The Hunt for Red October - Tom Clancy [27]
"Understood, sir."
"When you get back—probably be late, the way the roads are. You're staying at the Marriott?"
"Yes, sir."
Greer thought that over. "I'll probably be working late. Stop by here before you bed down. I may want to go over a few things with you."
"Will do, sir. Thanks for the car." Ryan stood.
"Go buy your dolls, son."
Greer watched him leave. He liked Ryan. The boy was not afraid to speak his mind. Part of that came from having money and being married to more money. It was a sort of independence that had advantages. Ryan could not be bought, bribed, or bullied. He could always go back to writing history books full time. Ryan had made money on his own in four years as a stockbroker, betting his own money on high-risk issues and scoring big before leaving it all behind—because, he said, he hadn't wanted to press his luck. Greer didn't believe that. He thought Jack had been bored—bored with making money. He shook his head. The talent that had enabled him to pick winning stocks Ryan now applied to the CIA. He was rapidly becoming one of Greer's star analysts, and his British connections made him doubly valuable. Ryan had the ability to sort through a pile of data and come out with the three or four facts that meant something. This was too rare a thing at the CIA. The agency still spent too much of its money collecting data, Greer thought, and not enough collating it. Analysts had none of the supposed glamour—a Hollywood-generated illusion—of a secret agent in a foreign land. But Jack knew how to analyze reports from such men and data from technical sources. He knew how to make a decision and was not afraid to say what he thought, whether his bosses liked it or not. This sometimes grated the old admiral, but on the whole he liked having subordinates whom he could respect. The CIA had too many people whose only skill was kissing ass.
The U.S. Naval Academy
The loss of his left leg above the knee had not taken away Oliver Wendell Tyler's roguish good looks or his zest for life. His wife could testify to this. Since leaving the active service four years before, they had added three children to the two they already had and were working on a sixth. Ryan found him sitting at a desk in an empty classroom in Rickover Hall, the U.S. Naval Academy's science and engineering building. He was grading papers.
"How's it goin', Skip?" Ryan leaned against the door frame. His CIA driver was in the hall.
"Hey, Jack! I thought you were in England ." Tyler jumped to his foot—his own phrase—and hobbled over to grab Ryan's hand. His prosthetic leg ended in a square, rubber-coated band instead of a pseudo-foot. It flexed at the knee, but not by much. Tyler had been a second-squad All American offensive tackle sixteen years before, and the rest of his body was as hard as the aluminum and fiberglass in his left leg. His handshake could make a gorilla wince. "So, what are you doing here?"
"I had to fly over to get some work done and do a little shopping. How's Jean and your . . . five?"
"Five and two-thirds."
"Again? Jean ought to have you fixed."
"That's what she said, but I've had enough things disconnected." Tyler laughed. "I guess I'm making up for all those monastic years as a nuc. Come on over and grab a chair."
Ryan sat on the corner of the desk and opened his briefcase. He handed Tyler a folder.
"Got some pictures I want you to look at."
"Okay." Tyler flipped it open. "Whose—a Russian! Big bastard. That's the basic Typhoon configuration. Lots of modifications, though. Twenty-six missiles instead of twenty. Looks longer. Hull's flattened out some, too. More beam?"
"Two or three meters' worth."
"I heard you were working with the CIA. Can't talk about that, right?"
"Something like that. And you never saw these pictures, Skip. Understood?"
"Right." Tyler's eyes twinkled. "What do you want me not to look at them for?"
Ryan pulled the blowups from the back of the folder. "These doors, bow and stern."
"Uh-huh."