by Tom Clancy
“Commander, bring the group to battle stations.”
“Aye.” The group operations officer lifted the tactical radio mike. “Blue Boys, this is Blue King. Amber Light, Amber Light, execute. Out.”
Eaton waited four seconds for the New Jersey’s general quarters alarm to sound. The crew raced to their guns.
“Range to Kirov?”
“Thirty-seven thousand six hundred yards, sir. We’ve been sneaking in a laser range every few minutes. We’re dialed in, sir,” the group operations officer reported. “Main battery turrets are still loaded with sabots, and gunnery’s been updating the solution every thirty seconds.”
A phone buzzed next to Eaton’s command chair on the flag bridge.
“Eaton.”
“All stations manned and ready, Commodore,” the battleship’s captain reported. Eaton looked at his stopwatch.
“Well done, Captain. We’ve got the men drilled very well indeed.”
In the New Jersey’s combat information center the numerical displays showed the exact range to the Kirov’s mainmast. The logical first target is always the enemy flagship. The only question was how much punishment the Kirov could absorb—and what would kill her first, the gun rounds or the Tomahawk missiles. The important part, the gunnery officer had been saying for days, was to kill the Kirov before any aircraft could interfere. The New Jersey had never sunk a ship all on her own. Forty years was a long time to wait.
“They’re turning,” the group operations officer said.
“Yep, let’s see how far.”
The Kirov’s formation had been on a westerly course when the signal arrived. Every ship in the circular array turned to starboard, all together. Their turns stopped when they reached a heading of zero-four-zero.
Eaton set his glasses down in the holder. “They’re going home. Let’s inform Washington and keep the men at stations for a while.”
Dulles International Airport
The Soviets outdid themselves getting their men away from the United States. An Aeroflot Illyushin IL-62 was taken out of regular international service and sent directly from Moscow to Dulles. It landed at sunset. A near copy of the British VC-10, the four-engine aircraft taxied to the remotest service area for refueling. Along with some other passengers who did not deplane to stretch their legs, a spare flight crew was brought along so that the plane could immediately return home. A pair of mobile lounges drove from the terminal building two miles to the waiting aircraft. Inside them the crewmen of the Red October looked out at the snow-dusted countryside, knowing this was their final look at America. They were quiet, having been roused from bed in Bethesda and taken by bus to Dulles only an hour earlier. This time no reporters harassed them.
The four officers, nine michmanyy, and the remaining enlisted crew were split into distinct groups as they boarded. Each group was taken to a separate part of the aircraft. Each officer and michman had his own KGB interrogator, and the debriefing began as the aircraft started its takeoff roll. By the time the Illyushin reached cruising altitude most of the crewmen were asking themselves why they had not opted to remain behind with their traitorous countrymen. These interviews were decidedly unpleasant.
“Did Captain Ramius act strangely?” a KGB major asked Petrov.
“Certainly not!” Petrov answered quickly, defensively. “Didn’t you know our submarine was sabotaged? We were lucky to escape with our lives!”
“Sabotaged? How?”
“The reactor systems. I am the wrong one to ask on this, I am not an engineer, but it was I who detected the leaks. You see, the radiation film badges showed contamination, but the engine room instruments did not. Not only was the reactor tampered with, but all of the radiation-sensing instruments were disabled. I saw this myself. Chief Engineer Melekhin had to rebuild several to locate the leaking reactor piping. Svyadov can tell this better. He saw it himself.”
The KGB officer was scribbling notes. “And what was your submarine doing so close to the American coast?”
“What do you mean? Don’t you know what our orders were?”
“What were your orders, Comrade Doctor?” The KGB officer stared hard into Petrov’s eyes.
The doctor explained, concluding, “I saw the orders. They were posted for all to see, as is normal.”
“Signed by whom?”
“Admiral Korov. Who else?”
“Did you not find those orders a little strange?” the major asked angrily.
“Do you question your orders, Comrade Major?” Petrov summoned up some spine. “I do not.”
