The Hunt for Red October

the coming thing in spy cameras, nice and flat. This one, he says, was hidden in a tobacco pouch.”

“How did you know that — that we need the camera?”

“You mean how Somers uses lasers to—”

“Ryan!” Greer snapped. “How much do you know?”

“Relax, sir. Remember back in February, I was over to discuss those new SS-20 sites on the Chinese border? Somers was here, and you asked me to drive him out to the airport. On the way out he started babbling about this great new idea he was heading west to work on. He talked about it all the way to Dulles. From what little I understood, I gather that he shoots laser beams through the camera lenses to make a mathematical model of the lens. From that, I suppose, he can take the exposed negative, break down the image into the — original incoming light beams, I guess, then use a computer to run that through a computer-generated theoretical lens to make a perfect picture. I probably have it wrong.” Ryan could tell from Greer’s face that he didn’t.

“Somers talks too goddamned much.”

“I told him that, sir. But once the guy gets started, how the hell do you shut him up?”

“And what do the Brits know?” Greer asked.

“Your guess is as good as mine, sir. Sir Basil asked me about it, and I told him that he was asking the wrong guy — I mean, my degrees are in economics and history, not physics. I told him we needed the camera — but he already knew that. Took it right out of his desk and tossed it to me. I did not reveal a thing about this, sir.”

“I wonder how many other people he spilled to. Geniuses! They operate in their own crazy little worlds. Somers is like a little kid sometimes. And you know the First Rule of Security: The likelihood of a secret’s being blown is proportional to the square of the number of people who’re in on it.” It was Greer’s favorite dictum.

His phone buzzed. “Greer…Right.” He hung up. “Charlie Davenport’s on the way up, per your suggestion, Jack. Supposed to be here half an hour ago. Must be the snow.” The admiral jerked a hand towards the window. There were two inches on the ground, with another inch expected by nightfall. “One flake hits this town and everything goes to hell.”

Ryan laughed. That was something Greer, a down-easter from Maine, never could seem to understand.

“So, Jack, you say this is worth the price?”

“Sir, we’ve wanted these pictures for some time, what with all the contradictory data we’ve been getting on the sub. It’s your decision and the judge’s but, yes, I think they’re worth the price. These shots are very interesting.”

“We ought to have our own men in that damned yard,” Greer grumped. Ryan didn’t know how Operations had screwed that one up. He had little interest in field operations. Ryan was an analyst. How the data came to his desk was not his concern, and he was careful to avoid finding out. “I don’t suppose Basil told you anything about their man?”

Ryan smiled, shaking his head. “No, sir, and I did not ask.” Greer nodded his approval.

“Morning, James!”

Ryan turned to see Rear Admiral Charles Davenport, director of naval intelligence, with a captain trailing in his wake.

“Hi, Charlie. You know Jack Ryan, don’t you?”

“Hello, Ryan.”

“We’ve met,” Ryan said.

“This is Captain Casimir.”

Ryan shook hands with both men. He’d met Davenport a few years before while delivering a paper at the Naval War College in Newport, Rhode Island. Davenport had given him a hard time in the question-and-answer session. He was supposed to be a bastard to work for, a former aviator who had lost flight status after a barrier crash and, some said, still bore a grudge. Against whom? Nobody really knew.

“Weather in England must be as bad as here, Ryan.” Davenport dropped his bridge coat on top of Ryan’s. “I see you stole a Royal Navy overcoat.”

Ryan was fond of his toggle coat. “A gift, sir, and quite warm.”

“Christ, you even talk like a Brit. James, we gotta bring this boy home.”

“Be nice to him, Charlie. He’s got a present for you. Grab yourself some coffee.”

Casimir scurried over to fill a mug for his boss, then sat down at his right hand. Ryan let them wait a moment before opening his briefcase. He took out four folders, keeping one and handing the others around.

“They say you’ve been doing some fairly good work, Ryan,” Davenport said. Jack knew him to be a mercurial man, affable one moment, brittle the next. Probably to keep his subordinates off balance. “And — Jesus Christ!” Davenport had opened his folder.

“Gentlemen, I give you Red October, courtesy of the British Secret Intelligence Service,” Ryan said formally.

The folders had the photographs arranged in pairs, four each of four-by-four prints. In the back were ten-by- ten blowups of each. The photos had been taken from a low-oblique angle, probably from the rim of the graving dock that had held the boat during her post-shakedown refit. The shots were paired, fore and aft, fore and aft.

“Gentlemen, as you can see, the lighting wasn’t all that great. Nothing fancy here. It was a pocket camera loaded with 400-speed color film. The first pair was processed normally to establish high levels. The second was pushed for greater brightness using normal procedures. The third pair was digitally enhanced for color resolution, and the fourth was digitally enhanced for line resolution. I have undeveloped frames of each view for Barry Somers to play with.”

“Oh?” Davenport looked up briefly. “That’s right neighborly of the Brits. What’s the price?” Greer told him. “Pay up. It’s worth it.”

“That’s what Jack says.”

“Figures,” Davenport chuckled. “You know he really is working for them.”

Ryan bristled at that. He liked the English, liked working with their intelligence community, but he knew what country he came from. Jack took a deep breath. Davenport liked to goad people, and if he reacted Davenport would win.

“I gather that Sir John Ryan is still well connected on the other side of the ocean?” Davenport said, extending the prod.

Ryan’s knighthood was an honorary one. It was his reward for having broken up a terrorist incident that had erupted around him in St. James’s Park, London. He’d been a tourist at the time, the innocent American abroad, long before he’d been asked to join the CIA. The fact that he had unknowingly prevented the assassination of two very prominent figures had gotten him more publicity than he’d ever wanted, but it had also brought him in contact with a lot of people in England, most of them worth the time. Those connections had made him valuable enough that the CIA asked him to be part of a joint American-British liaison group. That was how he had established a good working relationship with Sir Basil Charleston.

“We have lots of friends over there, sir, and some of them were kind enough to give you these,” Ryan said coolly.

Davenport softened. “Okay, Jack, then you do me a favor. You see whoever gave us these gets something nice in his stocking. They’re worth plenty. So, exactly what do we have here?”

To the unschooled observer, the photographs showed the standard nuclear missile submarine. The steel hull was blunt at one end, tapered at the other. The workmen standing on the floor of the dock provided scale — she was huge. There were twin bronze propellers at the stern, on either side of a flat appendage which the Russians called a beaver tail, or so the intelligence reports said. With the twin screws the stern was unremarkable except in one detail.

“What are these doors for?” Casimir asked.

“Hmm. She’s a big bastard.” Davenport evidently hadn’t heard. “Forty feet longer than we expected, by the look of her.”

“Forty-four, roughly.” Ryan didn’t much like Davenport, but the man did know his stuff. “Somers can calibrate that for us. And more beam, two meters more than the other Typhoons. She’s an obvious development of the Typhoon class, but—”

“You’re right, Captain,” Davenport interrupted. “What are those doors?”