“That takes care of the preliminaries.”
“Sure does, boss,” the coach said. “How goes the Pentagon, Dennis?”
“Not as much fun as you're having, Paul.”
“That's the choice, isn't it? Fun or importance?”
“Everybody all right?”
“Yes, sir! We're pretty healthy for this far into the season, and we have this week to get everybody up to speed. I want another crack at those Vikings.”
“So do I,” Secretary Bunker said from his E-Ring office. “Think we can really stop Tony Wills this time?”
“We can sure try. Isn't he one great kid? I haven't seen running like that since Gayle Sayers. Defensing him is a bitch, though.”
“Let's not try to think too far ahead. I want to be in Denver in a few weeks.”
“We play 'em one at a time, Dennis, you know that. Just we don't know who we're playing yet. I'd prefer LA. We can handle them easy enough,” the coach thought. “Then we'll probably have to handle Miami in the division game. That'll be harder, but we can do it.”
“I think so, too.”
“I have films to look at.”
“Fair enough. Just remember, one at a time — but three more wins.”
“You tell the President to come on out to Denver. We'll be there to see him. This is San Diego 's year. The Chargers go all the way.”
Dubinin watched the water invade the graving dock as the sluices were opened. Admiral Lunin was ready. The new sonar array was rolled up on its spool inside the teardrop-shaped fairing that sat atop the rudder post. The seven-bladed screw of manganese-bronze had been inspected and polished. The hull was restored to full watertight integrity. His submarine was ready for sea.
As was the crew. He'd gotten rid of eighteen conscript sailors and replaced them with eighteen new officers. The radical down-sizing of the Soviet submarine fleet had eliminated a large number of officer billets. It would have been a waste of skilled manpower to return them to civilian life — besides which there were not enough jobs for them — and as a result they'd been retrained and assigned to the remaining submarines as technical experts. His sonar department would now be almost exclusively officers — two michmaniy would assist with the maintenance — and all of them were genuine experts. Surprisingly, there was little grumbling among them. The Akula class had what was for Soviet submarines very comfortable accommodations, but more important than that was the fact that the new members of the wardroom had been fully briefed on their mission, and what the boat had done — probably done, Dubinin corrected himself — on the previous cruise. It was the sort of thing that appealed to the sportsman in them. This was for the submariner the ultimate test of skill. For that they would do their best.
Dubinin would do the same. Pulling in a lot of old professional debts, and leaning heavily on the yard's Master Shipwright, he'd performed miracles during the refit. Bedding had all been replaced. The ship had been scrubbed surgically clean, and repainted with bright, airy colors. Dubinin had worked with the local supply officers and obtained the best food he could find. A well-fed crew was a happy crew, and men responded to a commander who worked hard for them. That was the whole point of the new professional spirit in the Soviet Navy. Valentin Borissovich Dubinin had learned his trade from the best teacher his navy had ever had, and he was determined that he would be the new Marko Ramius. He had the best ship, had the best crew, and he would on this cruise set the standard for the Soviet Pacific Fleet.
He would also have to be lucky, of course.
“That's the hardware,” Fromm said. “From now on…”
“Yes, from now on we are assembling the actual device. I see you've changed the design somewhat…?”
“Yes. Two tritium reservoirs. I prefer the shorter injection piping. Mechanically, it is no different. The timing is not critical, and the pressurization ensures that it will function properly.”
“Also makes loading the tritium easier,” Ghosn observed. “That's why you did it.”
“Correct.”
The inside of the device made Ghosn think of the half-assembled body of some alien airplane. There was the delicacy and precision of aircraft parts, but the almost baffling configuration in which they were placed. Something from a science-fiction movie, Ghosn thought, whimsical for a brief moment… but then this was science-fiction, or had been until recently. The first public discussion of nuclear weapons had been in H. G. Wells, hadn't it? That hadn't been so long ago.
“Commander, I saw your doctor,” Achmed said in the far corner.
“And — you still look ill, my friend,” Qati noted. “What is the problem?”
“He wants me to see another doctor in Damascus.”
Qati instantly did not like that. Did not like it at all. But Achmed was a comrade who had served the movement for years. How could he say no to someone who had twice saved his life, once stopping a bullet himself to do so?
“You know that what goes on here…”
“Commander, I will die before I speak of this place. Even though I know nothing of this — this project. I will die first.”
There was no doubting the man, and Qati knew what it was to be seriously ill at a young and healthy age. He could not deny the man medical care while he himself regularly visited a physician. How could his men respect him if he did such a thing?
“Two men will go with you. I will select them.”
“Thank you, Commander. Please forgive my weakness.”
“Weakness?” Qati grabbed the man by the shoulder. “You are the strongest among us! We need you back, and we need you healthy! Go tomorrow.”
Achmed nodded and withdrew to another place, embarrassed and shamed by his illness. His commander, he knew, faced death. It had to be cancer, he had so often visited the physician. Whatever it was, the Commander had not let it stop him. There was courage, he thought.
“Break for the night?” Ghosn asked.
Fromm shook his head. “No, let's take another hour or two to assemble the explosive bed. We should be able to get part of it in place before we're too weary.” Both men looked up as Qati approached.
“Still on schedule?”
“Herr Qati, whatever arrangements you have in mind, we will be ready a day early. Ibrahim saved us that day with his work on the explosives.” The German held one of the small, hexagonal blocks. The squibs were already in place, the wire trailing off. Fromm looked at the other two, then bent down, setting the first block in its nesting place. Fromm made sure the block was exactly in place, then attached a numbered tag on the wire, and draped it into a plastic tray that held a number of dividers, like the trays of a tool box. Qati attached the wire to a terminal, checking three times to make sure the number on the wire was the same as that on the terminal. Fromm watched also. The process took four minutes. The electrical components had already been pre-tested. They could not be tested again. The first part of the bomb was now live.
27
DATA FUSION
“I've had my say, Bart,” Jones said on the way to the airport.
“That bad?”
“The crew hates him — the training they just went through didn't help. Hey, I was there, okay? I was in with the sonar guys, in the simulator, and he was there, and I wouldn't want to work for him. He almost yelled at me.”
“Oh?” That surprised Mancuso.