“What happened to your political officer?”
In another space Ivanov was explaining how the Red October had been detected by American and British ships. “But Captain Ramius evaded them brilliantly! We would have made it except for that damned reactor accident. You must find who did that to us, Comrade Captain. I wish to see him die myself!”
The KGB officer was unmoved. “And what was the last thing the captain said to you?”
“He ordered me to keep control of my men, not to let them speak with Americans any more than necessary, and he said that the Americans would never get their hands on our ship.” Ivanov’s eyes teared at the thought of his captain and his ship, both lost. He was a proud and privileged young Soviet man, the son of a Party academician. “Comrade, you and your people must find the bastards who did this to us.”
“It was very clever,” Svyadov was recounting a few feet away. “Even Comrade Melekhin only found it on his third attempt, and he swore vengeance on the men who did it. I saw it myself,” the lieutenant said, forgetting that he never had, really. He explained in detail, to the point of drawing a diagram of how it had been done. “I don’t know about the final accident. I was just coming on duty then. Melekhin, Surzpoi, and Bugayev worked for hours attempting to engage our auxiliary power systems.” He shook his head. “I tried to join them, but Captain Ramius forbade it. I tried again, against orders, but Comrade Petrov prevented me.”
Two hours over the Atlantic the senior KGB interrogators met aft to compare notes.
“So, if this captain was acting, he was devilishly good at it,” the colonel in charge of the initial interrogations summarized. “His orders to his men were impeccable. The mission orders were announced and posted as is normal—”
“But who among these men knows Korov’s signature? And we can’t very well ask Korov, can we?” a major said. The commander of the Northern Fleet had died of a cerebral hemorrhage two hours into his first interrogation in the Lubyanka, much to everyone’s disappointment. “It could have been forged in any case. Do we have a secret submarine base in Cuba? And what of the death of the zampolit?”
“The doctor is sure it was an accident,” another major answered. “The captain thought he had struck his head, but he had actually broken his neck. I feel they should have radioed for instructions, though.”
“A radio silence order,” the colonel said. “I checked. This is entirely normal for missile submarines. Was this Captain Ramius skilled in unarmed combat? Might he have murdered the zampolit?”
“A possibility,” mused the major who had questioned Petrov. “He was not trained in such things, but it is not hard to do.”
The colonel did not know whether to agree. “Do we have any evidence that the crew thought a defection was being attempted?” All heads shook negatively. “Was the submarine’s operational routine otherwise normal?”
“Yes, Comrade Colonel,” a young captain said. “The surviving navigation officer, Ivanov, says that the evasion of imperialist surface and sub forces was effected perfectly—exactly in accordance with established procedures, but executed brilliantly by this Ramius fellow over a period of twelve hours. I have not even suggested that treason might be involved. Yet.” Everyone knew that these sailors would be spending time in the Lubyanka until each head had been picked clean.
“Very well,” the colonel said, “up to this point we have no indication of treason by the officers of the subm
arine? I thought not. Comrades, you will continue your interrogations in a gentler fashion until we arrive in Moscow. Allow your charges to relax.”
The atmosphere on the aircraft gradually became more pleasant. Snacks were served, and vodka to loosen the tongues and encourage comradely good fellowship with the KGB officers, who were drinking water. The men all knew that they would be imprisoned for some time, and this fate was accepted with what to a Westerner would be surprising fatalism. The KGB would be working for weeks to reconstruct every event on the submarine from the time the last line was cast off at Polyarnyy to the moment the last man entered the Mystic. Other teams of agents were already working worldwide to learn if what happened to the Red October was a CIA plot or the plot of some other intelligence service. The KGB would find its answer, but the colonel in charge of the case was beginning to think the answer did not lie with these seamen.
The Red October
Noyes allowed Ramius to walk the fifteen feet from sick bay to the wardroom under supervision. The patient did not look very good, but this was largely because he needed a wash and a shave, like everyone else aboard. Borodin and Mancuso assisted him into his seat at the head of the table.
