moment. 'I don't like the idea of leaving Filitov in place either. What are the chances that he can just lay low? I mean, the way things are set up, he might just talk his way out of anything they can bring against him.'
'No, James.' Ritter shook his head emphatically. 'We can't have him lay low, because we need the rest of this report, don't we? If he runs the risk of getting it out despite the attention he's getting, we can't then leave him to fate. It's not right. Remember what this man's done for us over the years.' Ritter argued on for several minutes, demonstrating the ferocious loyalty to his people that he'd learned as a young case officer. Though agents often had to be treated like children, encouraged, supported, and often disciplined, they became like your own children, and danger to them was something to be fought.
Judge Moore ended the discussion. 'Your points are well taken, Bob, but I still have to go to the President. This isn't just a field operation anymore.'
Ritter stood his ground. 'We put all the assets in place.'
'Agreed, but it won't be carried out until we get approval.'
The weather at Faslane was miserable, but at this time of year it usually was. A thirty-knot wind was lashing the Scottish coast with snow and sleet when Dallas surfaced. Mancuso took his station atop the sail and surveyed the rocky hills on the horizon. He'd just completed a speed run, zipping across the Atlantic at an average of thirty- one knots, about as hard as he cared to push his boat for any extended period of time, not to mention his running submerged far closer to the coast than he would have preferred. Well, he was paid to follow orders, not to love them.
The seas were rolling about fifteen feet, and his submarine rolled with them, wallowing her way forward at twelve knots. The seas came right over the spherical bow and splashed high on meeting the blunt face of the sail. Even the foul-weather gear didn't help much. Within a few minutes he was soaked and shivering. A Royal Navy tug approached and took station off Dallas' port bow, leading her in to the loch while Mancuso came to terms with the rolling. One of his best-kept professional secrets was an occasional touch of seasickness. Being on the sail helped, but those inside the submarine's cylindrical hull were now regretting the heavy lunch served a few hours earlier.
Within an hour they were in sheltered waters, taking the S-turns into the base that supported British and American nuclear submarines. Once there, the wind helped, easing the slate-gray bulk of the submarine up to the pier. People were already waiting there, sheltered in a few cars as the lines were passed and secured by the submarine's deck crew. As soon as the brow was passed, Mancuso went below to his cabin.
His first visitor was a commander. He'd expected a submarine officer, but this one had no service badges at all. That made him an intelligence type.
'How was the crossing, Captain?' the man asked.
'Quiet.' Well, get on with it!
'You sail in three hours. Here are your mission orders.' He handed over a manila envelope with wax seals, and a note on the front that told Mancuso when he could open it. Though often a feature in movies, it was the first time this had happened to him as a CO. You were supposed to be able to discuss your mission with the people who gave it to you. But not this time. Mancuso signed for them, locked them in his safe under the watchful eyes of the spook, and sent him back on his way.
'Shit,' the Captain observed to himself. Now his guests could come aboard.
There were two of them, both in civilian clothes. The first came down the torpedo-loading hatch with the aplomb of a real sailor. Mancuso soon saw why.
'Howdy, skipper!'
'Jonesy, what the hell are you doing here?'
'Admiral Williamson gave me a choice: either be recalled to temporary active duty or come aboard as a civilian tech-rep. I'd rather be a tech-rep. Pay's better,' Jones lowered his voice. 'This here's Mr. Clark. He doesn't talk much.'
And he didn't. Mancuso assigned him to the spare bunk in the engineer's stateroom. After his gear came down the hatch, Mr. Clark walked into the room, closed the door behind him, and that was that.
'Where do you want me to stash my stuff?' Jones asked.
'There's a spare bunk in the goat locker,' Mancuso replied.
'Fine. The chiefs eat better anyway.'
'How's school?'
'One more semester till my masters. I'm already getting nibbles from some contractors. And I'm engaged.' Jones pulled out his wallet and showed the Captain a photo. 'Her name's Kim, and she works in the library.'
'Congratulations, Mr. Jones.'
'Thanks, skipper. The Admiral said you really needed me. Kim understands. Her dad's Army. So, what's up? Some kind of spec-op, and you couldn't make it without me, right?'
'Special Operations' was a euphemism that covered all sorts of things, most of which were dangerous. 'I don't know. They haven't told me yet.'
'Well, one more trip 'up north' wouldn't be too bad,' Jones observed. 'To be honest, I kind of missed it.'
Mancuso didn't think they were going there, but refrained from saying so. Jones went aft to get settled. Mancuso went into the engineer's stateroom. 'Mr. Clark?'
'Yes, sir.' He'd hung up his jacket, revealing that he wore a short-sleeved shirt. The man was a little over forty, Mancuso judged. On first inspection, he didn't look all that special, perhaps six-one, and slim, but then Mancuso noted that the man didn't have the normal middle-age roll at the waist, and his shoulders were broader than they looked on the tall frame. It was the second glance at an arm that added a piece to the jigsaw. Half hidden under the black hair on his forearm was a tattoo, a red seal, it seemed to be, with a wide, impudent grin.
'I knew a guy with a tattoo like that. Officer-he's with Team-Six now.'
'Once upon a time, Captain. I'm not supposed to talk about that, sir.'
'What's this all about?'
'Sir, your mission orders will-'
'Humor me.' Mancuso smiled out the order. 'They just took in the brow.'
'It involves making a pickup.'
My God. Mancuso nodded impassively. 'Will you need any additional support?'
'No, sir. Solo shot. Just me and my gear.'
'Okay. We can go over it in detail after we sail. You'll eat in the wardroom. Right down the ladder outside, then a few feet aft, on the starboard side. One other thing: is time a problem?'
'Shouldn't be, unless you mind waiting. Part of this is still up in the air-and that's all I can say for now, Captain. Sorry, but I have my orders, too.'
'Fair enough. You take the top bunk. Get some sleep if you need it.'
'Thank you, sir.' Clark watched the Captain leave, but didn't smile until the door closed. He'd never been on a Los Angeles-class submarine before. Most intelligence missions were conducted by the smaller, more maneuverable Sturgeons. He always slept in the same place, always in the upper bunk in the engineer's stateroom, the only spare bed on the ship. There was the usual problem stowing his gear, but 'Clark' had done it enough to know all the tricks. When he'd finished that, he climbed up into the bunk. He was tired from the flight and needed a few hours to relax. The bunk was always the same, hard against the curved hull of the submarine. It was like being in a coffin with the lid half-open.
'One must admire the Americans for their cleverness,' Morozov said. It had been a busy several weeks at Dushanbe. Immediately after the test-more precisely, immediately after their visitor from Moscow had left-two of the six lasers had been defrosted and disassembled for service, and it was found that their optics had been badly scorched. So there was still a problem with the optical coating, after all. More likely quality-control, his section chief had observed, dismissing the problem to another team of engineers. What they had now was far more exciting. Here was the American mirror design that they'd heard about for years.
'The idea came from an astronomer. He wanted a way to make stellar photographs that didn't suffer from 'twinkling.' Nobody bothered to tell him that it was impossible, so he went ahead and did it. I knew the rough idea, but not the details. You are right, young man. This is very clever. Too clever for us,' the man growled briefly as he flipped to the page on computer specifications. 'We don't have anything that can duplicate this performance. Just building the actuators-I don't know if we can even do that.'
'The Americans are building the telescope-'
