the Hunt for Red October (1984)

by Clancy, Tom - Jack Ryan 03

  The mission profile was a tight one. The helicopter was flying on a specific track to HMS Invincible, from which they would fly to the USS Pigeon aboard a Royal Navy Sea King. The Stallion’s disappearance from Oceana Naval Air Station for only a few hours would be viewed merely as a matter of routine.

  The helicopter’s turboshaft engines, running at maximum cruising power, were gulping down fuel. The aircraft was now four hundred miles off the U.S. coast and had another eighty miles to go. Their flight to the Invincible was not direct; it was a dogleg course intended to fool whoever might have noticed their departure on radar. The pilots were tired. Four hours is a long time to sit in a cramped cockpit, and military aircraft are not known for their creature comforts. The flight instruments glowed a dull red. Both men were especially careful to watch their artificial horizon; a solid overcast denied them a fixed reference point aloft, and flying over water at night was mesmerizing. It was by no means an unusual mission, however. The pilots had done this many times, and their concern was not unlike that of an experienced driver on a slick road. The dangers were real, but routine.

  “Juliet 6, your target is bearing zero-eight-zero, range seventy-five miles,” the Sentry called in.

  “Thinks we’re lost?” Commander John Marcks wondered over the intercom.

  “Air force,” his copilot replied. “They don’t know much about flying over water. They think you get lost without roads to follow.”

  “Uh-huh,” Marcks chuckled. “Who do you like in the Eagles game tonight?”

  “Oilers by three and a half.”

  “Six and a half. Philly’s fullback is still hurt.”

  “Five.”

  “Okay, five bucks. I’ll go easy on you.” Marcks grinned. He loved to gamble. The day after Argentina had attacked the Falklands, he’d asked if anyone in the squadron wanted to take Argentina and seven points.

  A few feet above their heads and a few feet aft, the engines were racing at thousands of RPM, turning gears to drive the seven-bladed main rotor. They had no way of knowing that a fracture was developing in the transmission casing, near the fluid test port.

  “Juliet 6, your target has just launched a fighter to escort you in. Will rendezvous in eight minutes. Approaching you at eleven o’clock, angels three.”

  “Nice of them,” Marcks said.

  Harrier 2–0

  Lieutenant Parker was flying the Harrier that would escort the Super Stallion. A sublieutenant sat in the back seat of the Royal Navy aircraft. Its purpose was not actually to escort the chopper to the Invincible; it was to make a last check for any Soviet submarines that might notice the Super Stallion in flight and wonder what it was doing.

  “Any activity on the water?” Parker asked.

  “Not a glimmer.” The sublieutenant was working the FLIR package, which was sweeping left and right over their course track. Neither man knew what was going on, though both had speculated at length, incorrectly, on what it was that was chasing their carrier all over the bloody ocean.

  “Try looking for the helicopter,” Parker said.

  “One moment…There. Just south of our track.” The sublieutenant pressed a button and the display came up on the pilot’s screen. The thermal image was mainly of the engines clustered atop the aircraft inside the fainter, dull-green glow of the hot rotor tips.

  “Harrier 2-0, this is Sentry Echo. Your target is at your one o’clock, distance twenty miles, over.”

  “Roger, we have him on our IR box. Thank you, out,” Parker said. “Bloody useful things, those Sentries.”

  “The Sikorski’s running for all she’s worth. Look at that engine signature.”

  The Super Stallion

  At this moment the transmission casing fractured. Instantly the gallons of lubricating oil became a greasy cloud behind the rotor hub, and the delicate gears began to tear at one another. An alarm light flashed on the control panels. Marcks and the copilot instantly reached down to cut power to all three engines. There was not enough time. The transmission tried to freeze, but the power of the three engines tore it apart. What happened was the next thing to an explosion. Jagged pieces burst through the safety housing and ripped the forward part of the aircraft. The rotor’s momentum twisted the Stallion savagely around, and it dropped rapidly. Two of the men in the back, who had loosened their seatbelts, jerked out of their seats and rolled forward.

