The rest of the document addressed the problem of getting them settled.  Not a few Soviet defectors had committed suicide after a few years.  Some had simply been unable to cope with freedom, the way that long-term prison inmates often fail to function without highly structured control over their lives and commit new crimes hoping to return to their safe environment.  Over the years the CIA had developed a protocol for dealing with this problem, and a graph in an appendix showed that the severe maladjustment cases were trending dramatically down.  Ryan took his time reading.  While getting his doctorate in history at Georgetown University he had used a little free time to audit some psychology classes.  He had come away with the gut suspicion that shrinks didn't really know much of anything, that they got together and agreed on random ideas they could all use . . . He shook his head.  His wife occasionally said that, too.  A clinical instructor in ophthalmic surgery on an exchange program at St. Guy's Hospital in London, Caroline Ryan regarded everything as cut and dried.  If someone had eye trouble, she would either fix it or not fix it.  A mind was different, Jack decided after reading through the document a second time, and each defector had to be treated as an individual, handled carefully by a sympathetic case officer who had both the time and inclination to look after him properly.  He wondered if he'd be good at it.

Admiral White walked in.  "Bored, Jack?"

"Not exactly, Admiral.  When do we make contact with the Soviets?"

"This evening.  Your chaps have given them a very rough time over that Tomcat incident."

"Good.  Maybe people will wake up before something really bad happens."

"You think it will?"  White sat down.

"Well, Admiral, if they really are hunting a missing sub, yes.  If not, then they're here for another purpose entirely, and I've guessed wrong.  Worse than that, I'll have to live with that misjudgment—or die with it."

Norfolk Naval Medical Center

Tait was feeling better.  Dr. Jameson had taken over for several hours, allowing him to curl up on a couch in the doctor's lounge for five hours.  That was the most sleep he ever seemed to get in one shot, but it was sufficient to make him look indecently chipper to the rest of the floor staff.  He made a quick phone call and some milk was sent up.  As a Mormon, Tait avoided everything with caffeine—coffee, tea, even cola drinks—and though this type of self-discipline was unusual for a physician, to say nothing of a uniformed officer, he scarcely thought about it except on rare occasions when he pointed out its longevity benefits to his brother practitioners.  Tait drank his milk and shaved in the restroom, emerging ready to face another day.

"Any word on the radiation exposure, Jamie?"