by Tom Clancy
“Keep thinking those happy thoughts, sir,” Machinist’s Mate First Class Jesse Overton said. “Still clear on sonar?”
“Right, Jess.” Johnsen had been working with the machinist’s mate for two years. The Sea Cliff was their baby, a small, rugged research submarine used mainly for oceanographic tasks, including the emplacement or repair of SOSUS sensors. On the three-man sub there was little place for bridge discipline. Overton was not well educated or very articulate—at least not politely articulate. His skill at maneuvering the minisub was unsurpassed, however, and Johnsen was just as happy to leave that job to him. It was the lieutenant’s task to manage the mission at hand.
“Air system needs some work,” Johnsen observed.
“Yeah, the filters are about due for replacement. I was going to do that next week. Coulda’ done it this morning, but I figured the backup control wiring was more important.”
“Guess I have to go along with you on that. Handling okay?”
“Like a virgin.” Overton’s smile was reflected in the thick Lexan view port in front of the control seat. The Sea Cliff’s awkward design made her clumsy to maneuver. It was as though she knew what she wanted to do, just not quite how she wanted to do it. “How wide’s the target area?”
“Pretty wide. Pigeon says after the explosion the pieces spread from hell to breakfast.”
“I believe it. Three miles down, and a current to spread it around.”
“The boat’s name is Red October, Captain? A Victor-class attack submarine, you said?”
“That is your name for the class,” Kaganovich said.
“What do you call them?” Johnsen asked. He got no reply. What was the big deal? he wondered. What did the name of the class matter to anybody?
“Switching on locater sonar.” Johnsen activated several systems, and the Sea Cliff pulsed with the sound of the high-frequency sonar mounted on her belly. “There’s the bottom.” The yellow screen showed bottom contours in white.
“Anything sticking up, sir?” Overton asked.
“Not today, Jess.”
A year before they had been operating a few miles from this spot and nearly been impaled on a Liberty ship, sunk around 1942 by a German U-boat. The hulk had been sitting up at an angle, propped up by a massive boulder. That near collision would surely have been fatal, and it had taught both men caution.
“Okay, I’m starting to get some hard returns. Directly ahead, spread out like a fan. Another five hundred feet to the bottom.”
“Right.”
“Hmph. There’s one big piece, ’bout thirty feet long, maybe nine or ten across, eleven o’clock, three hundred yards. We’ll go for that one first.”
“Coming left, lights coming on now.”
A half-dozen high-intensity floodlights came on, at once surrounding the submersible in a globe of light. It did not penetrate more than ten yards in the water, which ate up the light energy.
“There’s the bottom, just where you said, Mr. Johnsen,” Overton said. He halted the powered descent and checked for buoyancy. Almost exactly neutral, good. “This current’s going to be tough on battery power.”
“How strong is it?”
“Knot an’ a half, maybe more like two, depending on bottom contours. Same as last year. I figure we can maneuver an hour, hour an’ a half, tops.”
Johnsen agreed. Oceanographers were still puzzling over this deep current, which seemed to change direction from time to time in no particular pattern. Odd. There were a lot of odd things in the ocean. That’s why Johnsen got his oceanography degree, to figure some of the buggers out. It sure beat working for a living. Being three miles down wasn’t work, not to Johnsen.
“I see somethin’, a flash off the bottom right in front of us. Want I should grab it?”
“If you can.”
They couldn’t see it yet on any of the Sea Cliff’s three TV monitors, which looked straight ahead, forty-five degrees left and right of the bow.
“Okay.” Overton put his right hand on the waldo control. This was what he was really best at.
“Can you see what it is?” Johnsen asked, fiddling with the TV.
“Some kinda instrument. Can you kill the number one flood, sir? It’s dazzlin’ me.”
“Wait one.” Johnsen leaned forward to kill the proper switch. The number one floodlight provided illumination for the bow camera, which went immediately blank.
“Okay, baby, now let’s just hold steady…” The machinist’s mate’s left hand worked the directional propeller controls; his right was poised in the waldo glove. Now he was the only one who could see the target. Overton’s reflection was grinning at itself. His right hand moved rapidly.