  “MAYDAY MAYDAY MAYDAY, this is Juliet 6,” the copilot called. Commander Marcks’ body slumped over the controls, a dark stain at the back of his neck. “We’re goin’ in, we’re goin’ in. MAYDAY MAYDAY MAYDAY.”

  The copilot was trying to do something. The main rotor was windmilling slowly—too slowly. The automatic decoupler that was supposed to allow it to autorotate and give him a vestige of control had failed. His controls were nearly useless, and he was riding the point of a blunt lance towards a black ocean. It was twenty seconds before they hit. He fought with his airfoil controls and tail rotor in order to jerk the aircraft around. He succeeded, but it was too late.

  Harrier 2-0

  It was not the first time Parker had seen men die. He had taken a life himself after sending a Sidewinder missile up the tailpipe of an Argentine Dagger fighter. That had not been pleasant. This was worse. As he watched, the Super Stallion’s humpbacked engine cluster blew apart in a shower of sparks. There was no fire as such, for what good it did them. He watched and tried to will the nose to come up—and it did, but not enough. The Stallion hit the water hard. The fuselage snapped apart in the middle. The front end sank in an instant, but the after part wallowed for a few seconds like a bathtub before beginning to fill with water. According to the picture supplied by the FLIR package, no one got clear before it sank.

  “Sentry, Sentry, did you see that, over?”

  “Roger that, Harrier. We’re calling a SAR mission right now. Can you orbit?”

  “Roger, we can loiter here.” Parker checked his fuel. “Nine-zero minutes. I—stand by.” Parker nosed his fighter down and flicked on his landing lights. This lit up the low-light TV system. “Did you see that, Ian?” he asked his backseater.

  “I think it moved.”

  “Sentry, Sentry, we have a possible survivor in the water. Tell Invincible to get a Sea King down here straightaway. I’m going down to investigate. Will advise.”

  “Roger that, Harrier 2-0. Your captain reports a helo spooling up right now. Out.”

  The Royal Navy Sea King was there in twenty-five minutes. A rubber-suited paramedic jumped in the water to get a collar on the one survivor. There were no others, and no wreckage, only a slick of jet fuel evaporating slowly into the cold air. A second helicopter continued the search as the first raced back to the carrier.

  The Invincible

  Ryan watched from the bridge as the medics carried the stretcher into the island. Another crewman appeared a moment later with a briefcase.

  “He had this, sir. He’s a lieutenant commander, name of Dwyer, one leg and several ribs broken. He’s in a bad way, Admiral.”

  “Thank you.” White took the case. “Any possibility of other survivors?”

  The sailor shook his head. “Not a good one, sir. The Sikorski must have sunk like a stone.” He looked at Ryan. “Sorry, sir.”

  Ryan nodded. “Thanks.”

  “Norfolk on the radio, Admiral,” a communications officer said.

  “Let’s go, Jack.” Admiral White handed him the briefcase and led him to the communications room.

  “The chopper went in. We have one survivor being worked on right now,” Ryan said over the radio. It was silent for a moment.

  “Who is it?”

  “Name’s Dwyer. They took him right to sick bay, Admiral. He’s out of action. Tell Washington. Whatever this operation is supposed to be, we have to rethink it.”

  “Roger. Out,” Admiral Blackburn said.

  “Whatever we decide to do,” Admiral White observed, “it will have to be fast. We must get our helo off to the Pigeon in two hours to
have her back before dawn.”

  Ryan knew exactly what that would mean. There were only four men at sea who both knew what was going on and were close enough to do anything. He was the only American among them. The Kennedy was too far away. The Nimitz was close enough, but using her would mean getting the data to her by radio, and Washington was not enthusiastic about that. The only other alternative was to assemble and dispatch another intelligence team. There just wasn’t enough time.

  “Let’s get this case open, Admiral. I need to see what this plan is.” They picked up a machinist’s mate on the way to White’s cabin. He proved to be an excellent locksmith.

