The Hunt for Red October - Tom Clancy [75]
"Yeah," Ryan nodded. "We'd blow it the hell out of the water."
"There you have it. Ramius is in the trade of stealth, and he'll likely stick to what he knows," Barclay concluded. Fortunately or unfortunately, he's jolly good at it."
"How soon will we have performance data on this quiet drive system?" Carstairs wanted to know.
"Next couple of days, we hope."
"Where does Admiral Painter want us?" White asked.
"The plan he submitted to Norfolk puts you on the right flank. He wants Kennedy inshore to handle the threat from their surface force. He wants your force farther out. You see, Painter thinks there's the chance that Ramius will come straight south from the G-I-U.K. gap into the Atlantic basin and just sit for a while. The odds favor his not being detected there, and if the Soviets send the fleet after him, he's got the time and supplies to sit out there longer than they can maintain a force off our coast—both for technical and political reasons. Additionally, he wants your striking power out here to threaten their flank. It has to be approved by the commander in chief of the Atlantic Fleet, and a lot of details, remain to be worked out. For example, Painter requested some E-3 Sentries to support you out here."
"A month in the middle of the North Atlantic in winter?" Carstairs winced. He had been the Invincible's executive officer during the war around the Falklands and had ridden in the violent South Atlantic for endless weeks.
"Be happy for the E-3s." The admiral smiled. "Hunter, I want to see plans for using all these ships the Yanks are giving us, and how we can cover a maximum area. Barclay, I want to see your evaluation of what our friend Ramius will do. Assume he's still the clever bastard we've come to know and love."
"Aye aye, sir." Barclay stood with the others.
"Jack, how long will you be with us?"
"I don't know, Admiral. Until they recall me to the Kennedy, I guess. From where I sit, this operation was laid on too fast. Nobody really knows what the hell we're supposed to do."
"Well, why don't you let us see to this for a while? You look exhausted. Get some sleep."
"True enough, Admiral." Ryan was beginning to feel the brandy.
"There's a cot in the locker over there. I'll have someone set it up for you, and you can sleep in here for the time being. If anything comes in for you, we'll get you up."
"That's kind of you, sir." Admiral White was a good guy, Jack thought, and his wife was something very special. In ten minutes, Ryan was on the cot and asleep.
The Red October
Every two days the starpom collected the radiation badges. This was part of a semiformal inspection. After seeing to it that every crewman's shoes were spit-shined, every bunk was properly made, and every footlocker was arranged according to the book, the executive officer would take the two-day-old badges and hand the sailors new ones, usually along with some terse advice to square themselves away as New Soviet Men ought. Borodin had this procedure down to a science. Today, as always, the trip from one compartment to another took two hours. When he was finished, the bag on his left hip was full of old badges, and the one on his right depleted of new ones. He took the badges to the ship's medical officer.
"Comrade Petrov, I have a gift for you." Borodin set the leather bag on the physician's desk.
"Good." The doctor smiled up at the executive officer. "With all the healthy young men I have little to do but read my journals."
Borodin left Petrov to his task. First the doctor set the badges out in order. Each bore a three-digit number. The first digit identified the badge series, so that if any radiation were detected there would be a time reference. The second digit showed where the sailor worked,