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READ THE CIA'S HILARIOUS PARODY OF TOM CLANCY'S MOST FAMOUS BOOK

64.00K
Max Read
10/02/13 11:24AM
Filed to: tom clancy
 * tom clancy

Tom Clancy, the best-selling author of military thrillers, died Tuesday at the
age of 66. What better way to celebrate his life than to publish the CIA's very
own tribute to him?

BESTSELLING AUTHOR TOM CLANCY DEAD AT 66

Tom Clancy, bestselling author of more than a dozen military thrillers, died
Tuesday night in a…

Sociologist Bridget Rose Nolan spent a year working as a full time analyst with
the CIA, gathering observations to use in a just-published doctoral
dissertation. (Among the revelations: CIA agents forward Gawker articles around.
Hi, guys.)

One of the weirdest and most fascinating bits of the dissertation is Appendix E:
"The Hunt for Red October: The Untold Story," a detailed retelling of Clancy's
famous book written as a kind of in-joke satire of the CIA. Nolan explains:

> Perhaps the most popular example of Agency lore is a well-known spoof of Tom
> Clancy’s novel The Hunt for Red October. Supposedly, during the Cold War,
> someone wrote a series of short episodes describing how the CIA’s Directorate
> of Intelligence would have handled the events described in the book and the
> subsequent movie. It is a satire of the daily life of the analyst, and
> therefore articulates with a humorous tone many of the frustrations I have
> discussed in this dissertation. For me, “The Hunt for Red October: The Untold
> Story” also served as a sort of barometer for my own acculturation process.
> During my first week of work in May of 2007, at least five people eagerly sent
> me the file saying things like, “You have to read this—it is the funniest
> thing ever!” But I didn’t get it, of course; not right away. By the end of my
> time there in early 2011, however, I revisited the text and found myself
> laughing out loud. Even though this story echoes other themes of this chapter,
> I place the Red October discussion here because of its legendary status;
> everyone seemed to know this story, so it was a shared cultural and
> institutional memory among the initiated. In fact, I was specifically told
> that “you aren’t truly initiated into CIA until you think that ‘The Hunt for
> Red October: The Untold Story’ is funny.” This idea echoes Becker’s research
> on novice marijuana smokers and the ways in which they rely on “role
> interaction” with more experienced smokers for “cues” as to what the new
> smoker should feel and do (Becker, 1953). The Red October story is reproduced
> in its entirety from my field notes in Appendix E. It is rather long, though,
> so here I highlight some of the ways in which the humor of the Red October
> story echoes each of the themes of this research.

Here it is—the CIA's tribute to one of its biggest fans—in its entirety.


THE HUNT FOR RED OCTOBER: THE UNTOLD STORY

A recent best-seller—made into a box-office hit—describes the adventures of a
CIA analyst caught up in a whirlwind of danger and excitement as events of
cataclysmic importance unfold before his eyes. While the novel has intrigued and
entertained millions of readers, few have even suspected that there is a core of
truth in this otherwise fantastic account. Only the loyal cadre of CIA
analysts—locked in silence by a legally- binding contract—know the real story, a
story more frightening than any work of fiction could ever convey. Now, the
truth is revealed.

Warning: any resemblance to persons living and working in the CIA is no
accident. Everyone should expect to find a little of themselves—and a lot of
everyone else—in this story.


EPISODE ONE

The year was 1984, a time of stagnation in the Soviet Union, and of comfortable
routine in the CIA’s Office of Soviet Affairs (OSA). It began as the most
ordinary of days. Jack Ryan, intrepid CIA analyst, strode into work after a
brisk twenty minute walk in from the parking lot. In fact, Jack had been able to
do without his evening jog since the parking situation had tightened and he
found he was getting his aerobic exercise walking in from the Kamchatka zone of
the Agency lot. Jack liked that: it was efficient.

Jack didn’t actually need to work at the CIA: he was independently wealthy, or
had been until he got the Fairfax County personal property tax bill on his new
Trans AM. Mostly, Jack liked the highly charged atmosphere of short deadlines
and constant surprises. He found the frequent coordination battles a healthy
outlet for his aggressions; otherwise, he might have found himself hollering at
his wife and kids and kicking the family Lab. Instead, he hollered at other
analysts and kicked the laser printer.

This morning—a very ordinary morning—Jack grabbed a cup of coffee and headed for
his computer terminal to read his morning mail. That was another thing he liked
about the CIA—tens of millions of dollars worth of top-of-the-line computer
equipment to back up the analytical efforts of the Agency’s crack intelligence
officers. Jack quietly paged through the traffic that had come in during the
night. Suddenly he froze, his eyes fixed on the screen.


EPISODE TWO

Yes, it was a very ordinary day at the CIA—the system was down, and Jack turned
off his terminal and went off in hunt of a doughnut and the latest rumors on the
pending reorganization. He returned, sated with pastry and gossip, to sort
through the findings from his mail box. Suddenly a tidbit of intelligence caught
his attention. According to an allied intelligence service, the prototype of the
new “Oktyabr” class submarine had been launched a week early. The prototype,
predictably enough, was called “Red October.” “For once I’d like to see them
call a vessel the ‘Trotskiy,’” Jack snortled to himself, “or the Academician
Sakharov!’ That’ll be the day.” He got an extra loud guffaw out of that one.
Jack prided himself on his keen understanding of the Soviet bureaucratic soul.

Even more intriguing was the picture and analysis which accompanied the news of
the launch. The new submarine, photographed while still in dry dock, appeared to
have a strange pattern on the side formed of two large black circles—almost like
the ears on a Mickey Mouse cap, to Jack’s mind. British intelligence speculated
that these portals were part of a sophisticated new submarine propulsion system.
The portals allowed water to flow into the sub to the propeller—an impeller in
this case. It was located inside the sub, masking the sound of the bubbles,
which provided the characteristic submarine signature. Such a sub would be
almost impossible to detect with existing technology.

The implications were mind-boggling. A new generation of Soviet submarines,
undetectable and loaded to the gills with ballistic missiles. This would
undoubtedly upset the balance of forces between the superpowers and destabilize
the existing world situation. Jack knew that the U.S. had nothing similar in the
works for its own submarines—it would be years before the Navy could catch up
with the Soviet technical lead. In the meantime, the Soviet submarine fleet
could strike the U.S. mainland at will, undermining the guarantees provided by
the MAD doctrine—that no superpower would launch a first strike against the
other for fear of retaliation. Now, a massive and undetectable Soviet
first-strike was well within the realm of the imagination. Clearly, this should
be written up—the fate of the free world depended on it.