  “Dear God!” Ryan breathed, reading the contents of the case. “You better see this.”

  “Well,” White said a few minutes later, “that is clever.”

  “It’s cute, all right,” Ryan said. “I wonder what genius thought it up. I know I’m going to be stuck with this. I’ll ask Washington for permission to take a few officers along with me.”

  Ten minutes later they were back in communications. White had the compartment cleared. Then Jack spoke over the encrypted voice channel. Both hoped the scrambling device worked.

  “I hear you fine, Mr. President. You know what happened to the helicopter.”

  “Yes, Jack, most unfortunate. I need you to pinch-hit for us.”

  “Yes, sir, I anticipated that.”

  “I can’t order you, but you know what the stakes are. Will you do it?”

  Ryan closed his eyes. “Affirmative.”

  “I appreciate it, Jack.”

  Sure you do. “Sir, I need your authorization to take some help with me, a few British officers.”

  “One,” the president said.

  “Sir, I need more than that.”

  “One.”

  “Understood, sir. We’ll be moving in an hour.”

  “You know what’s supposed to happen?”

  “Yes, sir. The survivor had the ops orders with him. I’ve already read them over.”

  “Good luck, Jack.”

  “Thank you, sir. Out.” Ryan flipped off the satellite channel and turned to Admiral White. “Volunteer once, just one time, and see what happens.”

  “Frightened?” White did not appear amused.

  “Damned right I am. Can I borrow an officer? A guy who speaks Russian if possible. You know what this may involve.”

  “We’ll see. Come on.”

  Five minutes later they were back in White’s cabin awaiting the arrival of four officers. All turned out to be lieutenants, all under thirty.

  “Gentlemen,” the admiral began, “this is Commander Ryan. He needs an officer to accompany him on a voluntary basis for a mission of some importance. Its nature is secret and most unusual, and there may be some danger involved. You four have been asked here because of your knowledge of Russian. That is all I can say.”

  “Going to talk to a Sov submarine?” the oldest of them chirped up. “I’m your man. I have a degree in the language, and my first posting was aboard HMS Dreadnought.”

  Ryan weighed the ethics of accepting the man before telling him what was involved. He nodded, and White dismissed the others.

  “I’m Jack Ryan.” He extended his hand.

  “Owen Williams. So, what are we up to?”

  “The submarine is named Red October—”

  “Krazny Oktyabr.” Williams smiled.

  “And she’s attempting to defect to the United States.”

  “Indeed? So that’s what we’ve been mucking about for. Jolly decent of her CO. Just how certain are we of this?”

  Ryan took several minutes to detail the intelligence information. “We blinkered instructions to him, and he seems to have played along. But we won’t know for sure until we get aboard. Defectors have been known to change their minds, it happens a lot more often than you might imagine. Still want to come along?”

  “Miss a chance like this? Exactly how do we get aboard, Commander?”

  “The name’s Jack. I’m CIA, not navy.” He went on to explain the plan.

  “Excellent. Do I have time to pack some things?”

  “Be back here in ten minutes,” White said.

  “Aye aye, sir.” Williams drew to attention and left.

  White was on the phone. “Send Lieutenant Sinclair to see me.” The admiral explained that he was the commander of the Invincible’s marine detachment. “Perhaps you might need another friend along.”

  The other friend was an FN nine-millimeter automatic pistol with a spare clip and a shoulder holster that disappeared nicely under his jacket. The mission orders were shredded and burned before they left.

  Admiral White accompanied Ryan and Williams to the flight deck. They stood at the hatch, looking at the Sea King as its engines screeched into life.

  “Good luck, Owen.” White shook hands with the youngster, who saluted and moved off.

  “My regards to your wife, Admiral.” Ryan took his hand.

  “Five and a half days to England. You’ll probably see her before I do. Be careful, Jack.”

  Ryan smiled crookedly. “It’s my intelligence estimate, isn’t it? If I’m right, it’ll just be a pleasure cruise—assuming the helicopter doesn’t crash on me.”

