by Tom Clancy
“Left rudder, reverse course,” Ramius ordered.
“What?” Mancuso was astounded.
“Think, Mancuso,” Ramius said, looking to be sure that Ryan carried out the order. Ryan did, not knowing why.
“Think, Commander Mancuso,” Ramius repeated. “What has happened? Moskva ordered a hunter sub to remain behind, probably a Politovskiy-class boat, the Alfa you call him. I know all their captains. All young, all, ah, aggressive? Yes, aggressive. He must know we are not dead. If he knows this, he will pursue us. So, we go back like a fox and let him pass.”
Mancuso didn’t like this. Ryan could tell without looking.
“We cannot shoot. Your men cannot shoot. We cannot run from him — he is faster. We cannot hide — his sonar is better. He will move east, use his speed to contain us and his sonar to locate us. By moving west, we have the best chance to escape. This he will not expect.”
Mancuso still didn’t like it, but he had to admit it was clever. Too damned clever. He looked back down at the chart. It wasn’t his boat.
The Dallas
“The bastard went right past. Either ignored the decoy or flat didn’t hear it. He’s abeam of us, we’ll be in his baffles soon,” Chief Laval reported.
Chambers swore quietly. “So much for that idea. Right fifteen degrees rudder.” At least the Dallas had not been heard. The submarine responded rapidly to the controls. “Let’s get behind him.”
The Pogy
The Pogy was now a mile off the Alfa’s port quarter. She had the Dallas on sonar and noted her change of course. Commander Wood simply did not know what to do next. The easiest solution was to shoot, but he couldn’t. He contemplated shooting on his own. His every instinct told him to do just this. The Alfa was hunting Americans…But he couldn’t give in to his instinct. Duty came first.
There was nothing worse than overconfidence, he reflected bitterly. The assumption behind this operation had been that there wouldn’t be anybody around, and even if there were the attack subs would be able to warn the boomer off well in advance. There was a lesson in this, but Wood didn’t care to think about it just now.
The V. K. Konovalov
“Contact,” the michman said into the microphone. “Ahead, almost dead ahead. Using propellers and going at slow speed. Bearing zero-four-four, range unknown.’
“Is it Red October?” Tupolev asked.
“I cannot say, Comrade Captain. It could be an American. He’s coming this way, I think.”
“Damn!” Tupolev looked around the control room. Could they have passed the Red October? Might they already have killed him?
The Dallas
“Does he know we’re here, Frenchie?” Chambers asked, back in sonar.
“No way, sir.” Laval shook his head. “We’re directly behind him. Wait a minute…” The chief frowned. “Another contact, far side of the Alfa. That’s gotta be our friend, sir. Jesus! I think he’s heading this way. Using his wheels, not that funny thing.”
“Range to the Alfa?”
“Under three thousand yards, sir.”
“All ahead two thirds! Come left ten degrees!” Chambers ordered. “Frenchie, ping, but use the under-ice sonar. He may not know what that is. Make him think we’re the boomer.”
“Aye aye, sir!”
The V. K. Konovalov
“High-frequency pinging aft!” the michman called out. “Does not sound like an American sonar, Comrade.”
Tupolev was suddenly puzzled. Was it an American to seaward? The other one on his port quarter was certainly American. It had to be the October. Marko was still the fox. He had lain still, letting them go past, so that he could shoot at them!
“All ahead full, left full rudder!”
The Red October
“Contact!” Jones sang out. “Dead ahead. Wait…It’s an Alfa! She’s close! Seems to be turning. Somebody pinging her on the other side. Christ, she’s real close. Skipper, the Alfa is not a point source. I got signal separation between the engine and the screw.”
“Captain,” Mancuso said. The two commanders looked at one another and communicated a single thought as if by telepathy. Ramius nodded.
“Get us range.”
“Jonesy, ping the sucker!” Mancuso ran aft.
“Aye.” The systems were fully powered. Jones loosed a single ranging ping. “Range fifteen hundred yards. Zero elevation angle, sir. We’re level with her.”