EPISODE THREE

Perhaps more important, Jack’s career depended on it. His paper, The Evolution
of Soviet Submarine Cadre Policy: Problems and Prospects, had been in review for
quite a while and was unlikely to see the light of day any time soon.
Originally, this had been a fast-track project meant to hit the streets quickly.
Jack was given one month to research and one month to draft. That was three
years ago, and now he was no longer sure what exactly the paper said, and he
cared less. In the meantime, what with redrafting, adding, subtracting,
recasting, refocusing, highlighting, and toning down, he hadn’t actually gotten
anything else out. Anything. For three years. Jack needed this piece badly.

He burst into the office of Edgar Platonoff, his branch chief, afire with
enthusiasm for the intelligence mission for the first time in three years. As he
explained the significance of the launch of the “Red October” to Ed, visions of
spin-offs danced through his head. Congressional briefings, surely a briefing at
the NSC and the Joint Chiefs, perhaps the Coast Guard and even the President!
Then there were the foreign travel possibilities—briefings in every NATO
country, then on to the other allied intelligence services, from Mexico to
Vanuatu. And maybe—a Stakhanovite award.

Ed burst his bubble. “Just how far along are you on that article? It’s due on
Friday—you have three days left.”

The article. “The New Soviet Naval Uniform: Costing the Burden.” Jack hadn’t
made much progress in costing the burden, but he had a pretty good idea that
there wasn’t one. In fact, the only real reason for writing the piece was that
Leo Hawkins, his group chief, had been intrigued by the color photos in Tyl I
snabzhenie (a journal first) and requested the piece. He kept asking about its
progress. Jack would mumble something about methodology and regressions, and
that usually scared Leo away for the time being.

Ed wasn’t so easy to scare, though. He knew what a regression was and had begun
to suspect that Jack didn’t. Jack decided to go for the direct approach:
“Listen, Ed, this is a hot intelligence issue, a heck of a lot more important
than the new naval uniform. We ought to get something out today. If we don’t,
DIA will get a hold of this, and...” Jack gave Ed a moment to absorb the
implication of that possibility.

Ed was momentarily stricken by the thought of what DIA might do with the
information, but not long enough to save Jack. “I want to see that draft on
Friday. Then we’ll talk about some kind of note on this.”

Jack left Ed’s office shaken. The fate of the free world was in his hands, and
it looked like he’d end up dropping the ball.


EPISODE FOUR

Jack was halfheartedly attempting to cost brass buttons when Ed stuck his head
in the door. “Listen, if you want, you can put together a one-liner on the ‘Red
October’ business.” Without waiting for an answer, he headed off, probably to
initiate a priority reorganization of the branch mailboxes.

The brass button calculations disappeared unnoticed under a three month stack of
Krasnaya Zvezdas as Jack rushed to draft his piece. Fortunately, the Agency had
invested considerable resources in designing an application that would expedite
the drafting and formatting of production. He logged onto the system and entered
the program.

Two hours later, it was ready. It had required the assistance of two branch
secretaries and the division and group secretaries augmented by a series of
calls to sundry ADP experts, but the piece was finally formatted in proper
Agency style. It contained only twenty words, but each was heavy with meaning:

Early launch of Soviet “Red October” prototype submarine ... equipped with
undetectable drive system... success could destabilize world balance of power.

After a quick branch edit in which the word “launch” was changed to “trial,”
Jack got the change entered in only half an hour. He slipped the draft into his
division chief’s priority in-box and waited for the response.


EPISODE FIVE

Jack was estimating how much braid went into a lieutenant’s dress uniform,
multiplied by the number of lieutenants in the Soviet Navy, aggregated with
other data using a Soviet wholesale price found in a 1955 issue of Turkmenskaya
Iskra, and adjusted for the annual replacement cost based on an estimate of wear
and tear at official functions. His office mate pointed out that a different
braid design was used on the dress uniforms of submarine officers. Jack groaned
and started over.

Suddenly Hal Judevine, his division chief, came in. In a grim voice, he ordered
Jack to meet him in his office. Jack panicked. “He wants to know about the
article,” he thought, mentally reviewing everything he knew about ribbon costs
in the Black Sea fleet as he followed Hal. The door closed behind him.

“Jack, I read your piece.” Hal continued in a slow and parental tone: “You know,
this is very important. I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but the Soviet
Navy is conducting naval exercises in the North Atlantic. We knew that they were
planning something of the sort, but we weren’t expecting them in that particular
location. We certainly weren’t expecting anything this extensive: it appears
that several fleets are involved. It looks like they may be monitoring the ‘Red
October’ launch. Gail Schmidt is doing a note on the exercises; I want you to do
a joint piece on this.”

Jack was feeling mighty pleased. At last, someone grasped the importance of the
“Red October.” He decided to press his luck. “What about the article? I’m
supposed to have a draft on the uniform costs in on Friday.”

“Of course I expect you to finish that as well. Also, I want to focus this piece
on the technical end of things. Details on the new drive system. Cut the part
about threatening the balance of forces between the superpowers.” He leaned back
in his chair and turned avuncular: “Jack, when you’ve been in this Directorate
longer, you’ll learn that you can’t make these kinds of wild statements. Stick
to the facts, the nuts and bolts of the issue.”

Jack should have expected this. Hal’s background was technical, and he was still
weak on the larger concepts—and he knew it. What was worse, he suspected that
others knew it, and had adopted an all-knowing air to mask his insecurity. He
liked to focus pieces on technical issues because this allowed him to keep the
upper hand. Still, Jack was surprised that a man of Hal’s uninhibited ambition
would take the chance of allowing such a hot issue to slip away.

Hal’s voice interrupted Jack’s character analysis. “By the way, Jack, I want
this to go as a Special Analysis. Talk to Gail. I’ve already given her some
notes on what I want.”

“But doesn’t the office already have forty Special Analyses in queue with the
production staff? Maybe if we did it as a Note, it might get in more quickly,”
Jack pointed out, trying not to sound as if he were pleading.

