by Tom Clancy
The Dallas
“What?” Jones said. “Conn, sonar, the target just flooded a tube—a missile tube? God almighty!” On his own, Jones powered up the under-ice sonar and began high-frequency pinging.
“What the hell are you doing?” Thompson demanded. Mancuso was there a second later.
“What’s going on?” the captain snapped. Jones pointed at his display.
“The sub just launched a missile, sir. Look, Cap’n, two targets. But it’s just hangin’ there, no missile ignition. God!”
The Red October
Will it float? Ryan wondered.
It didn’t. The Seahawk missile was pushed upward and to starboard by the gas charge. It stopped fifty feet over her deck as the October cruised past. The guidance hatch that Ryan had closed was not fully sealed. Water filled the compartment and flooded the warhead bus. The missile in any case had a sizable negative bouyancy, and the added mass in the nose tipped it over. The nose-heavy trim gave it an eccentric path, and it spiraled down like a seedpod from a tree. At ten thousand feet water pressure crushed the seal over the missile blast cones, but the Seahawk, otherwise undamaged, retained its shape all the way to the bottom.
The Ethan Allen
The only thing still operating was the timer. It had been set for thirty minutes, which had allowed the crew plenty of time to board the Scamp, now leaving the area at ten knots. The old reactor had been completely shut down. It was stone cold. Only a few emergency lights remained on from residual battery power. The timer had three redundant firing circuits, and all went off within a millisecond of one another, sending a signal down the detonator wires.
They had put four Pave Pat Blue bombs on the Ethan Allen. The Pave Pat Blue was a FAE (fuel-air explosive) bomb. Its blast efficiency was roughly five times that of an ordinary chemical explosive. Each bomb had a pair of gas-release valves, and only one of the eight valves failed. When they burst open, the pressurized propane in the bomb casings expanded violently outward. In an instant the atmospheric pressure in the old submarine tripled as her every part was saturated with an explosive air-gas mixture. The four bombs filled the Ethan Allen with the equivalent of twenty-five tons of TNT evenly distributed throughout the hull.
The squibs fired almost simultaneously, and the results were catastrophic: the Ethan Allen’s strong steel hull burst as if it were a balloon. The only item not totally destroyed was the reactor vessel, which fell free of the shredded wreckage and dropped rapidly to the ocean floor. The hull itself was blasted into a dozen pieces, all bent into surreal shapes by the explosion. Interior equipment formed a metallic cloud within the shattered hull, and everything fluttered downward, expanding over a wide area during the three-mile descent to the hard sand bottom.
The Dallas
“Holy shit!” Jones slapped the headphones off and yawned to clear his ears. Automatic relays within the sonar system protected his ears from the full force of the explosion, but what had been transmitted was enough to make him feel as though his head had been hammered flat. The explosion was heard through the hull by everyone aboard.
“Attention all hands, this is the captain speaking. What you just heard is nothing to worry about. That’s all I can say.”
“Gawd, Skipper!” Mannion said.
“Yeah, let’s get back on the contact.”
“Aye, Cap’n.” Mannion gave his commander a curious look.
The White House
“Did you get the word to him in time?” the president asked.
“No, sir.” Moore slumped into his chair. “The helicopter arrived a few minutes too late. It may be nothing to worry about. You’d expect that the captain would know enough to get everyone off except for his own people. We’re concerned, of course, but there isn’t anything we can do.”
“I asked him personally to do this, Judge. Me.”
Welcome to the real world, Mr. President, Moore thought. The chief executive had been lucky—he’d never had to send men to their deaths. Moore reflected that it was something easy to consider beforehand, less easy to get used to. He had affirmed death sentences from his seat on an appellate bench, and that had not been easy—even for men who had richly deserved their fates.
“Well, we’ll just have to wait and see, Mr. President. The source this data comes from is more important than any one operation.”
“Very well. What about Senator Donaldson?”
“He agreed to our suggestion. This aspect of the operation has worked out very well indeed.”
“Do you really expect the Russians to buy it?” Pelt asked.
“We’ve left some nice bait, and we’ll jerk the line a little to get their attention. In a day or two we’ll see if they nibble at it. Henderson is one of their all-stars—his code name is Cassius—and their reaction to this will tell us just what sort of disinformation we can pass through him. He could turn out to be very useful, but we’ll have to watch out for him. Our KGB colleagues have a very direct method for dealing with doubles.”
“We don’t let him off the hook unless he earns it,” the president said coldly.
Moore smiled. “Oh, he’ll earn it. We own Mr. Henderson.”
THE FIFTEENTH DAY
FRIDAY, 17 DECEMBER
Ocracoke Inlet
There was no moon. The three-ship procession entered the inlet at five knots, just after midnight to take advantage of the extra-high spring tide. The Pogy led the formation since she had the shallowest draft, and the Dallas trailed the Red October. The coast guard stations on either side of the inlet were occupied by naval officers who had relieved the “coasties.”
Ryan had been allowed atop the sail, a humanitarian gesture from Ramius that he much appreciated. After eighteen hours inside the Red October Jack had felt confined, and it was good to see the world—even if it was nothing but dark empty space. The Pogy showed only a dim red light that disappeared if it was looked at for more than a few seconds. He could see the water’s feathery wisps of foam and the stars playing hide-and-seek through the clouds. The west wind was a harsh twenty knots coming off the water.
