The Hunt for Red October (Jack Ryan, #3)

by Tom Clancy

“Irregular,” Thompson said. “Yeah, it’s funny. It sounds regular, but it doesn’t look regular. Know what I mean, Mr. Thompson?” “No, you’ve got better ears.” “That’s ’cause I listen to better music, sir. That rock stuff’ll kill your ears.” Thompson knew he was right, but an Annapolis graduate doesn’t need to hear that from an enlisted man. His vintage Janis Joplin tapes were his own business.

Mancuso watched his crew at work. They did their jobs with mechanistic precision. But they were not machines. They were men. His.

cool

“You Commander Tyler, sir?” the guard asked. “Can I see some ID, please?” Tyler showed the corporal his Pentagon pass, wondering how many one-legged former submarine officers there might be.

“You know, sir, that whoever does want to go back will be in a whole shitload of trouble—excuse me, sir.” “A shitload and a half.” Tyler hadn’t known that Greer was a mustang and could swear like a real sailor.

“Efficiency?” Alexandrov said. “Efficiency. This Lithuanian half-breed is efficiently making fools of our fleet with his chosen officers while our remaining ships blunder about like newly castrated cattle.”

The large-aperture towed array was at the end of a thousand-foot cable. Jones referred to the use of it as trolling for whales. In addition to being their most sensitive sonar rig, it protected the Dallas against intruders shadowing her. Ordinarily a submarine’s sonar will work in any direction except aft—an area called the cone of silence, or the baffles. The BQR-15 changed that. Jones had heard all sorts of things on it, subs and surface ships all the time, low-flying aircraft on occasion. Once, during an exercise off Florida, it had been the noise of diving pelicans that he could not figure out until the skipper had raised the periscope for a look. Then off Bermuda they had encountered mating humpbacks, and a very impressive noise that was. Jones had a personal copy of the tape of them for use on the beach; some women had found it interesting, in a kinky sort of way. He smiled to himself.

Ryan admitted to himself that this was pretty interesting stuff. He had never really thought about what makes a defector, figuring that there were enough things happening on the other side of the Iron Curtain to make any rational person want to take whatever chance he got to run west. But it was not that simple, he read, not that simple at all. Everyone who came over was a fairly unique individual.

The man was turning as Ryan jerked off six shots.

lol

“Thank God for that,” Ryan breathed. “You are be—believer?” Borodin asked. “Yeah, sure.” Ryan should not have been surprised by the question. “Hell, you gotta believe in something.” “And why is that, Commander Ryan?” Borodin was examining the Pogy through oversized night glasses. Ryan wondered how to answer. “Well, because if you don’t, what’s the point of life? That would mean Sartre and Camus and all those characters were right—all is chaos, life has no meaning. I refuse to believe that. If you want a better answer, I know a couple priests who’d be glad to talk to you.”

believing in god to own some dead french guys

Noyes turned to Ryan. “You get out of here. I’ve got a chest to crack.” “Take care of him, Doc. He’s a good man.” “Aren’t they all,” Noyes observed, stripping off his jacket. “Let’s get scrubbed, people.”