“I know what I’m doing here!” snapped Hal. He picked up his scissors and began
editing a paper, effectively closing the conversation.

Jack closed the door behind him, sick with disappointment and dread. By the time
the piece ran, the Soviets would probably have a whole fleet of “Oktyabr” class
subs—headed straight for the US coast.


EPISODE SIX

Jack headed off to face Gail Schmidt. “Genghis” Schmidt. Of course, Jack never
called her that to her face. No one did. Still, the name fit, and no one ever
thought of her as anything else. Jack had run afoul of Genghis before, and he
still winced at the memories. The last time, three days of work on his part had
been quietly absorbed into an article of hers—unacknowledged. This time, Jack
was determined that he would defend himself.

As it turned out, there was very little for either of them to do. Hal’s “notes”
looked an awful lot like a rough draft. Jack’s one sentence on the “Red October”
had turned into a paragraph forested with words like “impeller,” “hydraulic,”
and “cavitation.” No one but an engineer would have guessed that the “October”
represented an entirely new generation of Soviet sub. Jack quickly made one
editorial change: he added his name as co-author. Genghis looked sullen, but let
it stand.

Jack was emboldened. “I think we could strengthen the piece if we highlighted
the fact that the new drive system makes the ‘Red October’ undetectable by U.S.
ships. Maybe add some language about the Soviets gaining a technical edge.”

Genghis responded like a shark that’s smelled blood. “I believe Hal’s instincts
about emphasizing the technical aspects are sound. As a senior GS-13, I consider
myself the lead author on this. Jack, when you’ve been in this Directorate
longer, you’ll learn that management is usually right about these things.”
Genghis obviously wanted to get into management badly—she was already
practicing. Jack—a very senior GS-9—gave up.

Hal was pleased with the draft. “This is an exceptionally fine piece. And do you
know why it’s so good? Because you followed my guidelines.” Genghis beamed and
smoldered—no mean feat, but then, she was a senior thirteen. Jack just played
with his key chain.

Back at his desk, Jack waited for coordination comments. He didn’t expect that
anyone would have much problem with the piece. In its present form it was
probably unintelligible to 99% of the analysts in the CIA, and 100% of
Washington’s policymakers. Suddenly a shadow fell across his desk. As Jack
looked up, he was filled with a sense of doom.


EPISODE SEVEN

It was the Experts. Actually only one expert, but after Sandra Scavelli’s visit
to a poultry feather processing plant in Chita, a local paper had mistakenly
referred to the visit of several US experts. The name seemed to fit. After all,
she was the only analyst in the Office of Technical Research (OTR) who could do
the monthly crossword puzzle in Tyl I snabzhenie: no one else knew the Russian
equivalents for all the mechanical parts used on Soviet submarines. After twenty
years with the Agency, Sandra knew in excruciating detail the strengths and
weaknesses of every sub the Soviets had ever launched, and she used this
knowledge like a weapon. Now she loomed over him like an iceberg. Jack felt like
the Titanic.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand why OSA is writing this piece. This falls within
OTR’s purview,” she announced in imperious tones.

Jack faced her manfully. “Management wanted me to write it.” True—sort of.

She drew herself up. “Your management wouldn’t realize that there are major
problems with both the substance and the analysis in this piece.” It was a
challenge. Jack decided to accept. “What exactly do you have problems with?” he
asked, then winced as he realized that he had dangled a preposition. He was
vulnerable. The Experts ignored the preposition and went straight for the
jugular.

“Everything,” she stated, and contemptuously tossed the draft on the desk.

She continued slowly and surely as an icebreaker. “I don’t know what sources you
used, but someone has made a serious error. The Soviets have not developed an
impeller drive system.”

“Sandra, I’m afraid you’re wrong on that,” Jack thought he had the advantage at
last. “According to this report from British intelligence—complete with
pictures, I may add—the Soviets have an operable impeller system on the ‘Red
October.’”

Her answer was as rapid and as categorical as machine gun fire. “The British are
wrong. Don’t tell me you believe something just because it appeared in print
somewhere? After all, one wouldn’t accept something as true simply because it
appeared in a Reuter press release,” she added.

Actually, Jack would. It had never occurred to him before that something printed
in black and white might not be true. Jack felt his intellectual world begin to
crumble around him as he contemplated that possibility—so he ignored it, and
concentrated on the matter at hand. “Listen, Sandra, if the Sovs don’t have an
impeller drive system, what are those round black circles on the side of the
‘Red October’?”

“Mickey Mouse ears. Someone has painted a Disney logo on the side of that
submarine. We have already subjected these photographs to careful analysis using
advanced computer models that analyze the light reflections from the various
surfaces of the vessel—I would explore the details but you wouldn’t understand.”

Jack was getting mad. That was the stupidest analysis he had ever heard, and he
was almost tempted to say so—but didn’t. He was pretty sure, though, that Sandra
was trying to snowball him with a lot of technical gibberish, and she apparently
thought he was chump enough to fall for it. “We’ll see about that,” he thought
to himself.

Out loud, he said, “Well, your comments are very thought-provoking, and we will
certainly take them into account.”

“I expect you to do so. I also expect that you will cancel any plans to run this
piece.” She turned to leave.

“Bitch!” Jack muttered softly, but not softly enough.

“Excuse me?” She turned back sharply.

“Rich, I said. Your comments are rich with substance.” Jack hoped he had made a
quick save.

“I see,” she replied, and Jack was afraid she did.

Jack sank into despair. He was sitting on some of the hottest intelligence ever
to come through the Agency, but it looked like one ego-mad engineer might be
able to stop it from getting out—and changing the course of world history.


EPISODE EIGHT

Jack was searching his files for a wholesale price for seam binding when Rhonda
Hoopingardner, the group secretary, entered to tell him that Leo wanted to go
over the piece. He alerted Gail and they headed for Leo’s office.

When they entered, they found Leo slumped over the note, a glazed look in his
eyes. “Sit down,” he said, “I have a few suggestions.”

Jack sat down and made himself comfortable. He might as well—in his experience,
a few suggestions usually took at least an hour.