“Mancuso, have your man give us range and bearing!” Ramius twisted the annunciator handle savagely.
“Okay, Jonesy, you’re our fire control. Track the mother.”
The V. K. Konovalov
“One active sonar ping to starboard, distance unknown, bearing zero-four-zero. The seaward target just ranged on us,” the michman said.
“Give me a range,” Tupolev ordered.
“Too far aft of the beam, Comrade. I am losing him aft.”
One of them was the October—but which? Could he risk shooting at an American sub? No!
“Solution to the forward target?”
“Not a good one,” the starpom replied. “He’s maneuvering and increasing speed.”
The michman concentrated on the western target. “Captain, contact forward is not, repeat not Soviet. Forward contact is American.”
“Which one?” Tupolev screamed.
“West and northwest are both American. East target unknown.”
“Keep the rudder at full.”
“Rudder is full,” the helmsman responded, holding the wheel over.
“The target is behind us. We must lock on and shoot as we turn. Damn, we are going too fast. Slow to one-third speed.”
The Konovalov was normally quick to turn, but the power reduction made her propeller act like a brake, slowing the maneuver. Still, Tupolev was doing the right thing. He had to point his torpedo tubes near the bearing of the target, and he had to slow rapidly enough for his sonar to give him accurate firing information.
The Red October
“Okay, the Alfa is continuing her turn, now heading right to left…Propulsion sounds are down some. She just chopped power,” Jones said, watching the screen. His mind was working furiously computing course, speed, and distance. “Range is now twelve hundred yards. She’s still turning. We doin’ what I think?”
“Looks that way.”
Jones set the active sonar on automatic pinging. “Have to see what this turn does, sir. If she’s smart she’ll burn off south and get clear first.”
“Then pray she ain’t smart,” Mancuso said from the passageway. “Steady as she goes!”
“Steady as she goes,” Ryan said, wondering if the next torpedo would kill them.
“Her turn is continuing. We’re on her port beam now, maybe her port bow.” Jones looked up. “She’s going to get around first. Here come the pings.”
The Red October accelerated to eighteen knots.
The V. K. Konovalov
“I have him,” the michman said. “Range one thousand meters, bearing zero-four-five. Angle zero.”
“Set it up,” Tupolev ordered his exec.
“It will have to be a zero-angle shot. We’re swinging too rapidly,” the starpom said. He set it up as quickly as he could. The submarines were now closing at over forty knots. “Ready for tube five only! Tube flooded, door — open. Ready!”
“Shoot!”
“Fire five!” The starpom’s finger stabbed the button.
The Red October
“Range down to nine hundred — high-speed screws dead ahead! We have one torpedo in the water dead ahead. One fish, heading right in!”
“Forget it, track the Alfa!”
“Aye, okay, the Alfa’s bearing two-two-five, steadying down. We need to come left a little, sir.”
“Ryan, come left five degrees, your course is two-two-five.”
“Left five rudder, coming to two-two-five.”
“The fish is closing rapidly, sir,” Jones said.
“Screw it! Track the Alfa.”<
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“Aye. Bearing is still two-two-five. Same as the fish.”
The combined speed ate up the distance between the submarines rapidly. The torpedo was closing the October faster still, but it had a safety device built in. To prevent them from blowing up their own launch platform, torpedoes could not arm until they were five hundred to a thousand yards from the boat that launched them. If the October closed the Alfa fast enough, she could not be hurt.
The October was now passing twenty knots.
“Range to the Alfa is seven hundred fifty yards, bearing two-two-five. The torpedo is close, sir, a few more seconds.” Jones cringed, staring at the screen.
Klonk!
The torpedo struck the Red October dead center in her hemispherical bow. The safety lock still had another hundred meters to run. The impact broke it into three pieces, which were batted aside by the accelerating missile submarine.
“A dud!” Jones laughed. “Thank you, God! Target still bearing two-two-five, range is seven hundred yards.”
