The Hunt for Red October - Tom Clancy [81]
There was a small bathroom—head, he corrected himself—adjoining the cabin. Ryan splashed some water on his face and washed his mouth out, not wanting to look in the mirror. He decided he had to. Counterfeit or not, he was wearing his country's uniform and he had to look presentable. It took a minute to get his hair in place and the uniform arranged properly. The CIA had done a nice job of tailoring, given such short notice. Finished, he went out the door towards the flag bridge.
"Feeling better, Jack?" Admiral White pointed him to a tray full of cups. It was only tea, but it was a start.
"Thank you, Admiral. Those few hours really helped. I guess I'm in time for dinner."
"Breakfast," White corrected him with a laugh.
"What—uh, pardon me, Admiral?" Ryan shook his head again. He was still a little groggy.
"That's a sunrise, Commander. Change in orders, we're heading west again. Kennedy's moving east at high speed, and we're to take station inshore."
"Who said, sir?"
"CINCLANT. I gather Joshua was not at all pleased. You are to remain with us for the moment, and under the circumstances it seemed the reasonable thing to let you sleep. You did appear to need it."
Must have been eighteen hours, Ryan thought. No wonder he felt stiff.
"You do look much better," Admiral White noted from his leather swivel chair. He got up, took Ryan's arm, and guided him aft. "Now for breakfast. I've been waiting for you. Captain Hunter will brief you on your revised orders. Weather's clearing up for a few days, they tell me. Escort assignments are being reshuffled. We're to operate in conjunction with your New Jersey group. Our antisubmarine operations begin in earnest in another twelve hours. It's a good thing you got that extra sleep, lad. You'll bloody need it."
Ryan ran his hand over his face. "Can I shave, sir?"
"We still permit beards. Let it wait until after breakfast."
Flag quarters on HMS Invincible were not quite to the standard of those on the Kennedy—but close. White had a private dining area. A steward in a white livery served them expertly, setting a third place for Hunter, who appeared within a few minutes. When they started talking, the steward was excused.
"We rendezvous with a pair of young Knox-class frigates in two hours. We already have them on radar. Two more 1052s, plus an oiler and two Perrys will join us in another thirty-six hours. They were on their way home from the Med. With our own escorts, a total of nine warships. A noteworthy collection, I think. We'll be working five hundred miles offshore, with the New Jersey–Tarawa force two hundred miles to our west."
"Tarawa? What do we need a regiment of marines for?" Ryan asked.
Hunter explained briefly. "Not a bad idea, that. The funny thing is, with Kennedy racing for the Azores, that rather leaves us guarding the American coast." Hunter grinned. "This may be the first time the Royal Navy has ever done that—certainly since it belonged to us."
"What are we up against?"
"The first of the Alfas will be on your coast tonight, four of them ahead of all the others. The Soviet surface force passed Iceland last night. It's divided into three groups. One is built around their carrier Kiev, two cruisers and four destroyers; the second, probably the force flag, is built around Kirov, with three additional cruisers and six destroyers; and the third is centered on Moskva, three more cruisers and seven destroyers. I gather that the Soviets will want to use the Kiev