“Okay. Follow
“Thank God for that,” Ryan breathed.
“You are be — believer?” Borodin asked.
“Yeah, sure.” Ryan should not have been surprised by the question. “Hell, you gotta believe in something.”
“And why is that, Commander Ryan?” Borodin was examining the
Ryan wondered how to answer. “Well, because if you don’t, what’s the point of life? That would mean Sartre and Camus and all those characters were right — all is chaos, life has no meaning. I refuse to believe that. If you want a better answer, I know a couple priests who’d be glad to talk to you.”
Borodin did not respond. He spoke an order into the bridge microphone, and they altered course a few degrees to starboard.
A half mile aft, Mancuso was holding a light-amplifying night scope to his eyes. Mannion was at his shoulder, struggling to see.
“Jesus Christ,” Mancuso whispered.
“You got that one right, Skipper,” Mannion said, shivering in his jacket. “I’m not sure I believe it either. Here comes the Zodiac.” Mannion handed his commander the portable radio used for docking.
“Do you read?”
“This is Mancuso.”
“When our friend stops, I want you to transfer ten men to her, including your corpsman. They report two casualties who need medical attention. Pick good men, Commander, they’ll need help running the boat — just make damned sure they’re men who don’t talk.”
“Acknowledged. Ten men including the medic. Out.” Mancuso watched the raft speed off to the
“Bet your ass, uh, sir. You planning to go?” Mannion asked.
Mancuso was judicious. “I think Chambers is up to handling
On shore, a naval officer was on the phone to Norfolk. The coast guard station was crowded, almost entirely with officers. A fiberglass box sat next to the phone so that they could communicate with CINCLANT in secrecy. They had been here only two hours and would soon leave. Nothing could appear out of the ordinary. Outside, an admiral and a pair of captains watched the dark shapes through starlight scopes. They were as solemn as men in a church.
Commander Ed Noyes was resting in the doctor’s lounge of the naval hospital at the U.S. Marine Corps Air Station, Cherry Point, North Carolina. A qualified flight surgeon, he had the duty for the next three nights so that he’d have four days off over Christmas. It had been a quiet night. This was about to change.
“Doc?”
Noyes looked up to see a marine captain in MP livery. The doctor knew him. Military police delivered a lot of accident cases. He set down his
“Hi, Jerry. Something coming in?”
“Doc, I got orders to tell you to pack everything you need for emergency surgery. You got two minutes, then I take you to the airfield.”
“What for? What kind of surgery?” Noyes stood.
“They didn’t say, sir, just that you fly out somewheres, alone. The orders come from topside, that’s all I know.”
“Damn it, Jerry, I have to know what sort of surgery it is so I know what to take!”
“So take everything, sir. I gotta get you to the chopper.”
Noyes swore and went into the trauma receiving room. Two more marines were waiting there. He handed them four sterile sets, prepackaged instrument trays. He wondered if he’d need some drugs and decided to grab an armful, along with two units of plasma. The captain helped him on with his coat, and they moved out the door to a waiting jeep. Five minutes later they pulled up to a Sea Stallion whose engines were already screaming.
“What gives?” Noyes asked the colonel of intelligence inside, wondering where the crew chief was.
“We’re heading out over the sound,” the colonel explained. “We have to let you down on a sub that has some casualties aboard. There’s a pair of corpsmen to assist you, and that’s all I know, okay?” It had to be okay. There was no choice in the matter.
The Stallion lifted off at once. Noyes had flown in them often enough. He had two hundred hours piloting helicopters, another three hundred in fixed-wing aircraft. Noyes was the kind of doctor who’d discovered too late that flying was as attractive a calling as medicine. He went up at every opportunity, often giving pilots special medical care for their dependents to get backseat time in an F-4 Phantom. The Sea Stallion, he noted, was not cruising. It was running flat out.
The
“Ahoy
This time Borodin answered. He had an accent but his English was understandable. “Identify.”
“This is Bart Mancuso, commanding officer of USS
Ryan saw the
“Permission is — yes.”
The Zodiac edged right up to the curve of the hull. A man leaped aboard with a line to secure the raft. Ten men clambered off, one breaking away to climb up the submarine’s sail.
“Captain? I’m Bart Mancuso. I understand you have some hurt men aboard.”
“Yes,” Borodin nodded, “the captain and a British officer, both shot.”
“Shot?” Mancuso was surprised.
“Worry about that later,” Ryan said sharply. “Let’s get your doc working on them, okay?”
“Sure, where’s the hatch?”
Borodin spoke into the bridge mike, and a few seconds later a circle of light appeared on deck at the foot of the sail.
“We haven’t got a physician, we have an independent duty corpsman. He’s pretty good, and
“He is a spy,” Borodin said with palpable irony.
“Jack Ryan.”
“And you, sir?”
“Captain Second Rank Vasily Borodin. I am — first officer, yes? Come over into the station, Commander. Please excuse me, we are all very tired.”
“You’re not the only ones.” There wasn’t that much room. Mancuso perched himself on the coaming. “Captain, I want you to know we had a bastard of a time tracking you. You are to be complimented for your professional skill.”
The compliment did not elicit the anticipated response from Borodin. “You were able to track us. How?”
“I brought him along, you can meet him.”
“And what are we to do?”
“Orders from shore are to wait for the doc to arrive and dive. Then we sit tight until we get orders to move. Maybe a day, maybe two. I think we could all use the rest. After that, we get you to a nice safe place, and I will