“So, Ryan, how are you today?”
“Good, thank you, Captain Ramius.” Ryan smiled over his coffee. In fact he was hugely relieved, having for the past several hours been able to leave the question of running the sub to the men who actually knew something about it. Though he was counting the hours until he could get out of the Red October, for the first time in two weeks he was neither seasick nor terrified. “How is your leg, sir?”
“Painful. I must learn not to be shot again. I do not remember saying to you that I owe you my life, as all of us do.”
“It was my life, too,” Ryan replied, a little embarrassed.
“Good morning, sir!” It was the cook. “May I fix you some breakfast, Captain Ramius?”
“Yes, I am very hungry.”
“Good! One U.S. Navy breakfast. Let me get some fresh coffee, too.” He disappeared into the passageway. Thirty seconds later he was back with fresh coffee and a place setting for Ramius. “Ten minutes on the breakfast, sir.”
Ramius poured a cup of coffee. There was a small envelope in the saucer. “What is this?”
“Coffee Mate,” Mancuso chuckled. “Cream for your coffee, Captain.”
Ramius tore open the packet, staring suspiciously inside before dumping the contents into the cup and stirring.
“When do we leave?”
“Sometime tomorrow,” Mancuso answered. The Dallas was going to periscope depth periodically to receive operational orders and relaying them to the October by gertrude. “We learned a few hours ago that the Soviet fleet is heading back northeast. We’ll know for sure by sundown. Our guys are keeping a close eye on them.”
“Where do we go?” Ramius asked.
“Where did you tell them you were going?” Ryan wanted to know. “What exactly did your letter say?”
“You know about the letter—how?”
“We know—that is, I know about the letter, but that’s all I can say, sir.”
“I told Uncle Yuri that we were sailing to New York to make a present of this ship to the president of the United States.”
“But you didn’t head for New York,” Mancuso objected.
“Certainly not. I wished to enter Norfolk. Why go to a civilian port when a naval base is so close? You say I should tell Padorin the truth?” Ramius shook his head. “Why? Your coast is so large.”
Dear Admiral Padorin, I’m sailing for New York… No wonder they went ape! Ryan thought.
“We go to Norfolk or Charleston?” Ramius asked.
“Norfolk, I think,” Mancuso said.
“Didn’t you know they’d send the whole fleet after you?” Ryan snapped. “Why send the letter at all?”
“So they will know,” Ramius answered. “So they will know. I did not expect that anyone would locate us. There you surprised us.”
The American skipper tried to smile. “We detected you off the coast of Iceland. You were luckier than you imagine. If we’d sailed from England on schedule, we’d have been fifteen miles closer in shore, and we would have had you cold. Sorry, Captain, but our sonars and sonar operators are very good. You can meet the man who first tracked you later. He’s working with your man Bugayev at the moment.”
“Starshina,” Borodin said.
“Not an officer?” Ramius asked.
“No, just a very good operator,” Mancuso said, surprised. Why would anyone want an officer to stand watch on sonar gear?
The cook came back in. His idea of the standard U.S. Navy breakfast was a large platter with a slab of ham, two eggs over easy, a pile of hash browns, and four slices of toast, with a container of apple jelly.
“Let me know if you want more, sir,” the cook said.
“This is a normal breakfast?” Ramius asked Mancuso.
“Nothing unusual about it. I prefer waffles myself. Americans eat big breakfasts.” Ramius was already attacking his. After two days without a normal meal and all the blood loss from his leg wound, his body was screaming for food.
“Tell me, Ryan,” Borodin was lighting a cigarette, “what is it in America that we will find most amazing?”
Jack motioned to the captain’s plate. “Food stores.”
“Food stores?” Mancuso asked.
“While I was sitting on Invincible I read over a CIA report on people who come over to our side.” Ryan didn’t want to say defectors. Somehow the word sounded demeaning. “Supposedly the first thing that surprises people, people from your part of the world, is going through a supermarket.”
“Tell me about them,” Borodin ordered.
