The Hunt for Red October - Tom Clancy [89]
Tyler's first cruise after graduating from nuc school in Idaho had been with Dodge. He'd done a tricky repair job on some ancillary reactor equipment two weeks earlier than estimated with a little creative effort and some back-channel procurement of spare parts. This had earned him and Dodge a flowery letter of commendation.
"I bet the old man would love to see you. When will you be finished down here?"
"Maybe half an hour."
"You know where to find me?"
"Have they moved OP-02?"
"Same place. Call me when you're finished. My extension is 78730. Okay? I gotta get back."
"Right." Tyler watched his old friend disappear down the corridor, then proceeded on his way to the men's room, wondering what the Russians were up to. Whatever it was, it was enough to keep a three-star admiral and his four-striped captain working on a Friday night in Christmas season.
"Eleven minutes, 53.18 seconds, sir," the sergeant reported, pocketing both bills.
The computer printout was over two hundred pages of data. The cover sheet plotted a rough-looking bell curve of speed solutions, and below it was the noise prediction curve. The case-by-case solutions were printed individually on the remaining sheets. The curves were predictably messy. The speed curve showed the majority of solutions in the ten- to twelve- knot range, the total range going from seven to eighteen knots. The noise curve was surprisingly low.
"Sergeant, that's one hell of a machine you have here."
"Believe it, sir. And reliable. We haven't had an electronic fault all month."
"Can I use a phone?"
"Sure, take your pick, sir."
"Okay, Sarge." Tyler picked up the nearest phone. "Oh, and dump the program."
"Okay." He typed in some instructions. "MORAY is . . . gone. Hope you kept a copy, sir."
Tyler nodded and dialed the phone. "OP-02A, Captain Coleman."
"Johnnie, this is Skip."
"Great! Hey, the old man wants to see you. Come right up."
Tyler placed the printout in his briefcase and locked it. He thanked the sergeant one more time before hobbling out the door, giving the Cray-2 one last look. He'd have to get in here again.
He could not find an operating elevator and had to struggle up a gently sloped ramp. Five minutes later he found a marine guarding the corridor.
"You Commander Tyler, sir?" the guard asked. "Can I see some ID, please?"
Tyler showed the corporal his Pentagon pass, wondering how many one-legged former submarine officers there might be.
"Thank you, Commander. Please go down the corridor. You know the room, sir?"
"Sure. Thanks, Corporal."
Vice Admiral Dodge was sitting on the corner of a desk reading over some message flimsies. Dodge was a small, combative man who'd made his mark commanding three separate boats, then pushing the Los Angeles–class attack submarines through their lengthy development program. Now he was "Grand Dolphin," the senior admiral who fought all the battles with Congress.
"Skip Tyler! You're looking good, laddy." Dodge gave Tyler's leg a furtive glance as he came over to take his hand. "I hear you're doing a great job at the Academy."
"It's all right, sir. They even let me scout the occasional ballgame."
"Hmph, shame they didn't let you scout Army."
Tyler hung his head theatrically. "I did scout Army, sir. They were just too tough this year. You heard about their middle linebacker, didn't you?"
"No, what about him?" Dodge asked.
"He picked armor as his duty assignment, and they gave him an early trip to Fort Knox—not to learn about tanks. To be a tank."
"Ha!" Dodge laughed. "Johnnie says you have a bunch of new kids."
"Number six is due the end of February," Tyler said proudly.
"Six? You're not a Catholic or a Mormon, are you? What's with all this bird hatching?"
Tyler gave his former boss a wry look. He'd never understood that prejudice in the nuclear navy. It came from Rickover, who had invented the