The Hunt for Red October

by Tom Clancy

  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?”

  “Damned if I know. You want to hand me those ham cubes? And could you check the bread in the oven? Ought to be about done.”

  The New Jersey

  Commander Eaton was perplexed. His battle group was holding twenty miles south of the Russians. If it hadn’t been dark he could have seen the Kirov’s towering superstructure on the horizon from his perch on the flat bridge. Her escorts were in a single broad line ahead of the battle cruiser, pinging away in the search for a submarine.

  Since the air force had staged its mock attack the Soviets had been acting like sheep. This was out of character to say the least. The New Jersey and her escorts were keeping the Russian formation under constant observation, and a pair of Sentry aircraft were watching for good measure. The Russian redeployment had switched Eaton’s responsibility to the Kirov group. This suited him. His main battery turrets were trained in, but the guns were loaded with eight-inch guided rounds and the fire control stations were fully manned. The Tarawa was thirty miles south, her armed strike force of Harriers sitting ready to move at five-minute notice. The Soviets had to know this, even though their ASW helicopters had not come within five miles of an American ship for two days. The Bear and Backfire bombers which were passing overhead in shuttle rounds to Cuba—only a few, and those returning to Russia as quickly as they could be turned around—could not fail to report what they saw. The American vessels were in extended attack formation, the missiles on the New Jersey and her escorts being fed continuous information from the ships’ sensors. And the Russians were ignoring them. Their only electronic emissions were routine navigation radars. Strange.

  The Nimitz was now within air range after a five-thousand-mile dash from the South Atlantic; the carrier and her nuclear-powered escorts, the California, Bainbridge, and Truxton, were now only four hundred miles to the south, with the America battle group half a day behind them. The Kennedy was five hundred miles to the east. The Soviets would have to consider the danger of three carrier air wings at their backs and hundreds of land-based air force birds gradually shifting south from one base to another. Perhaps this explained their docility.

  The Backfire bombers were being escorted in relays all the way from Iceland, first by navy Tomcats from the Saratoga’s air wing, then by air force Phantoms operating in Maine, which handed the Soviet aircraft off to Eagles and Fighting Falcons as they worked down the coast almost as far south as Cuba. There was not much doubt how seriously the United States was taking this, though American units were no longer actively harassing the Russians. Eaton was glad they weren’t. There was nothing more to be gained from harassment, and anyway, if it had to, his battle group could switch from a peace to a war footing in about two minutes.

  The Watergate Apartments

  “Excuse me. I just moved in down the hall, and my phone isn’t hooked up yet. Would you mind if I made a call?”

  Henderson arrived at that decision quickly enough. Five three or so, auburn hair, gray eyes, adequate figure, a dazzling smile, and fashionably dressed. “Sure, welcome to the Watergate. Come on in.”

  “Thank you. I’m Hazel Loomis. My friends call me Sissy.” She held out her hand.

  “Peter Henderson. The phone’s in the kitchen. I’ll show you.” Things were looking up. He’d just ended a lengthy relationship with one of the senator’s secretaries. It had been hard on both of them.

  “I’m not disturbing anything, am I? You don’t have anyone here, do you?”

  “No, just me and the TV. Are you new to D.C.? The night life isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. At least, not when you have to go to work the next day. Who do you work for—I take it you’re single?”

  “That’s right. I work for DARPA, as a computer programmer. I’m afraid I can’t talk about it very much.”

  All sorts of good news, Henderson thought. “Here’s the phone.”

  Loomis looked around quickly as though evaluating the job the decorator had done. She reached into her purse and took out a dime, handing it to Henderson. He laughed.

  “The first call is free, and believe me, you can use my phone whenever you want.”

  “I just knew,” she said, punching the buttons, “that this would be nicer than living in Laurel. Hello, Kathy? Sissy. I just got moved in, haven’t even got my phone hooked up yet…Oh, a guy down the hall was kind enough to let me use his phone…Okay, see you tomorrow for lunch. Bye, Kathy.”

  Loomis looked around. “Who decorated for you?”

  “Did it myself. I minored in art at Harvard, and I know some nice shops in Georgetown. You can find some good bargains if you know where to look.”

  “Oh, I’d just love to have my place look like this! Could you show me around?”

  “Sure, the bedroom first?” Henderson laughed to show that he had no untoward intentions—which of course he did, though he was a patient man in such matters. The tour, which lasted several minutes, assured Loomis that the condo was indeed empty. A minute later there was a knock at the door. Henderson grumbled good-naturedly as he went to answer it.

  “Pete Henderson?” The man asking the question was dressed in a business suit. Henderson had on jeans and a sport shirt.

  “Yes?” Henderson backed up, knowing what this had to be. What came next, though, surprised him.

