The Hunt for Red October - Tom Clancy [185]
"Very early yesterday morning. Sorry about the delay, but Pigeon had trouble with the radio, as a result of the underwater explosion, they say. You know how that sort of thing can happen."
"Indeed." Pelt had to admire the response, not a trace of irony. "Where are they now?"
"The Pigeon is sailing to Charleston, South Carolina. We'll have your crewmen flown directly to Washington from there."
"And this submarine exploded? You are sure?"
"Yeah, one of the crewmen said they had a major reactor accident. It was just good luck that Pigeon was there. She was heading to the Virginia coast to look at the other one you lost. I think your navy needs a little work, Alex," Pelt observed.
"I will pass that along to Moscow, Doctor," Arbatov responded dryly. "Can you tell us where this happened?"
"I can do better than that. We have a ship taking a deep-diving research sub down to look for the wreckage. If you want, you can have your navy fly a man to Norfolk, and we'll fly him out to check it for you. Fair enough?"
"You say you lost two officers?" Arbatov played for time, surprised at the offer.
"Yes, both rescue people. We did get a hundred men off, Alex," Pelt said defensively. "That's something."
"Indeed it is, Dr. Pelt. I must cable Moscow for instructions. I will be back to you. You are at your office?"
"Correct. Bye, Alex." He hung up and looked at the president. "Do I pass, boss?"
"Work a little bit on the sincerity, Jeff." The president was sprawled in a leather chair, a robe over his pajamas. "They'll bite?"
"They'll bite. They sure as hell want to confirm the destruction of the sub. Question is, can we fool 'em?"
"Foster seems to think so. It sounds plausible enough."
"Hmph. Well, we have her, don't we?" Pelt observed.
"Yep, I guess that story about the GRU agent was wrong, or else they kicked him off with everybody else. I want to see that Captain Ramius. Jeez! Pulling a reactor scare, no wonder he got everybody off the ship!"
The Pentagon
Skip Tyler was in the CNO's office trying to relax in a chair. The coast guard station on the inlet had had a low-light television, the tape from which had been flown by helicopter to Cherry Point and from there by Phantom jet fighter to Andrews. Now it was in the hands of a courier whose automobile was just pulling up at the Pentagon's main entrance.
"I have a package to hand deliver to Admiral Foster," an ensign announced a few minutes later. Foster's flag secretary pointed him to the door.
"Good morning, sir! This is for you, sir." The ensign handed Foster the wrapped cassette.
"Thank you. Dismissed."
Foster inserted the cassette in the tape player atop his office television. The set was already on, and the picture appeared in several seconds.
Tyler was standing beside the CNO as it focused. "Yep."
"Yep," Foster agreed.
The picture was lousy—no other word for it. The low-light television system did not give a very sharp picture since it amplified all of the ambient light equally. This tended to wash out many details. But what they saw was enough: a very large missile submarine whose sail was much farther aft than the sails on anything a Western country made. She dwarfed the Dallas and Pogy. They watched the screen without a word for the next fifteen minutes. Except for the wobbly camera, the picture was about as lively as a test pattern.
"Well," Foster said as the tape ended, "we got us a Russian boomer."
"How 'bout that?" Tyler grinned.
"Skip, you were up for command of Los Angeles, right?"
"Yes, sir."
"We owe you for this, Commander, we owe you a lot. I did some checking the other day. An officer injured in the line of duty does not necessarily have to retire unless he is demonstrably unfit for duty. An accident while returning from working on your boat is line of duty, I think, and we've had a few ship commanders who were short a leg. I'll go to the president myself on this, son. It will mean a year's work getting back in the groove, but if you still want your command, by God, I'll get it for you."
Tyler sat down for that. It would mean