“I’m a little disappointed in this draft,” Leo began. “I thought every analyst
understood the need to write simply and clearly. I know Gail writes well: I’m
familiar with her work and this section on the naval exercises is very much to
the point. Now, Jack, you’ll develop a better feel for the Agency style in time.
No policymaker is going to understand this technical terminology. I do, of
course,” he was quick to add, “but they won’t.”

Jack would have been very much surprised if a man who found it a challenge to
open the vault in the morning understood a description of an impeller drive
system, but he kept that thought to himself. Leo was a musicologist by training,
and his efforts to handle the substantive aspects of his job evoked an image of
a rubber dinghy in an Atlantic gale. Jack would have pitied the man if he hadn’t
been so dangerous.

“Now try to explain to me in layman’s terms, Jack, just what this all means,”
Leo continued.

Jack quickly outlined the problems for sonar detection presented by the new
propulsion system and the potential this innovation held for destabilizing the
balance of forces between the superpowers. A look of relief spread over Leo’s
face. Something he could understand.

“Jack, this has got to run tonight. I won’t permit any delays. Turn this into a
note, and rewrite your section, and this time try to lean forward on the issue.
Don’t be afraid to write what you think.”

Jack was afraid when he thought of Sandra Scavelli’s likely reaction. Maybe he
could satisfy her with a well-placed “according to one source” and “could be.”
The possibility was remote, but Jack had to try. He was now truly caught between
the devil and the deep blue sea.


EPISODE NINE

It wasn’t difficult to clean up the piece—Jack just used the language he’d
originally had in mind when he proposed the piece. He raced a copy down to the
front office and went to grab a bite in the cafeteria. Jack didn’t particularly
care for the cafeteria’s food—it was overpriced and the quality was as
unpredictable as the Soviet grain harvest—but with an eye surgeon for a wife, he
could afford to eat $4 baked potatoes. Besides, eye surgery, errands, housework,
and child rearing left Cathy Ryan with little time to make bologna sandwiches.

Jack fully intended to call Sandra Scavelli and try to negotiate some compromise
language—as soon as he had fortified himself with the potato—but when he got to
his desk he found a message to see the director of OSA. He quickly presented
himself in Chris Deter’s office. Deter motioned to him to take a seat. On the
office director’s desk Jack saw a sheaf of papers, covered with blue arrows as
tangled as a Soviet fishing net. He was transfixed. It could be one of only two
things: Jack’s paper, or the plan for the office reorganization. He tried to get
a closer look.

“Jack I want this to run exactly as it is. I’ve just made one small change,”
Deter began. Jack looked at the draft. This time, “trial” had been changed to
“launch.” This was too easy. He decided he’d better take his medicine like a man

“Chris, we’re having some problems with OTR. They don’t believe the ‘Red
October’ has an impeller drive system, and they want us to kill the piece.”

“What’s their explanation for the black circles on the side of the sub?” Deter
looked at him intently.

“Mickey Mouse ears. They think it’s a painted logo.”

Deter burst out with the same guffaw that Jack had had to suppress when he first
heard Sandra’s analysis. “That’s why OSA has the reputation of being the best
office in the Directorate, and OTR doesn’t. Listen, Jack, when you’ve been here
longer, you’ll learn that you can’t allow coordination to reduce a strong,
insightful piece to pabulum. Don’t worry about OTR—I’ll make sure they okay this
upstairs.”

Chris Deter might not be worried about OTR, but then he didn’t have to face the
Experts. Jack should have been prepared for this kind of reaction. Deter’s
predecessor, Jeff Brown, had been under inexorable pressure to increase current
production. Richard Letizia, the head of the Directorate, was convinced that a
steady parade of noteworthy events was taking place in Brezhnev’s USSR, but that
OSA apparently wasn’t bothering to bring them to policymakers’ attention.
Brown’s efforts to accommodate Letizia were reminiscent of a man overboard in
Arctic waters. His last numb attempt was to send up a note on the Central
Committee’s changing attitude towards Rachmaninoff. Letizia’s choice for the new
Director of OSA had the vision Brown lacked—unhandicapped by any sense of
perspective. Scuttlebutt had it he had requested a typescript on UFOs, and no
intelligence product was too far out in left field if it made the Soviets look
menacing. Still, in this case the threat was real—and more frightening than
Deter could have hoped.


EPISODE TEN

Jack couldn’t believe how quickly he had been swept along by the current of
events. Just this morning he had been begging to write one sentence—now he was
doing a top-priority note, and feeling a little queasy in the stomach. He told
himself that it must be the pepperoni and cheese sauce from lunch, and tried to
force from his mind images of a wrathful Sandra Scavelli by contemplating the
possibilities of high-level briefings and career advancement. The new Soviet
naval uniform slipped willingly from his thoughts.

Suddenly the ring of the telephone interrupted his reverie. He reached for the
open line. Nothing. He reached for the other phone, but too late. The call had
been automatically transferred to the secretary’s desk. He looked out his office
door. As usual, Roxanne Conners was out to lunch—and this time, she wasn’t at
her desk, either. Jack assumed the call was from the editorial staff and alerted
Gail. The two of them headed up to the seventh floor.

Joanne Snetzger was the editor for their piece. She was pleasant and
professional. And a looker. “I wonder if she knows how to make bologna
sandwiches?” he thought wistfully, but a pang of guilt prodded him back to
scanning the piece. Pretty routine changes—“launch” had been changed to “trial.”
Jack no longer remembered which word had been his original choice.

Suddenly Gail let out a bellow. “Calisthenics?!” she cried. “The word is
‘exercises.’”

“’Calisthenics’ and ‘exercises’ are synonyms,” Joanne answered coolly. Jack
admired the way she stood up to Genghis. Genghis steamed ahead. “Surely even a
layman with only a cursory knowledge of naval terminology would realize that
‘naval calisthenics in the North Atlantic’ is complete nonsense. Change it.”

“You’re taking a very narrow attitude towards language usage.”

“Who are you, anyway? A political analyst, I’ll bet.” Gail inflicted the worst
insult she knew. Jack was sickened. Surely the lovely Joanne couldn’t be a
political analyst. Genghis was going too far.

Joanne admitted that in her most recent incarnation she had followed the
political affairs of West Africa. Jack was disenchanted. He knew more than he
wanted to know about political analysts. They left dirty spoons by the coffee
pot and were suspected of careless attitudes regarding vault security. Only
rumors, but where there’s smoke... Still, it could have been worse. She could
have been from the Office of Global Affairs.