  “The uniform looks good on you, Jack.”

  Ryan hadn’t expected that. He drew himself to attention and saluted as he’d been taught at Quantico. “Thank you, Admiral. Be seeing you.”

  White watched him enter the chopper. The crew chief slid the door shut, and a moment later the Sea King’s engines increased power. The helicopter lifted unevenly for a few feet before its nose dipped to port and began a climbing turn to the south. Without flying lights the dark shape was lost to sight in less than a minute.

  33N 75W

  The Scamp rendezvoused with the Ethan Allen a few minutes after midnight. The attack sub took up station a thousand yards astern of the old missile boat, and both cruised in an easy circle as their sonar operators listened to the approach of a diesel-powered vessel, the USS Pigeon. Three of the pieces were now in place. Three more were to come.

  The Red October

  “There is no choice,” Melekhin said. “I must continue to work on the diesel.”

  “Let us help you,” Svyadov said.

  “And what do you know of diesel fuel pumps?” Melekhin asked in a tired but kind voice. “No, Comrade. Surzpoi, Bugayev, and I can handle it alone. There is no reason to expose you also. I will report back in an hour.”

  “Thank you, Comrade.” Ramius clicked the speaker off. “This cruise has been a troublesome one. Sabotage. Never in my career has something like this happened! If we cannot fix the diesel…We have only a few hours more of battery power, and the reactor requires a total overhaul and safety inspection. I swear to you, Comrades, if we find the bastard who did this to us…”

  “Shouldn’t we call for help?” Ivanov asked.

  “This close to the American coast, and perhaps an imperialist submarine still on our tail? What sort of ‘help’ might we get, eh? Comrades, perhaps our problem is no accident, have you considered that? Perhaps we have become pawns in a murderous game.” He shook his head. “No, we cannot risk this. The Americans must not get their hands on this submarine!”

  CIA Headquarters

  “Thank you for coming on such short notice, Senator. I apologize for getting you up so early.” Judge Moore met Donaldson at the door and led him into his capacious office. “You know Director Jacobs, don’t you?”

  “Of course, and what brings the heads of the FBI and CIA together at dawn?” Donaldson asked with a smile. This had to be good. Heading the Select Committee was more than a job, it was fun, real fun to be one of the few people who were really in the know.

  The third person in the room, Ritter, helped a fourth person out of a high-backed chair that had blocked him from view. It was Peter Henderson, Donaldson saw to his surprise. His aide’s suit was rumpled as though he’d been up all night. Suddenly it wasn’t fun an
ymore.

  Judge Moore waxed solicitous. “You know Mr. Henderson, of course.”

  “What is the meaning of this?” Donaldson asked, his voice more subdued than anyone expected.

  “You lied to me, Senator,” Ritter said. “You promised that you would not reveal what I told you yesterday, knowing all the time you’d tell this man—”

  “I did no such thing.”

  “—who then told a fellow KGB agent,” Ritter went on. “Emil?”

  Jacobs set his coffee down. “We’ve been onto Mr. Henderson for some time. It was his contact that had us stumped. Some things are just too obvious. A lot of people in D.C. have regular cab pickup. Henderson’s contact was a cab driver. We finally got it right.”

  “The way we found out about Henderson was through you, Senator.” Moore explained: “We had a very good agent in Moscow a few years ago, a colonel in their Strategic Rocket Forces. He’d been giving us good information for five years, and we were about to get him and his family out. We try to do that, you know; you can’t run agents forever, and we really owed this man. But I made the mistake of revealing his name to your committee. One week later, he was gone—vanished. He was eventually shot, of course. His wife and three daughters were sent to Siberia. Our information is that they live in a lumber settlement east of the Urals. Typical sort of place, no plumbing, lousy food, no medical facilities available, and since they’re the family of a convicted traitor, you can probably imagine what sort of hell they must endure. A good man dead, and a family destroyed. Try thinking about that, Senator. This is a true story, and these are real people.