The double doors to the passageway opened several minutes later and a pair of stewards—"mess management specialists"—came in, one bearing a tray of food, the other two pots of coffee.  The three men were served in a style appropriate to their rank.  The food, served on silver-trimmed plates, was simple but appetizing to Ryan, who hadn't eaten in twelve hours.  He dished cole slaw and potato salad onto his plate and selected a pair of corned-beef-on-ryes.

"Thank you.  That's all for now," Painter said.  The stewards came to attention before leaving.  "Okay, let's get down to business."

Ryan gulped down half a sandwich.  "Admiral, this information is only twenty hours old."  He took the briefing folders from his bag and handed them around.  His delivery took twenty minutes, during which he managed to consume the two sandwiches and a goodly portion of his cole slaw and spill coffee on his hand-written notes.  The two flag officers were a perfect audience, not interrupting once, only darting a few disbelieving looks at him.

"God Almighty," Painter said when Ryan finished.  Davenport just stared poker-faced as he contemplated the possibility of examining a Soviet missile sub from the inside.  Jack decided he'd be a formidable opponent over cards.  Painter went on, "Do you really believe this?"

"Yes, sir, I do."  Ryan poured himself another cup of coffee.  He would have preferred a beer to go with his corned beef.  It hadn't been bad at all, and good kosher corned beef was something he'd been unable to find in London.

Painter leaned back and looked at Davenport.  "Charlie, you tell Greer to teach this lad a few lessons—like how a bureaucrat ain't supposed to stick his neck this far out on the block.  Don't you think this is a little far-fetched?"

"Josh, Ryan here's the guy who did the report last June on Soviet missile-sub patrol patterns."

"Oh?  That was a nice piece of work.  It confirmed something I've been saying for two or three years."  Painter rose and walked to the corner to look out at the stormy sea.  "So, what are we supposed to do about all this?"

"The exact details of the operation have not been determined.  What I expect is that you will be directed to locate Red October and attempt to establish communications with her skipper.  After that?  We'll have to figure a way to get her to a safe place.  You see, the president doesn't think we'll be able to hold onto her once we get her—if we get her."

"What?"  Painter spun around and spoke a tenth of a second before Davenport did.  Ryan explained for several minutes.

"Dear God above!  You give me one impossible task, then you tell me that if we succeed in it, we gotta give the goddamned thing back to them!"