Genghis demolished what was left of the lovely Joanne, and she and Jack headed
back down to their vault. They found chaos. Deter had finally unveiled his
scheme for reorganizing the office, and everyone had been taken by surprise.
They had made the usual economist’s mistake—they had assumed rationality. Jack
sought out Ed to learn his own fate. What he discovered chilled him to the bone.


EPISODE ELEVEN

Jack’s new branch chief was Sandra Scavelli: the Experts. And what’s more, all
production was now on hold until the new management had an opportunity to review
it. That meant Jack’s paper was held up again. He also found out that Sandra had
already held his piece until tomorrow. Jack realized with a sick feeling that
she had surely known about this when they had talked that morning. Jack was
really regretting that “b- —“ word now.

The casualties were high. Ed Platonoff had spent too much time reorganizing the
branch mailboxes and not enough kissing ass. Now he was headed for the Office of
Training, rumor had it, to teach “Getting To Know Your Computer.” Hal Judevine’s
technical expertise had scuttled one too many of Deter’s creative forays into
analysis and he was being suitably rewarded. He now held a highly visible and
powerless job in the front office masterminding the office’s ADP strategy. Leo
Hawkins seemed to be the only winner. It was said that Deter and Hawkins were
both opera aficionados and had season tickets for adjacent seats at the Kennedy
Center. His musical background had stood him in good stead—he was now head of
the political group, a more visible post, and one that would free him from any
contact with regressions. Jack decided to pick up a Puccini tape on the way.

Home. It sure felt good after the day’s madness. Cathy was going to be late—the
kids’ ballet lessons were today—so Jack headed for the fridge. He stared into
its depths. He saw the bologna and the bread but didn’t make the connection.
Instead, he went for the frozen pizza, and spent the evening, as usual, working
on his latest screenplay. Jack had achieved some success in writing scripts for
horror films. Sometimes his writing presented a pleasant diversion from his work
life. Sometimes he had trouble telling the two apart. This was one of those
nights.

He slept fitfully. In his dreams, Hal Judevine took away his Delta Data and
replaced it with a typewriter. He tried to protest, but Hal insisted he knew
what he was doing. Jack woke up to find his finger tapping at the bedside table,
a dream-inspired effort to find the Print key on the typewriter.

At work again, he managed to avoid Sandra and head for his terminal. It was
still there. As he paged through his mail, something caught his eye. Something
so startling that Jack almost spilled his coffee in excitement. The “Red
October” launch was even more important than he had thought.


EPISODE TWELVE

Jack slowly scrolled through the conversation of submarine warrant officer
Faizullah Rakhimov and Captain Marko Ramius, savoring each word. It was three
months old, but still thrillingly relevant:

1. The following conversation between two officers in Qarshi, Uzbekistan and
Murmank illustrates the declining morale and discipline in the soviet officer
corps. These two are evidently planning to go on a major shopping spree
(Operation Sausage) in the first western port in which their ship docks, and
intend to party hearty on the rest of the voyage.

2. Qarshi: Captain Ramius? This is Mr. Rakhimov. (Govorit Michman Rakhimov.)

3. Murmansk: Yo Rakhimov! What’s happening? (Nu kak dela, Rakhimov?)

4. Qarshi: My orders have come through as you requested. I’ll be one of your
officers on

the “Red October.” (Nfi)

5. Murmansk: Totally excellent! (Ochen’ khorosho!) The others have also received
their

orders. Those fools (duraki) in Moscow actually trust me. Will they be in for a
big surprise in a few months! Ha ha ha (kho kho kho)

6. Qarshi: I can taste the hot dogs and cotton candy (sosiki i sladkuju vatu)
already! Usa, here we come! (my plivjem v ssha!)

7. Murmansk: Hush! No one but our fellow officers must know about “operation
sausage.” (operatsija “kolbasa”)

8. Qarshi: Right, catch you later—on the “Red October.”

End of message

Perhaps no one else in the Intelligence Community understood the message’s true
meaning, but Jack did. He was glad now he’d spend three long years of his life
on submarine cadre policy. He might be the only person in the free world who
understood what was in Captain Ramius’s mind—and its portent for the strategic
balance of forces. He rushed to Sandra’s office to save his piece—and the
Western world.


EPISODE THIRTEEN

“Sandra,” he began, “I’ve got to rewrite my piece completely.”

“I’m glad you realize that. A wise decision—if a belated one,” she said as she
prepared to accept his obeisance.

“Listen, there’s new information in.” He ignored her jibe and continued. “I’d
show you the text but the printer’s down. It seems that the captain of the ‘Red
October’ is Mark Ramius, their top submarine officer and a man expected to
replace Gorshkov someday. I’ve discussed him thoroughly in my draft on submarine
cadre policy.” Jack knew she had read it—he recognized scraps of it on her desk
next to the tape dispenser. “It now looks like Ramius intends to defect—with the
‘October.’” Jack waited for the import of his words to sink in.

He waited in vain. “I read that report. It said that he was planning to go
shopping.”

“The report said he was planning to go shopping. You don’t believe everything
you see in print, do you?” He thought he was pretty clever.

The Experts thought he was simply insubordinate. “I suggest that you keep to the
subject at hand and explain how a craving for cotton candy translates into a
plan to defect.”

“It’s the only explanation that holds water. Ramius is the finest officer in the
Soviet Navy, a man of impeccable integrity. Such a man would never abuse his
position simply for a lark in a Western port. In fact, no Soviet submarine—and
certainly not the ‘October’—is going to dock in a Western port. The clue is in
the phrase ‘Operation Sausage.’ You see, Ramius’s wife died after eating a bad
Soviet sausage. I believe that he and his crew are defecting as an act of
protest against the Soviet Union and the disastrously low quality and variety of
its consumer goods.”

“The quality of Soviet sausage is certainly low,” Sandra noted thoughtfully, her
face a little pinched—she was undoubtedly remembering her own encounters with
Soviet sausage in Chita. Then she snapped out of her reverie. “You’ll need more
evidence than that to convince me. I think you’ll find that my standards for
intelligence are a little higher than those to which you have been accustomed.”
There had never been any love lost between Ed and Sandra.

