The inside of the Kennedy was much like the interior of the USS Guam, the helicopter assault ship Ryan had been assigned to during his brief military career.  It was the usual navy maze of steel bulkheads and pipes, everything painted the same shade of cave-gray.  The pipes had some colored bands and stenciled acronyms which probably meant something to the men who ran the ship.  To Ryan they might as well have been neolithic cave paintings.  Davenport led him through a corridor, around a corner, down a "ladder" made entirely of steel and so steep he almost lost his balance, down another passageway, and around another corner.  By this time Ryan was thoroughly lost.  They came to a door with a marine stationed in front.  The sergeant saluted perfectly, and opened the door for them.

Ryan followed Davenport in—and was amazed.  Flag quarters on the USS Kennedy might have been transported as a block from a Beacon Hill mansion.  To his right was a wall-sized mural large enough to dominate a big living room.  A half-dozen oils, one of them a portrait of the ship's namesake, President John Fitzgerald Kennedy, dotted the other walls, themselves covered with expensive-looking paneling.  The deck was covered in thick crimson wool, and the furniture was pure civilian, French provincial, oak and brocade.  One could almost imagine they were not aboard a ship at all, except that the ceiling—"overhead"—had the usual collection of pipes, all painted gray.  It was a decidedly odd contrast to the rest of the room.

"Hi ya, Charlie!"  Rear Admiral Joshua Painter emerged from the next room, drying his hands with a towel.  "How was it coming in?"

"Little rocky," Davenport allowed, shaking hands.  "This is Jack Ryan."

Ryan had never met Painter but knew him by reputation.  A Phantom pilot during the Vietnam War, he had written a book, Paddystrikes, on the conduct of the air campaigns.  It had been a truthful book, not the sort of thing that wins friends.  He was a small, feisty man who could not have weighed more than a hundred thirty pounds.  He was also a gifted tactician and a man of puritanical integrity.

"One of yours, Charlie?"

"No, Admiral, I work for James Greer.  I am not a naval officer.  Please accept my apologies.  I don't like pretending to be what I'm not.  The uniform was the CIA's idea."  This drew a frown.

"Oh?  Well, I suppose that means you're going to tell me what Ivan's up to.  Good, I hope to hell somebody knows.  First time on a carrier?  How did you like the flight in?"

"It might be a good way to interrogate prisoners of war," Ryan said as offhandedly as he could.  The two flag officers had a good laugh at his expense, and Painter called for some food to be sent in.