“Gotcha!” he said. The waldo took the depth-gauge dial a diver had magnetically affixed to the Sea Cliff’s bow prior to setting out from the Austin’s dock bay. “You can hit the light again, sir.”
Johnsen flicked it on, and Overton maneuvered his catch in front of the bow camera. “Can ya see what it is?”
“Looks like a depth gauge. Not one of ours, though,” Johnsen observed. “Can you make it out, Captain?”
“Da,” Kaganovich said at once. He let out a long breath, trying to sound unhappy. “It is one of ours. I cannot read the number, but it is Soviet.”
“Put it in the basket, Jess,” Johnsen said.
“Right.” He maneuvered the waldo, placing the dial in a basket welded on the bow, then getting the manipulator arm back to its rest position. “Getting some silt. Let’s pick up a little.”
As the Sea Cliff got too close to the bottom the wash from her propellers stirred up the fine alluvial silt. Overton increased power to get back to a twenty-foot height.
“That’s better. See what the current is doin’, Mr. Johnsen? Good two knots. Gonna cut our bottom time.” The current was wafting the cloud to port, rather quickly. “Where’s the big target?”
“Dead ahead, hundred yards. Let’s make sure we see what that is.”
“Right. Going forward…There’s something, looks like a butcher knife. We want it?”
“No, let’s keep going.”
“Okay, range?”
“Sixty yards. Ought to be seeing it soon.”
The two officers saw it on TV the same time Overton did. Just a spectral image at first, it faded like an afterimage in one’s eye. Then it came back.
Overton was the first to react. “Damn!”
It was more than thirty feet long and appeared perfectly round. They approached from its rear and saw the main circle and within it four smaller cones that stuck out a foot or so.
“That’s a missile, Skipper, a whole fuckin’ Russkie nuclear missile!”
“Hold position, Jess.”
“Aye aye.” He backed off on the power controls.
“You said she was a Victor,” Johnsen said to the Soviet.
“I was mistaken.” Kaganovich’s mouth twitched.
“Let’s take a closer look, Jess.”
The Sea Cliff moved forward, up the side of the rocket body. The Cyrillic lettering was unmistakable, though they were too far off to make out the serial numbers. There was a new treasure for Davey Jones, an SS-N-20 Seahawk, with its eight five-hundred-kiloton MIRVs.
Kaganovich was careful to note the markings on the missile body. He’d been briefed on the Seahawk immediately before flying from the Kiev. As an intelligence officer, he ordinarily knew more about American weapons than their Soviet counterparts.
How convenient, he thought. The Americans had allowed him to ride in one of their most advanced research vessels whose internal arrangements he had already memorized, and they had accomplished his mission for him. The Red October was dead. All he had to do was get that information to Admiral Stralbo on the Kirov and the fleet could leave the American coast. Let them come to the Norwegian Sea to play their nasty games! See who would win them up there!
“Position check, Jess. Mark the sucker.”
“Aye.” Overton pressed a button to deploy a
sonar transponder that would respond only to a coded American sonar signal. This would guide them back to the missile. They would return later with their heavy-lift rig to put a line on the missile and haul it to the surface.
“That is the property of the Soviet Union,” Kaganovich pointed out. “It is in—under international waters. It belongs to my country.”
“Then you can fuckin’ come and get it!” snapped the American seaman. He must be an officer in disguise, Kaganovich thought. “Beg pardon, Mr. Johnsen.”
“We’ll be back for it,” Johnsen said.
“You’ll never lift it. It is too heavy,” Kaganovich objected.
“I suppose you’re right.” Johnsen smiled.
Kaganovich allowed the Americans their small victory. It could have been worse. Much worse. “Shall we continue to search for more wreckage?”
“No, I think we’ll go back up,” Johnsen decided.