“Now, let’s discuss the article you’re writing on the share of the new naval
uniform in the Soviet defense burden...” Jack settled in a chair, his stomach
churning as if a fleet of Soviet sausages was cruising the waves there. It
looked as if there was no escape.

Suddenly Genghis Schmidt burst in. “Sandra, I’m going to rewrite my piece.”
Jacked noticed that it was now her piece. He bided his time.

“I’m sorry, Gail, but I simply don’t believe that the ‘Red October’ is on a hunt
for cotton candy. I’ve killed the piece.”

“Cotton candy? Forget the ‘Red October’—I think the Soviets may be preparing for
WWIII! These are more than naval exercises—the Sovs now have everything that
floats heading towards the North Atlantic. They’ve even mobilized the ‘Avrora’!”
Gail was breathless.

“Gail, your analysis is unsubstantiated and logically flawed.” It looked like
Genghis had met her match. “There must be a more reasonable explanation for this
fleet mobilization.”

“There is!” Jack blurted out. “They must know that the ‘Red October’ is
defecting and have ordered every seaworthy vessel they have to hunt it down and
destroy it before it can enter U.S. waters.”

“Whatever the explanation, given fleet activity on such a large scale, we have
no choice but to write a piece for tomorrow’s book.” At last—Sandra was on
board.

“I’ve already started drafting it,” Genghis jumped in, eager to make up lost
ground. Her nose for intelligence was both keen and brown. Jack felt marooned.
It seemed the shit of current intelligence was sailing without him.


EPISODE FOURTEEN

Then, like a typhoon, Tim Greer stormed into the room. “I’ve read Jack and
Gail’s draft—this is incredible! We’ve got to get this out immediately! A
high-priority note, follow it up with a typescript!” Jack was starting to feel
better. Their new deputy division chief was the kind of guy who could see beyond
the naval uniform costing effort.

Sandra filled Tim in on the new developments—with caveats. The new information
was swept up in a tidal wave of enthusiasm, the caveats lost in the undertow.
“Incredible! The biggest breakthrough in submarine technology in decades about
to fall into US hands! Think of the repercussions—we’ll be briefing this for
years!” Tim had been in middle management as long as Jack could remember,
watching as an assortment of the ruthless, the obsequious, and the hopeless were
promoted above him. Apparently he was hoping this would be his chance to join
the parade. Jack wondered which tack Tim was going to choose.

It didn’t take long to draft a new version of the piece in accordance with Tim’s
guidelines. He told them to highlight the technical innovation embodied in the
new sub, and the chance that the prototype might end up in the possession of the
US Navy. Gail did venture to ask whether they should clear the decision with
Murray Lisook, the man who had replaced Hal Judevine as division chief. “Not
necessary! Murray and I have streamlined division procedures—he handles papers,
I supervise current production. The new review process is going to go like
greased lightning—trust me!” Jack had heard that phrase before—this time he
thought he’d wait and see.

Sandra still thought it was safer to give Murray a drop copy. Safer for her
career, perhaps—but not for national security, as they soon learned to their
horror.


EPISODE FIFTEEN

Murray called them all into his office. He had some thoughts to impart on the
subject of the “Red October.”

Tim was obviously hot under the collar, no doubt anticipating that his big
opportunity to schmooze with the Front Office was going to drift away. “Yo,
Murray! I thought we’d agreed I’d handle review for current pieces—avoid double
jeopardy at the division level. We were going to streamline the review
process...”

“Now Greer, one more review session never did a piece any harm.” Jack wondered
if Murray had ever been an analyst.

Murray launched into his analysis of the developments in the North Atlantic.
Jack remembered a description he had heard from a co-worker who had once been in
Murray’s branch. The analyst had commented that Murray’s reviews could only be
described using Russian indeterminate verbs: they were multi-directional,
habitual, involved repeated motion, and often resulted in a round trip—Murray
led the analyst all over the map, only to bring them both back where they
started. This time was no exception.

“It seems to me,” Murray began, “that maybe we’re headed in the wrong direction
here. Maybe the Soviets are planning to attack NATO.”

“It is unlikely that the Soviets would choose to attack NATO’s forces in the
Atlantic where they are strongest. And surely they would begin an attack in a
more subtle fashion.” The Experts had spoken.

“Well, maybe this ‘Red October’ is manned by kamikaze Cold War fanatics who want
to fire on the US and try to start WWIII.” Dr. Strangelove had been on cable
last night. It looked like Murray had been up past his bedtime.

“Given the range of the ‘October’s’ missiles, it could have launched a strike
from the Barents Sea. We would not be here to discuss this subject if its
officers had planned to launch a first strike against the US.” The Experts’s
words had acquired an Arctic chill.

“Now I just read this other report. There’s a guy over there that says nuclear
war is imminent.” It was worse than Jack had thought. Murray had gotten a hold
of a piece of raw intelligence.

“’That guy’ is a blind Bulgarian soothsayer quoted by a babushka who’d met his
mother while they were both standing in line for cabbage. I hardly need to say
more.”

Apparently she did. Murray looked as lost as a ship in a pea-soup fog. The
Experts boomed out like a fog horn. “I’m afraid that since the source had no
access and no reliability, this intelligence is worthless.”

“Well, let me think about this. Hold on to this draft while I try to get a clear
picture of what’s happening here.” That might take forever, Jack thought
despairingly. In the meantime, the Soviet fleet was closing in on the “Red
October.”


EPISODE SIXTEEN

Jack had calculated without Tim Greer, who was not about to allow his big career
opportunity to sink below the waves while Murray gummed the piece to death.
Instead, he had again chosen to indulge his penchant for “the Great Game,” which
he played as subtly as any nineteenth century British officer. Tim slipped an
FYI copy into Tom Metger’s priority in-box.

Tim understood his quarry well. Their new group chief had risen up in the ranks
through a rapid series of career moves that never left him time to be an expert
in any one area. He had only one field of real expertise—spotting a career
opportunity and grabbing it. He knew what to do with this one.

Within minutes, Tom was closeted with Murray and Tim. Jack didn’t know what had
gone on, but he overheard scraps of their conversation as they concluded their
meeting and exited Tom’s office.

“This may be the hottest piece of intelligence in a lifetime,” Tom was saying.
“For a submarine captain to defect, and bring with him the prototype of a new
generation of Soviet sub... dynamite!”

