"Gentlemen, you have been asked here because each of you is a career intelligence officer with a working knowledge of submarines and Russian," Davenport said to the four officers seated in his office.  "I have need of officers with your qualifications.  This is a volunteer assignment.  It could involve a considerable element of danger—we cannot be sure at this point.  The only other thing I can say is that this will be a dream job for an intelligence officer—but the sort of dream that you'll never be able to tell anyone about.  We're all used to that, aren't we?"  Davenport ventured a rare smile.  "As they say in the movies, if you want in, fine; if not, you may leave at this point, and nothing will ever be said.  It is asking a lot to expect men to walk into a potentially dangerous assignment blindfolded."

Of course nobody left; the men who had been called here were not quitters.  Besides, something would be said, and Davenport had a good memory.  These were professional officers.  One of the compensations for wearing a uniform and earning less money than an equally talented man can make in the real world is the off chance of being killed.

"Thank you, gentlemen.  I think you will find this worth your while."  Davenport stood and handed each man a manila envelope.  "You will soon have the chance to examine a Soviet missile submarine—from the inside."  Four pairs of eyes blinked in unison.

33N 75W

The USS Ethan Allen had been on station now for more than thirty hours.  She was cruising in a five-mile circle at a depth of two hundred feet.  There was no hurry.  The submarine was making just enough speed to maintain steerage way, her reactor producing only ten percent of rated power.  The chief quartermaster was assisting in the galley.

"First time I've ever done this in a sub," one of the Allen's officers who was acting as ship's cook noted, stirring an omelette.

The quartermaster sighed imperceptibly.  They ought to have sailed with a proper cook, but theirs had been a kid, and every enlisted man aboard now had over twenty years of service.  The chiefs were all technicians, except the quartermaster, who could handle a toaster on a good day.

"You cook much at home, sir?"

"Some.  My parents used to have a restaurant down at Pass Christian.  This is my mama's special Cajun omelette.  Shame we don't have any bass.  I can do some nice things with bass and a little lemon.  You fish much, Chief?"

"No, sir."  The small complement of officers and senior chiefs was working in an informal atmosphere, and the quartermaster was a man accustomed to discipline and status boundaries.  "Commander, can I ask what the hell we're doing?"

"Wish I knew, Chief.  Mostly we're waiting for something."

"But what, sir?"