The V. K. Konovalov
“No explosion?” Tupolev wondered.
“The safety locks!” The starpom swore. He’d had to set it up too fast.
“Where is the target?”
“Bearing zero-four-five, Comrade. Bearing is constant,” the michman replied, “closing rapidly.”
Tupolev blanched. “Left full rudder, all ahead flank!”
The Red October
“Turning, turning left to right,” Jones said. “Bearing is now two-three-zero, spreading out a little. Need a little right rudder, sir.”
“Ryan, come right five degrees.”
“Rudder is right five,” Jack answered.
“No, rudder ten right!” Ramius countermanded his order. He had been keeping a track with pencil and paper. And he knew the Alfa.
“Right ten degrees,” Ryan said.
“Near-field effect, range down to four hundred yards, bearing is two-two-five to the center of the target. Target is spreading out left and right, mostly left,” Jones said rapidly. “Range…three hundred yards. Elevation angle is zero, we are level with the target. Range two hundred fifty, bearing two-two-five to target center. We can’t miss, Skipper.”
“We’re gonna hit!” Mancuso called out.
Tupolev should have changed depth. As it was he depended on the Alfa’s acceleration and maneuverability, forgetting that Ramius knew exactly what these were.
“Contact spread way the hell out — instantaneous return, sir!”
“Brace for impact!”
Ramius had forgotten the collision alarm. He yanked at it only seconds before impact.
The Red October rammed the Konovalov just aft of midships at a thirty-degree angle. The force of the collision ruptured the Konovalov’s titanium pressure hull and crumpled the October’s bow as if it were a beer can.
Ryan had not braced hard enough. He was thrown forward, and his face struck the instrument panel. Aft, Williams was catapulted from his bed and caught by Noyes before his head hit the deck. Jones’ sonar systems were wiped out. The missile submarine bounded up and over the top of the Alfa, her keel grating across the upper deck of the smaller vessel as the momentum carried her forward and upward.
The V. K. Konovalov
The Konovalov had had full watertight integrity set. It did not make a difference. Two compartments were instantly vented to the sea, and the bulkhead between the control room and the after compartments failed a moment later from hull deformation. The last thing that Tupolev saw was a curtain of white foam coming from the starboard side. The Alfa rolled to port, turned by the friction of the October’s keel. In a few seconds the submarine was upside down. Throughout her length men and gear tumbled about like dice. Half the crew were already drowning. Contact with the October ended at this point, when the Konovalov’s flooded compartments made her drop stern first toward the bottom. The political officer’s last conscious act was to yank at the disaster beacon handle, but it was to no avail: the sub was inverted, and the cable fouled on the sail. The only marker on the Konovalov’s grave was a mass of bubbles.
The Red October
“We still alive?” Ryan’s face was bleeding profusely.
“Up, up on the planes!” Ramius shouted.
“All the way up.” Ryan pulled back with his left hand, holding his right over the cuts.
“Damage report,” Ramius said in Russian.
“Reactor system is intact,” Melekhin answered at once. “The damage control board shows flooding in the torpedo room — I think. I have vented high-pressure air into it, and the pump is activated. Recommend we surface to assess damage.”
“Da!” Ramius hobbled to the air manifold and blew all tanks.
The Dallas
“Jesus,” the sonar chief said, “somebody hit somebody. I got breakup noises going down and hull-popping noises going up. Can’t tell which is which, sir. Both engines are dead.”
“Get us up to periscope depth quick!” Chambers ordered.
The Red October
It was 1654 local time when the Red October broke the surface of the Atlantic Ocean for the first time, forty-seven miles southeast of Norfolk. There was no other ship in sight.
“Sonar is wiped out, Skipper.” Jones was switching off his boxes. “Gone, crunched. We got some piddly-ass lateral hydrophones. No active stuff, not even the gertrude.”
“Go forward, Jonesy. Nice work.”
Jones took the last cigarette from his pack. “Any time, sir — but I’m gettin’ out next summer, depend on it.”