“My thoughts exactly,” piped in Murray.

“Jack!” Tom called out as he spotted him at the coffee pot. “In the future, when
you find out about something this important, I’d like you to alert me
immediately. You’ll learn in time that intelligence of this magnitude has to be
moved along quickly.”

Jack was sure grateful for the advice, but thought to himself that like manure,
it might be of more value if it were spread around—maybe at the office staff
meeting.

“Oh, and Jack? I’d like a copy of your paper to read right away. I’m going to be
briefing this information around town this afternoon, and I’d like to be filled
in on everything.”

Jack was elated—at last, interest in his moribund draft—and from a man who
obviously knew how to get things done. He scurried to get a copy of the paper.
Easier said than done: the printer was down. He went to look for Sandra’s copy.
He came back with a burn bag and a sheaf of cuttings. He, Roxanne, and a roll of
scotch tape eventually produced a readable copy. Within an hour, Tom and Genghis
were off to brief the President and an assortment of other policymaking
luminaries. Jack was left to handle coordination—and to search for a wholesale
price for shoelaces. Suddenly the phone rang.


EPISODE SEVENTEEN

Jack picked up the receiver to hear a voice on the other end command: “My
office. Now!” A click. Jack didn’t need to ask who it was. It could only be
Teddy Murphy, the Deputy Director of OSA. Chris Deter and Leo Hawkins had left
that day for a three-week SIS-bonding mission in the Pacific—allegedly to check
with all and sundry on the Soviet menace in the Pacific basin. Deter apparently
believed that the Soviets presented the greatest threat in Fiji and Tahiti,
since that was where they were scheduled to spend most of the trip. A stop in
Australia was also planned—undoubtedly to check out Soviet penetration of the
Sydney opera house.

Jack dutifully set off for Murphy’s office. As he entered, OSA’s deputy director
was talking simultaneously on both phones while chewing out a hapless branch
chief who’d wandered in at the wrong time. Eventually he disentangled himself
from the phone lines, the branch chief found an opportune moment to escape, and
Jack was left facing the office’s best known—and oldest—legend.

“Son, I liked this,” he began. “It looks like the food problem is worse than
we’d thought—no wonder Brezhnev’s worried. A few more faulty sausages and he
could go the way of Khrushchev. Did you know the ‘khrushch’ means ‘corn blight’?
I’m sure that’s significant.”

Jack sat nervously. Perhaps he was supposed to comment on this.

Apparently not. Murphy continued. “Ryan, you don’t remember those days, but
people used to wait with bated breath for our national accounting estimate.
People wanted to know what Soviet GNP was. Now they can’t even spell it.”

Jack waited for the submarine tie-in. Was he missing something?

“Now, Ryan, I hope you use oblast’ handbooks. Robert Finkelstein won a cash
award once for finding a 1962 production figure for zinc in the Irkutsky
handbook. Changed the whole picture for non-ferrous metallurgy. Raised our GNP
estimate by .01 percent. A real analyst, Finkelstein.”

Maybe Jack should say something about titanium at this juncture. Or was Murphy
leading up to the naval uniform costing effort?

“There’s a fellow in another office who has a whole basement filled with oblast’
handbooks. Had to get rid of the pool table, but who wouldn’t?”

Jack gave up. He was completely lost. He practiced his silent but studious
expression. He kept it on the ready for just such an occasion.

“I knew a case officer once who was sent to Burundi. He and his whole family had
their appendixes out before they left. You should think about that, Ryan, in
case you go to the Soviet Union.”

Good Heavens! He was being sent on rotation!

“So as I was saying, I want a box on the Food Program. Implications for the
succession struggle and Kremlin politics. With food developing as a key issue,
maybe this ag honcho Gorbachev could move to the forefront.”

This was getting silly. And time-consuming. Murphy began a rambling discourse on
the value of high quality silage in improving livestock feeding efficiency. At
this rate, Jack would never get his note up to the production staff on time. He
was trapped!


EPISODE EIGHTEEN

Then the phone rang. Murphy picked it up, and Jack was out the door before the
Deputy Director could stop him. He was off to vault the next hurdle—he had to
get an agriculture analyst to do a box on the Food Program and its implications
for the succession struggle.

He wended his way to the isolated enclave where agriculture analysts were kept.
Thank goodness—someone was there. It turned out to be Bill Henry. Bill had been
with the Agency for thirty-five years. Some people thought he ought to have
retired years ago. Others thought he already had. It looked liked Jack was going
to get the opportunity to form his own opinion on the subject.

Jack interrupted Bill’s work on the New York Times crossword puzzle to explain
the situation to him. The man looked confused. “So why are you coming to me?” he
asked. “This sounds important.”

Jack felt like he was trying to communicate with an extraterrestrial. “We need a
box on the Food Program. ASAP. I was given the impression that you do
agriculture.”

“So they tell me,” was Bill’s offhand reply.

“So you must be familiar with the Brezhnev Food Program.”

“Well, I’ve heard of it, of course. But it’s not really part of my account. Mike
Kayusa follows that. He covers the important stuff.”

Jack had heard of Mike Kayusa. “Killer” Kayusa. Apparently Bill was one of his
victims.

“So what exactly do you follow?” Jack was torn between pity and contempt for the
man.

“All the stuff that isn’t important. So if this is important, you’d better talk
to Mike.”

“So where can I find him?” Jack was somewhat relieved to be able to leave Bill
to continue his retirement and to be able to turn to a more energetic analyst.

“He’s on leave today.” Jack prepared to start the siege again.

Suddenly the phones rang. Bill picked them both up and put one to each ear. He
seemed to be an old hand at this. He hung them both up without having said a
word and announced to Jack: “That was Murphy. I guess I’m writing a box on the
Food Program.” He paused for a moment, then wondered out loud: “I wonder if this
means they’ll put off the deadline for my project on costing the inputs for
oilseed production?”

Suddenly Jack was struck by a sickening sense of recognition. Could this be
Genghis and him twenty-five years from now? Surely twenty-five years of
bureaucracy mismanagement and bare-knuckled coordination battles wouldn’t reduce
intrepid Jack Ryan to this complaisant, hopeless lump of an analyst? Or would
it? He decided not to try to answer that question. He’d remember the feeling,
though, and word it into his next screenplay, Horror at Bikini Beach. Thank
heavens he had a second career.

