“Do we have any reason to believe that?”
“None at all, Director, but on something this important — is it prudent or reasonable to affect our government's policy on the basis of a short letter from a single person?” That was always the best way to get to Marcus Cabot, prudence and reason.
“I hear what you're saying, Jack. Okay. My car is waiting. I'll be back in a couple of hours.”
Cabot grabbed his coat and walked out to the executive elevator. His Agency car was waiting. As Director of Central Intelligence, he got a pair of bodyguards, one driving, and the other in the front-passenger seat. Otherwise he had to deal with traffic the same as everyone else. Ryan, he thought on the drive down the George Washington Parkway, was becoming a pain in the ass. Okay, so he himself was new here. Okay, so he was inexperienced. Okay, so he liked to leave day-to-day stuff to his subordinates. He was the Director, after all, and didn't need to deal with every little damned thing. He was getting tired of having the rules of conduct explained to him once or twice a week, tired of having Ryan go over his head, tired of having analysis explained to him every time something really juicy came in. By the time he entered the White House, Cabot was quite annoyed.
“Morning, Marcus,” Liz Elliot said in her office.
“Good morning We have another SPINNAKER report President needs to go over it”
“So, what's Kadishev up to?”
“Who told you his name?” the DCI growled.
“Ryan — didn't you know?”
“God damn it!” Cabot swore “He didn't tell me that.”
“Sit down, Marcus We have a few minutes How happy are you with Ryan?”
“Sometimes he forgets who”s the Director and who“ s the Deputy ”
“He is a little on the arrogant side, isn't he?”
“Slightly,” Cabot agreed frostily.
“He's good at what he does — within limitations — but personally I'm getting a little tired of his attitude.”
“I know what you mean He likes telling me what I have to do — with this, for example.”
“Oh, he doesn't trust your judgment?” the National Security Advisor asked, selecting her needle with care.
Cabot looked up “Yeah, that's the attitude he conveys.”
“Well, we weren't able to change everything from the previous administration. Of course, he is a pro at this… ” her voice trailed off.
“And I'm not?” Cabot demanded.
“Of course you are, Marcus, you know I never meant it that way!”
“Sorry, Liz You're right Sometimes he rubs me the wrong way That's all.”
“Let's go see the boss.”
“How solid is this?” President Fowler asked five minutes later.
“As you've already heard, this agent has been working for us over five years, and his information has invariably been accurate.”
“Have you confirmed it?”
“Not completely,” Cabot replied. “It's unlikely that we can, but our Russian department believes it, and so do I.”
“Ryan had his doubts.”
Cabot was getting a little tired of hearing about Ryan. “I do not, Mr. President. I think Ryan is trying to impress us with his new views on the Soviet government, trying to show us that he's not a cold-warrior anymore.” Again Cabot had dwelt on irrelevancies, Elliot thought to herself.
Fowler's eyes shifted. “ Elizabeth?”
“It's certainly plausible that the Soviet security apparatus is trying to stake out an improved position,” her voice purred at its most reasonable timbre. “They're unhappy with the liberalization, they're unhappy with their loss of power, and they're unhappy with what they think is a failure of leadership on Narmonov's part. This information, therefore, is consistent with a lot of other facts we have. I think we should believe it.”
“If this is true, then we have to ease off on our support for Narmonov. We cannot be party to a reversion to more centralized rule, particularly if it results from elements who so clearly dislike us.”
“Agreed,” Liz said. “Better to lose Narmonov. If he can't break their military to his will, then someone else will have to. Of course, we have to give him a fair chance… how we do that is rather tricky. We don't want to dump the country into the hands of their military, do we?”
“Are you kidding?” Fowler observed.
They stood on a catwalk inside the massive boat-shed where the Trident submarines were prepared for sea, watching the crew of USS Georgia load up for their next cruise.
“Talked his way out of it, Bart?” Jones asked.
“His explanation made a lot of sense, Ron.”
“When's the last time you caught me wrong?”
“For all things there is a first time.”
“Not this one, skipper,” Dr. Jones said quietly. “I got a feeling.”
“Okay, I want you to spend some more time on the simulator with his sonar troops.”
“Fair enough.” Jones was quiet for a few seconds. “You know, it might be fun to go out, just one more time…”
Mancuso turned. “You volunteering?”
“No. Kim might not understand my being away for three months. Two weeks is long enough. Too long, as a matter of fact. I'm getting very domesticated, Bart, getting old and respectable. Not young and bright-eyed like those kids.”
“What do you think of them?”
“The sonar guys? They're good. So's the tracking party. The guy Ricks replaced was Jim Rosselli, right?”
“That's right.”
“He trained them well. Can we go off the record?”
“Sure.”
“Ricks is not a good skipper. He's too tough on the troops, demands too much, too hard to satisfy. Not like you were at all, Bart.”
Mancuso dodged the compliment. “We all have different styles.”
“I know that, but I wouldn't want to sail with him. One of his chiefs asked for a transfer off. So did half a dozen petty officers.”
“They all had family problems.” Mancuso had approved all the transfers, including the young chief torpedoman.
“No, they didn't,” Jones said. “They needed excuses, and they used them.”
“Ron, look, I'm the squadron commander, okay? I can only elevate my COs on the basis of performance. Ricks didn't get here by being a loser.”
“You look from the top down. I look from the bottom up. From my perspective, this man is not a good skipper. I wouldn't say that to anybody else, but we were shipmates. Okay, I was a peon, just a lowly E-6, but you never treated me that way. You were a good boss. Ricks isn't. The crew doesn't like him, does not have confidence in him.”
“Damn it, Ron, I can't allow stuff like that to affect my judgment.”
“Yeah, I know. Annapolis, old school tie — ring, whatever matters to you Canoe U. grads. You have to approach it a different way. Like I said, I wouldn't talk this way with anybody else. If I was on that boat, I'd try to transfer off.”
“I sailed with some skippers I didn't like. It's mainly a matter of style.”
“You say so, Commodore.” Jones paused. “Just remember one thing, okay? There's lots of ways to impress a senior officer, but there's only one way to impress a crew.”
Fromm insisted that they take their time. The mold had long since cooled and was now broken open in the inert atmosphere of the first machine tool. The roughly-formed metal mass was set in place. Fromm personally checked the computer codes that told the machine what it had to do and punched the first button. The robotic