Bugayev followed him forward, still deafened and stunned from the torpedo hit.
The October was sitting still on the surface, down by the bow and listing twenty degrees to port from the vented ballast tanks.
The Dallas
“How about that,” Chambers said. He lifted the microphone. “This is Commander Chambers. They killed the Alfa! Our guys are safe. Surfacing the boat now. Stand by the fire and rescue party!”
The Red October
“You okay, Commander Ryan?” Jones turned his head carefully. “Looks like you broke some glass the hard way, sir.”
“You don’t worry till it stops bleeding,” Ryan said drunkenly.
“Guess so.” Jones held his handkerchief over the cuts. “But I sure hope you don’t always drive this bad, sir.”
“Captain Ramius, permission to lay to the bridge and communicate with my ship?” Mancuso asked.
“Go, we may need help with the damage.”
Mancuso got into his jacket, checking to make sure his small docking radio was still in the pocket where he had left it. Thirty seconds later he was atop the sail. The Dallas was surfacing as he made his first check of the horizon. The sky had never looked so good.
He couldn’t recognize the face four hundred yards away, but it had to be Chambers.
“Dallas, this is Mancuso.”
“Skipper, this is Chambers. You guys okay?”
“Yes! But we may need some hands. The bow’s all stove in and we took a torpedo midships.”
“I can see it, Bart. Look down.”
“Jesus!” The jagged hole was awash, half out of the water, and the submarine was heavily down by the bow. Mancuso wondered how she could float at all, but it wasn’t the time to question why.
“Come over here, Wally, and get the raft out.”
“On the way. Fire and rescue is standing by, I — there’s our other friend,” Chambers said.
The Pogy surfaced three hundred yards directly ahead of the October.
“Pogy says the area’s clear. Nobody here but us. Heard that one before?” Chambers laughed mirthlessly. “How about we radio in?”
“No, let’s see if we can handle it first.” The Dallas approached the October. Within minutes Mancuso’s command submarine was seventy yards to port, and ten men on a raft were struggling across the chop. Up to this time only a handful of men aboard the Dallas had known what was going on. Now everyone knew. He could see his
men pointing and talking. What a story they had.
Damage was not as bad as they had feared. The torpedo room had not flooded — a sensor damaged by the impact had given a false reading. The forward ballast tanks were permanently vented to the sea, but the submarine was so big and her ballast tanks so subdivided that she was only eight feet down at the bow. The list to port was only a nuisance. In two hours the radio room leak had been plugged, and after a lengthy discussion among Ramius, Melekhin, and Mancuso it was decided that they could dive again if they kept their speed down and did not go below thirty meters. They’d be late getting to Norfolk.
THE EIGHTEENTH DAY
MONDAY, 20 DECEMBER
The Red October
Ryan again found himself atop the sail thanks to Ramius, who said that he had earned it. In return for the favor, Jack had helped the captain up the ladder to the bridge station. Mancuso was with them. There was now an American crew below in the control room, and the engine room complement had been supplemented so that there was something approaching a normal steaming watch. The leak in the radio room had not been fully contained, but it was above the waterline. The compartment had been pumped out, and the October’s list had eased to fifteen degrees. She was still down by the bow, which was partially compensated for when the intact ballast tanks were blown dry. The crumpled bow gave the submarine a decidedly asymmetrical wake, barely visible in the moonless, cloud-laden sky. The Dallas and the Pogy were still submerged, somewhere aft, sniffing for additional interference as they neared Capes Henry and Charles.
Somewhere farther aft an LNG (liquified natural gas) carrier was approaching the passage, which the coast guard had closed to all normal traffic in order to allow the floating bomb to travel without interference all the way to the LNG terminal at Cove Point, Maryland — or so the story went. Ryan wondered how the navy had persuaded the ship’s skipper to fake engine trouble or somehow delay his arrival. They were six hours late. The navy must have been nervous as all hell until they had finally surfaced forty minutes earlier and been spotted immediately by a circling Orion.