  “You’re under arrest, Mr. Henderson,” Sissy Loomis said, holding up her ID card. “The charge is espionage. You have the right to remain silent, you have the right to speak with an attorney. If you give up the right to remain silent, everything you say will be recorded and may be used against you. If you do not have an attorney or cannot afford one, we will see to it that an attorney is appointed to represent you. Do you understand these rights, Mr. Henderson?” It was Sissy Loomis’ first espionage case. For five years she had specialized in bank robbery stakeouts, often working as a teller with a .357 magnum revolver in her cash drawer. “Do you wish to waive these rights?”

  “No, I do not.” Henderson’s voice was raspy.

  “Oh, you will,” the inspector observed. “You will.” He turned to the three agents who accompanie
d him. “Take this place apart. Neatly, gentlemen, and quietly. We don’t want to wake anyone. You, Mr. Henderson, will come with us. You can change first. We can do this the easy way or the hard way. If you promise to cooperate, no cuffs. But if you try to run—you don’t want to do that, believe me.” The inspector had been in the FBI for twenty years and had never even drawn his service revolver in anger, while Loomis had already shot and killed two men. He was old-time FBI, and couldn’t help but wonder what Mr. Hoover would think of that, not to mention the new Jewish director.

  The Red October

  Ramius and Kamarov conferred over the chart for several minutes, tracing alternate course tracks before agreeing on one. The enlisted men ignored this. They had never been encouraged to know about charts. The captain walked to the aft bulkhead and lifted the phone.

  “Comrade Melekhin,” he ordered, waiting a few seconds. “Comrade, this is the captain. Any further difficulties with the reactor systems?”

  “No, Comrade Captain.”

  “Excellent. Hold things together another two days.” Ramius hung up. It was thirty minutes to the turn of the next watch.

  Melekhin and Kirill Surzpoi, the assistant engineer, had the duty in the engine room. Melekhin monitored the turbines and Surzpoi handled the reactor systems. Each had a michman and three enlisted men in attendance. The engineers had had a very busy cruise. Every gauge and monitor in the engine spaces, it seemed, had been inspected, and many had been entirely rebuilt by the two senior officers, who had been helped by Valintin Bugayev, the electronics officer and on-board genius who was also handling the political awareness classes for the crewmen. The engine room crewmen were the most rattled on the vessel. The supposed contamination was common knowledge—there are no long-lived secrets on a submarine. To ease their loads ordinary seamen were supplementing the engine watches. The captain called this a good chance for the cross-training he believed in. The crew thought it was a good way to get poisoned. Discipline was being maintained, of course. This was owing partly to the trust the men had in their commanding officer, partly to their training, but mostly to their knowledge of what would happen if they failed to carry out their orders immediately and enthusiastically.

  “Comrade Melekhin,” Surzpoi called, “I am showing pressure fluctuation on the main loop, number six gauge.”

  “Coming.” Melekhin hurried over and shoved the michman out of the way when he got to the master control panel. “More bad instruments! The others show normal. Nothing important,” the chief engineer said blandly, making sure everyone could hear. The whole compartment watch saw the chief engineer whisper something to his assistant. The younger one shook his head slowly, while two sets of hands worked the controls.

  A loud two-phase buzzer and a rotating red alarm light went off.

  “SCRAM the pile!” Melekhin ordered.

  “SCRAMing.” Surzpoi stabbed his finger on the master shutdown button.

  “You men, get forward!” Melekhin ordered next. There was no hesitation. “No, you, connect battery power to the caterpillar motors, quickly!”

  The warrant officer raced back to throw the proper switches, cursing his change of orders. It took forty seconds.

  “Done, Comrade!”

  “Go!”

  The warrant officer was the last man out of the compartment. He made certain that the hatches were dogged down tight before running to the control room.

  “What is the problem?” Ramius asked calmly.

  “Radiation alarm in the heat-exchange room!”

  “Very well, go forward and shower with the rest of your watch. Get control of yourself.” Ramius patted the michman on the arm. “We have had these problems before. You are a trained man. The crewmen look to you for leadership.”

  Ramius lifted the phone. It was a moment before the other end was picked up. “What has happened, Comrade?” The control room crew watched their captain listen to the answer. They could not help but admire his calm. Radiation alarms had sounded throughout the hull. “Very well. We do not have too many hours of battery power left, Comrade. We must go to snorkling depth. Stand by to activate the diesel. Yes.” He hung up.

  “Comrades, you will listen to me.” Ramius’ voice was under total control. “There has been a minor failure in the reactor control systems. The alarm you heard was not a major radiation leak, but rather a failure of the reactor rod control systems. Comrades Melekhin and Surzpoi successfully executed an emergency reactor shutdown, but we cannot operate the reactor properly without the primary controls. We will, therefore, complete our cruise on diesel power. To ensure against any possible radiation contamination, the reactor spaces have been isolated, and all compartments, engineering spaces first, will be vented with surface air when we snorkle. Kamarov, you will go aft to work the environmental controls. I will take the conn.”

  “Aye, Comrade Captain!” Kamarov went aft.