“But your orders—”
“My orders, Captain Kaganovich, were to search for the remains of a Victor-class attack submarine. We found the grave of a boomer. You lied to us, Captain, and our courtesy to you ends at this point. You got what you wanted, I guess. Later we’ll be back for what we want.” Johnsen reached up and pulled the release handle for the iron ballast. The metal slab dropped free. This gave the Sea Cliff a thousand pounds of positive buoyancy. There was no way to stay down now, even if they wanted to.
“Home, Jess.”
“Aye aye, Skipper.”
The ride back to the surface was a silent one.
The USS Austin
An hour later, Kaganovich climbed to the Austin’s bridge and requested permission to send a message to the Kirov. This had been agreed upon beforehand, else the Austin’s commanding officer would have refused. Word on the dead sub’s identity had spread fast. The Soviet officer broadcast a series of code words, accompanied by the serial number from the depth-gauge dial. These were acknowledged at once.
Overton and Johnsen watched the Russian board the helicopter, carrying the depth-gauge dial.
“I didn’t like him much, Mr. Johnsen. Keptin Kaganobitch. The name sounds like a terminal studder. We snookered him, didn’t we?”
“Remind me never to play cards with you, Jess.”
The Red October
Ryan woke up after six hours to music that seemed dreamily familiar. He lay in his bunk for a minute trying to place it, then slipped his feet into his shoes and went forward to the wardroom.
It was E.T. Ryan arrived just in time to see the credits scrolling up the thirteen-inch TV set sitting on the forward end of the wardroom table. Most of the Russian officers and three Americans had been watching it. The Russians were all dabbing their eyes. Jack got a cup of coffee and sat at the end of the table.
“You liked it?”
“It was magnificent!” Borodin proclaimed.
Lieutenant Mannion chuckled. “Second time we ran it.”
One of the Russians started speaking rapidly in his native language. Borodin translated for him. “He asks if all American children act with such—Bugayev, svobodno?”
“Free,” Bugayev translated, incorrectly but close enough.
Ryan laughed. “I never did, but the movie was set in California—people out there are a little crazy. The truth is, no, kids don’t act like that—at least I’ve never seen it, and I have two. At the same time, we do raise our kids to be a lot more independent than Soviet parents do.”
Borodin translated, and then gave the Russian response. “So, all American children are not such hooligans?”
“Some are. America is not perfect, gentlemen. We make lots of mistakes.” Ryan had decided to tell the truth insofar as he could.
Borodin translated again. The reactions around the table were a little dubious.
“I have told them this movie is a child’s story and should not be taken too seriously. This is so?”
“Yes, sir,” Mancuso, who had just come in, said. “It’s a kid’s story, but I’ve seen it five times. Welcome back, Ryan.”
“Thank you, Commander. I take it you have things under control.”
“Yep. I guess we all needed the chance to unwind. I’ll have to write Jonesy another commendation letter. This really was a good idea.” He waved at the television. “We have lots of time to be serious.”
Noyes came in. “How’s Williams?” Ryan asked.
“He’ll make it.” Noyes filled his cup. “I had him open for three and a half hours. The head wound was superficial—bloody as hell, but head wounds are like that. The chest was a close one, though. The bullet missed the pericardium by a whisker. Captain Borodin, who gave that man first aid?”
The starpom pointed to a lieutenant. “He does not speak English.”
“Tell him that Williams owes him his life. Putting that chest tube in was the difference. He would have died without it.”
“You’re sure he’ll make it?” Ryan persisted.
“Of course he’ll make it, Ryan. That’s what I do for a living. He’ll be a sick boy for a while, and I’d feel better if we had him in a real hospital, but everything’s under control.”
“And Captain Ramius?” Borodin asked.
“No problem. He’s still sleeping. I took my time sewing it up. Ask him where he got his first aid training.”
Borodin did. “He said he likes to read medical books.”
“How old is he?”
“Twenty-four.”
“Tell him if he ever wants to study medicine, I’ll tell him how to get started. If he knows how to do the right thing at the right time, he might just be good enough to do it for a living.”
The young officer was pleased by this comment and asked how much money a doctor could make in America.
“I’m in the service, so I don’t make very much. Forty-eight thousand a year, counting flight pay. I could do a lot better on the outside.”