Jack set off for his desk, still shaken. The piece seemed more important than
ever before. He rounded the corner, to find himself face to face with a new
threat.


EPISODE NINETEEN

It was the food processing analyst, bearing coordination comments. For someone
who followed food for a living, Ann Oka was awful scrawny. But then Jack could
see how reading about Soviet sausage production all day could make a person lose
her appetite. Besides, he had the impression that she spent a good deal of her
time writing comic literature for office entertainment. A definite light-weight.
He prepared himself for another barrage of silly comments.

To his relief, she allowed as how Soviet sausage quality was rather low, and how
a lot of Soviets were pretty put out about that. Thank goodness there were some
universal truths in Soviet analysis. Jack suspected that Ann had also had
personal experience with Soviet sausage. She wandered off, perhaps to write a
poem about the quarterly results. Jack returned to his desk to do man’s work.

The phone rang. He reached for the open line. Perhaps Cathy had finished surgery
early and was home making a nice meal—Shrimp Creole, Chicken a la King? Jack had
an active fantasy life. Nothing. He reached for the other phone, but too late.
The call had been intercepted by another analyst. Once again, Jack assumed
correctly that it was the editorial staff and headed up to read off on the
piece.

This time he was alone with the lovely Joanne. He ogled her figure covertly and
wondered what she looked like in an apron. Then he turned with a sign to the job
at hand—protecting his piece. Lost in a haze of culinary day dreams, he almost
missed the slight editorial change. It was only one word, but it changed the
whole meaning of the piece. But how to tell the lovely Joanne that she had made
a catastrophic error? He decided to take the direct approach.

“Joanne, I’m afraid there’s a world of difference between ‘the prototype of an
advanced submarine design’ and ‘the prototype of an advanced hoagie design.’”

“We try to keep the language we use as simple and nontechnical as possible. And
submarine and hoagie are synonyms.” She was confident and professional—but then
so was Custer.

Jack plied her with details, drew sketches, tried every method of gentle
persuasion he knew. Nothing. Finally he brought out the big guns.

“Joanne, if you don’t change this word back to submarine, my division chief will
come up here and scream and throw things. And then he’ll get nasty.” She backed
down—and a good thing. Jack wasn’t sure Murray knew the difference between a
submarine vessel and a hoagie, either.

Jack felt he had won a Pyrrhic victory. He had lowered his standards as an
analyst and a human being. And he’d lost all hopes of winning the respect and
admiration of the lovely Joanne. He began to muse. What if she wasn’t as dense
as she seemed? What if she had guessed at his dreams and her use of the word
“hoagie” was actually a subtle invitation? Now he’d never know. He could
reassure himself that he’d accomplished his mission: his piece had run and had
been picked up by another publication. The President had been alerted, and the
free world was safe for the time being. But Jack knew the bittersweet taste of
success. He went home that night a wiser man.


EPISODE TWENTY

Jack was feeling considerably perkier the next morning when he set off for work.
It looked like he’d escaped the naval uniform costing effort—a good thing, too;
it had been due today. Interest in his masterpiece—the long dormant paper on
submarine cadre policy—had revived. And he’d gotten out a successful note.

When he arrived at his desk he found a copy of The Washington Post on his chair.
On the front page he recognized a picture of Captain Marko Ramius posed by the
“Red October.” Elated, he began reading the text. His elation soon faded. It
seemed the “October” had arrived in a Florida port the night before. Ramius’s
first words on emerging from the submarine’s hatch were: “I’m going to
Disneyland!” When asked by the reporters what the significance of the black
circles on the side of the submarine was, he explained that they were Mickey
Mouse ears, painted by his crew as an act of defiance—and a guarantee that they
would be unable to change their minds once they had undertaken their daring
mission. According to the Post, captain and crew were now feasting on hot dogs
and cotton candy.

Jack was in shock. The Experts had been right—there was no silent propulsion
system on the “Red October.” He’d made an idiot of himself in the eyes of all
the office’s management, weakened the Agency’s credibility, and embarrassed his
ambitious and ruthless group chief in front of the top policy makers in the
United States government. And all this before he’d read his SAFE mail.

Sandra called him into her office. He decided to throw himself on her mercy.
“Sandra, you were right about the ‘October.’ I should have listened.”

“I generally am right,” she answered, but added begrudgingly, “You were right

about Ramius’s desire to defect—and the reasons behind it. A nice bit of
analysis.”

Jack felt a little better. But not for long. She continued. “You still have a
chance

to redeem yourself. If you turn in a well-written piece on the contribution of
the new naval uniform to the Soviet defense burden, we’ll recommend you for a
promotion. You do have a draft ready, don’t you? It’s due today.”

Jack inquired weakly, “What about my research paper? I should have a hard cover
soon.”

“I guess I should have told you right off. It’s been killed. Tom felt that after
all the high-level briefings he gave on the ‘October’ affair based primarily on
your draft, it was no longer necessary to publish it. And it’s a little
out-of-date at this point.”

Jack slunk back to his desk. It looked like his whole career would now depend on
the naval uniform article. The phone rang. It was the production staff, calling
to say the President had liked his piece on technical advances in Soviet
sandwich design. Apparently they had run the wrong draft. Jack heard snickering
on the other end of the line. Could it get any worse?

He began to search in his briefcase for an article he’d been reading on Soviet
wholesale prices. He didn’t find it, but he did find something else. A bologna
sandwich. And a Twinkie. Cathy still cared! He purged his mind of all images of
the lovely Joanne. Perhaps he had been unfair to Cathy. After all, she was a
wonderful wife, mother, and eye surgeon. He began to wonder if maybe he could
learn to make his own bologna sandwiches. He’d give it a try.

He munched on his sandwich—a perfect balance of bread, bologna, and mustard,
surpassing anything he’d ever tasted in the cafeteria—and analyzed his
adventure. He began to feel hopeful. He had been right about the sausage; three
years of research had paid off. And if he continued to acquire expertise, maybe
someday he’d be like the Experts—always right. Maybe the good guys came out on
top in the end by dint of hard work, brains, and skill. He sure hoped so; he had
twenty-five more years of this. He picked up a Pravda Vostoka article on brass
buttons and began reading.

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