"We wait.  No sense spooking him.  We let him come in nice and close while we do our famous imitation of a hole in the water, then we tag along behind him to wax his tail for a while.  I want another tape of this set up, and I want the BC-10 to run a SAPS scan.  Use the instruction to bypass the processing algorithms.  I want this contact analyzed, not interpreted.  Run it every two minutes.  I want his signature recorded, digitalized, folded, spindled, and mutilated.  I want to know everything there is about him, his propulsion noises, his plant signature, the works.  I want to know exactly who he is."

"He's a Russkie, sir," Jones observed.

"But which Russkie?" Mancuso smiled.

"Aye, Cap'n."  Jones understood.  He'd be on duty another two hours, but the end was in sight.  Almost.  Mancuso sat down and lifted a spare set of headphones, stealing one of Jones' cigarettes.  He'd been trying to break the habit for a month.  He'd have a better chance on the beach.

HMS Invincible

Ryan was now wearing a Royal Naval uniform.  This was temporary.  Another mark of how fast this job had been laid on was that he had only the one uniform and two shirts.  All of his wardrobe was now being cleaned and in the interim he had on a pair of English-made trousers and a sweater.  Typical, he thought—nobody even knows I'm here.  They had forgotten him.  No messages from the president—not that he'd ever expected one—and Painter and Davenport were only too glad to forget that he was ever on the Kennedy.  Greer and the judge were probably going over some damned fool thing or another, maybe chuckling to themselves about Jack Ryan having a pleasure cruise at government expense.

It was not a pleasure cruise.  Jack had rediscovered his vulnerability to seasickness.  The Invincible was off Massachusetts, waiting for the Russian surface force and hunting vigorously after the red subs in the area.  They were steaming in circles on an ocean that would not settle down.  Everyone was busy—except him.  The pilots were up twice a day or more, exercising with their U.S. Air Force and Navy counterparts working from shore bases.  The ships were practicing surface warfare tactics.  As Admiral White had said at breakfast, it had developed into a jolly good extension of NIFTY DOLPHIN.  Ryan didn't like being a supernumerary.  Everyone was polite, of course.  Indeed, the hospitality was nearly overpowering.  He had access to the command center, and when he watched to see how the Brits hunted subs down, everything was explained to him in sufficient detail that he actually understood about half of it.