“In the Soviet Union,” Borodin pointed out, “doctors are paid about the same as factory workers.”
“Maybe that explains why your docs are no good,” Noyes observed.
“When will the captain be able to resume command?” Borodin asked.
“I’m going to keep him down all day,” Noyes said. “I don’t want him to start bleeding again. He can start moving around tomorrow. Carefully. I don’t want him on that leg too much. He’ll be fine, gentlemen. A little weak from the blood loss, but he’ll recover fully.” Noyes made his pronouncements as though he were quoting physical laws.
“We thank you, Doctor,” Borodin said.
Noyes shrugged. “It’s what they pay me for. Now can I ask a question? What the hell is going on here?”
Borodin laughed, translating the question for his comrades. “We will all become American citizens.”
“And you’re bringing a sub along with you, eh? Son of a gun. For a while there I thought this was some sort of—I don’t know, something. This is quite a story. Guess I can’t tell it to anybody, though.”
“Correct, Doctor.” Ryan smiled.
“Too bad,” Noyes muttered as he headed back to sick bay.
Moscow
“So, Comrade Admiral, you report success to us?” Narmonov asked.
“Yes, Comrade General Secretary,” Gorshkov nodded, surveying the conference table in the underground command center. All of the inner circle were here, along with the military chiefs and the head of the KGB. “Admiral Stralbo’s fleet intelligence officer, Captain Kaganovich, was permitted by the Americans to view the wreckage from aboard one of their deep-submergence research vessels. The craft recovered a fragment of wreckage, a depth-gauge dial. These objects are numbered, and the number was immediately relayed to Moscow. It was positively from Red October. Kaganovich also inspected a missile blasted loose from the submarine. It was definitely a Seahawk. Red October is dead. Our mission is accomplished.”
“By chance, Comrade Admiral, not by design,” Mikhail Alexandrov pointed out. “Your fleet failed in its mission to locate and destroy
the submarine. I think Comrade Gerasimov has some information for us.”
Nikolay Gerasimov was the new KGB chief. He had already given his report to the political members of this group and was eager to release it to these strutting peacocks in uniform. He wanted to see their reactions. The KGB had scores to settle with these men. Gerasimov summarized the report he had from agent Cassius.
“Impossible!” Gorshkov snapped.
“Perhaps,” Gerasimov conceded politely. “There is a strong probability that this is a very clever piece of disinformation. It is now being investigated by our agents in the field. There are, however, some interesting details which support this hypothesis. Permit me to review them, Comrade Admiral.
“First, why did the Americans allow our man aboard one of their most sophisticated research submarines? Second, why did they cooperate with us at all, saving our sailor from the Politovskiy and telling us about it? They let us see our man immediately. Why? Why not keep our man, use him, and dispose of him? Sentimentality? I think not. Third, at the same time they picked this man up their air and fleet units were harassing our fleet in the most blatant and aggressive manner. This suddenly stopped, and a day later they were tripping over their own feet in their efforts to assist in our ‘search and rescue.’”
“Because Stralbo wisely and courageously decided to refrain from reacting to their provocations,” Gorshkov replied.
Gerasimov nodded politely again. “Perhaps so. That was an intelligent decision on the admiral’s part. It cannot be easy for a uniformed officer to swallow his pride so. On the other hand, I speculate that it is also possible that about this time the Americans received this information which Cassius passed on to us. I further speculate that the Americans were fearful of our reaction were we to suspect that they had perpetrated this entire affair as a CIA operation. We know now that several imperialist intelligence services are inquiring as to the reason for this fleet operation.
“Over the past two days we have been doing some fast checking of our own. We find,” Gerasimov consulted his notes, “that there are twenty-nine Polish engineers at the Polyarnyy submarine yard, mainly in quality control and inspection posts, that mail and message-handling procedures are very lax, and the Captain Ramius did not, as he supposedly threatened in his letter to Comrade Padorin, sail his submarine into New York harbor, but was rather in a position a thousand kilometers south when the submarine was destroyed.”
