combat" mission. The pilot fixed on the submarine's