  Ramius lifted the microphone to give this news to the crew. Everyone was waiting for something. Forward, some crewmen muttered among themselves that minor was a word suffering from overuse, that nuclear submarines did not run on diesel and ventilate with surface air for the hell of it.

  Finished with his terse announcement, Ramius ordered the submarine to approach the surface.

  The Dallas

  “Beats me, Skipper.” Jones shook his head. “Reactor noises have stopped, pumps are cut way back, but he’s running at the same speed, just like before. On battery, I guess.”

  “Must be a hell of a battery system to drive something that big this fast,” Mancuso observed.

  “I did some computations on that a few hours ago.” Jones held up his pad. “This is based on the Typhoon hull, with a nice slick hull coefficient, so it’s probably conservative.”

  “Where did you learn to do this, Jonesy?”

  “Mr. Thompson looked up the hydrodynamic stuff for me. The electrical end is fairly simple. He might have something exotic—fuel cells, maybe. If not, if he’s running ordinary batteries, he has enough raw electrical power to crank every car in L.A.”

  Mancuso shook his head. “Can’t last forever.”

  Jones held up his hand. “Hull creaking…Sounds like he’s going up some.”

  The Red October

  “Raise snorkle,” Ramius said. Looking through the periscope he verified that the snorkle was up. “Well, no other ships in view. That is good news. I think we have lost our imperialist hunters. Raise the ESM antenna. Let’s be sure no enemy aircraft are lurking about with their radars.”

  “Clear, Comrade Captain.” Bugayev was manning the ESM board. “Nothing at all, not even airline sets.”

  “So, we have indeed lost our rat pack.” Ramius lifted the phone again. “Melekhin, you may open the main induction and vent the engine spaces, then start the diesel.” A minute later everyone aboard felt the vibration as the October’s massive diesel engine cranked on battery power. This sucked up all the air from the reactor spaces, replacing it with air drawn through the snorkle and ejecting the “contaminated” air into the sea.

  The engine continued to crank two minutes, and throughout the hull men waited for the rumble that would mean the engine had caught and could generate power to run the electric motors. It didn’t catch. After another thirty seconds the cranking stopped. The control room phone buzzed. Ramius lifted it.

  “What is wrong with the diesel, Comrade Chief Engineer?” the captain asked sharply. “I see. I’ll send men back—oh. Stand by.” Ramius looked around, his mouth a thin, bloodless smile. The junior engineering officer, Svyadov, was standing at the back of the compartment. “I need a man who knows diesel engines to help Comrade Melekhin.”

  “I grew up on a State farm,” Bugayev said. “I started playing with tractor engines as a boy.”

  “There is an additional problem…”

  Bugayev nodded knowingly. “So I gather, Comrade Captain, but we need the diesel, do we not?”

  “I will not forget this, Comrade,” Ramius said quietly.
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br />   “Then you can buy me some rum in Cuba, Comrade.” Bugayev smiled courageously. “I wish to meet a Cuban comrade, preferably one with long hair.”

  “May I accompany you, Comrade?” Svyadov asked anxiously. He had just been going on watch, approaching the reactor room hatch, when he’d been knocked aside by escaping crewmen.

  “Let us assess the nature of the problem first,” Bugayev said, looking at Ramius for confirmation.

  “Yes, there is plenty of time. Bugayev, report to me yourself in ten minutes.”

  “Aye aye, Comrade Captain.”

  “Svyadov, take charge of the lieutenant’s station.” Ramius pointed to the ESM board. “Use the opportunity to learn some new skills.”

  The lieutenant did as he was ordered. The captain seemed very preoccupied. Svyadov had never seen him like this before.

  THE FOURTEENTH DAY

  THURSDAY, 16 DECEMBER

  A Super Stallion

  They were traveling at one hundred fifty knots, two thousand feet over the darkened sea. The Super Stallion helicopter was old. Built towards the end of the Vietnam War, she had first seen service clearing mines off Haiphong harbor. That had been her primary duty, pulling a sea sled and acting as a flying minesweeper. Now, the big Sikorski was used for other purposes, mainly long-range heavy-lift missions. The three turbine engines perched atop the fuselage packed a considerable amount of power and could carry a platoon of armed combat troops a great distance.

  Tonight, in addition to her normal flight crew of three, she was carrying four passengers and a heavy load of fuel in the outrigger tanks. The passengers were clustered in the aft corner of the cargo area, chatting among themselves or trying to over the racket of the engines. Their conversation was animated. The intelligence officers had dismissed the danger implicit in their mission—no sense dwelling on that—and were speculating on what they might find aboard an honest-to-God Russian submarine. Each man considered the stories that would result, and decided it was a shame that they would never be able to tell them. None voiced this thought, however. At most a handful of people would ever know the entire story; the others would only see disjointed fragments that later might be thought parts of any number of other operations. Any Soviet agent trying to determine what this mission had been would find himself in a maze with dozens of blank walls.