“A building about the size of a football field—well, maybe a little smaller than that. You go in the front door and get a shopping cart. The fresh fruits and vegetables are on the right, and you gradually work your way left through the other departments. I’ve been doing that since I was a kid.”
“You say fresh fruits and vegetables? What about now, in winter?”
“What about winter?” Mancuso said. “Maybe they cost a little more, but you can always get fresh produce. That’s the one thing we miss on the boats. Our supply of fresh produce and milk only lasts us about a week.”
“And meat?” Ramius asked.
“Anything you want,” Ryan answered. “Beef, pork, lamb, turkey, chicken. American farmers are very efficient. The United States feeds itself and has plenty left over. You know that, the Soviet Union buys our grain. Hell, we pay farmers not to grow things, just to keep the surplus under control.” The four Russians were doubtful.
“What else?” Borodin asked.
“What else will surprise you? Nearly everyone has a car. Most people own their own homes. If you have money, you can buy nearly anything you want. The average family in America makes something like twenty thousand dollars a year, I guess. These officers all make more than that. The fact of the matter is that in our country if you have some brains—and all of you men do—and you are willing to work—and all of you men are—you will live a comfortable life even without any help. Besides, you can be sure that the CIA will take good care of you. We wouldn’t want anybody to complain about our hospitality.”
“And what will become of my men?” Ramius asked.
“I can’t say exactly, sir, since I’ve never been involved in this sort of thing myself. I would guess that you will be taken to a safe place to relax and unwind. People from the CIA and the navy will want to talk to you at length. That’s no surprise, right? I told you this before. A year from now you will be doing whatever you choose to do.”
“And anybody who wants to take a cruise with us is welcome to,” Mancuso added.
Ryan wondered how true this was. The navy would not want to let any of these men on a 688-class boat. It might give one of them information valuable enough to enable him to return home and keep his head.
“How does
a friendly man become a CIA spy?” Borodin asked.
“I am not a spy, sir,” Ryan said again. He couldn’t blame them for not believing him. “Going through graduate school I got to know a guy who mentioned my name to a friend of his in the CIA, Admiral James Greer. Back a few years ago I was asked to join a team of academics that was called in to check up on some of the CIA’s intelligence estimates. At the time I was happily engaged writing books on naval history. At Langley—I was there for two months during the summer—I did a paper on international terrorism. Greer liked it, and two years ago he asked me to go to work there full time. I accepted. It was a mistake,” Ryan said, not really meaning it. Or did he? “A year ago I was transferred to London to work on a joint intelligence evaluation team with the British Secret Service. My normal job is to sit at a desk and figure out the stuff that field agents send in. I got myself roped into this because I figured out what you were up to, Captain Ramius.”
“Was your father a spy?” Borodin asked.
“No, my dad was a police officer in Baltimore. He and my mother were killed in a plane crash ten years ago.”
Borodin expressed his sympathy. “And you, Captain Mancuso, what made you a sailor?”
“I wanted to be a sailor since I was a kid. My dad’s a barber. I decided on submarines at Annapolis because I thought it looked interesting.”
Ryan was watching something he had never seen before, men from two different places and two very different cultures trying to find common ground. Both sides were reaching out, seeking similarities of character and experience, building a foundation for understanding. This was more than interesting. It was touching. Ryan wondered how difficult it was for the Soviets. Probably harder than anything he had ever done—their bridges were burned. They had cast themselves away from everything they had known, trusting that what they found would be better. Ryan hoped they would succeed and make their transition from Communism to freedom. In the past two days he had come to realize what courage it took for men to defect. Facing a gun in a missile room was a small matter compared with walking away from one’s whole life. It was strange how easily Americans put on their freedoms. How difficult would it be for these men who had risked their lives to adapt to something that men like Ryan so rarely appreciated? It was people like these who had built the American Dream, and people like these who were needed to maintain it. It was odd that such men should come from the Soviet Union. Or perhaps not so odd, Ryan thought, listening to the conversation going back and forth in front of him.