Borodin was giving terse, monosyllabic orders as he conned the submarine up a channel that had to be dredged every few months despite the enormous jetty which had been built to the north. The ride was an easy one, the two or three feet of chop not mattering a whit to the missile sub’s 30,000-ton bulk. Ryan was thankful for this. The black water calmed, and when they entered sheltered waters a Zodiac-type rubber boat zoomed towards them.
“Ahoy Red October!” a voice called in the darkness. Ryan could barely make out the gray lozenge shape of the Zodiac. It was ahead of a tiny patch of foam formed by the sputtering outboard motor.
“May I answer, Captain Borodin?” Ryan asked, getting a nod. “This is Ryan. We have two casualties aboard. One’s in bad shape. We need a doctor and a surgical team right away! Do you understand?”
“Two casualties, and you need a doc, right.” Ryan thought he saw a man holding something to his face, and thought he heard the faint crackle of a radio. It was hard to tell in the wind. “Okay. We’ll have a doc flown down right away, October. Dallas and Pogy both have medical corpsmen aboard. You want ’em?”
“Damn straight!” Ryan replied at once.
“Okay. Follow Pogy two more miles and stand by.” The Zodiac sped forward, reversed course, and disappeared in the darkness.
“Thank God for that,” Ryan breathed.
“You are be—believer?” Borodin asked.
“Yeah, sure.” Ryan should not have been surprised by the question. “Hell, you gotta believe in something.”
“And why is that, Commander Ryan?” Borodin was examining the Pogy through oversized night glasses.
Ryan wondered how to answer. “Well, because if you don’t, what’s the point of life? That would mean Sartre and Camus and all those characters were right—all is chaos, life has no meaning. I refuse to believe that. If you want a better answer, I know a couple priests who’d be glad to talk to you.�
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Borodin did not respond. He spoke an order into the bridge microphone, and they altered course a few degrees to starboard.
The Dallas
A half mile aft, Mancuso was holding a light-amplifying night scope to his eyes. Mannion was at his shoulder, struggling to see.
“Jesus Christ,” Mancuso whispered.
“You got that one right, Skipper,” Mannion said, shivering in his jacket. “I’m not sure I believe it either. Here comes the Zodiac.” Mannion handed his commander the portable radio used for docking.
“Do you read?”
“This is Mancuso.”
“When our friend stops, I want you to transfer ten men to her, including your corpsman. They report two casualties who need medical attention. Pick good men, Commander, they’ll need help running the boat—just make damned sure they’re men who don’t talk.”
“Acknowledged. Ten men including the medic. Out.” Mancuso watched the raft speed off to the Pogy. “Want to come along, Pat?”
“Bet your ass, uh, sir. You planning to go?” Mannion asked.
Mancuso was judicious. “I think Chambers is up to handling Dallas for a day or so, don’t you?”
On shore, a naval officer was on the phone to Norfolk. The coast guard station was crowded, almost entirely with officers. A fiberglass box sat next to the phone so that they could communicate with CINCLANT in secrecy. They had been here only two hours and would soon leave. Nothing could appear out of the ordinary. Outside, an admiral and a pair of captains watched the dark shapes through starlight scopes. They were as solemn as men in a church.
Cherry Point, North Carolina
Commander Ed Noyes was resting in the doctor’s lounge of the naval hospital at the U.S. Marine Corps Air Station, Cherry Point, North Carolina. A qualified flight surgeon, he had the duty for the next three nights so that he’d have four days off over Christmas. It had been a quiet night. This was about to change.
“Doc?”
Noyes looked up to see a marine captain in MP livery. The doctor knew him. Military police delivered a lot of accident cases. He set down his New England Journal of Medicine.
“Hi, Jerry. Something coming in?”
“Doc, I got orders to tell you to pack everything you need for emergency surgery. You got two minutes, then I take you to the airfield.”
“What for? What kind of surgery?” Noyes stood.
“They didn’t say, sir, just that you fly out somewheres, alone. The orders come from topside, that’s all I know.”
“Damn it, Jerry, I have to know what sort of surgery it is so I know what to take!”
“So take everything, sir. I gotta get you to the chopper.”
Noyes swore and went into the trauma receiving room. Two more marines were waiting there. He handed them four sterile sets, prepackaged instrument trays. He wondered if he’d need some drugs and decided to grab an armful, along with two units of plasma. The captain helped him on with his coat, and they moved out the door to a waiting jeep. Five minutes later they pulled up to a Sea Stallion whose engines were already screaming.
“What gives?” Noyes asked the colonel of intelligence inside, wondering where the crew chief was.
“We’re heading out over the sound,” the colonel explained. “We have to let you down on a sub that has some casualties aboard. There’s a pair of corpsmen to assist you, and that’s all I know, okay?” It had to be okay. There was no choice in the matter.
The Stallion lifted off at once. Noyes had flown in them often enough. He had two hundred hours piloting helicopters, another three hundred in fixed-wing aircraft. Noyes was the kind of doctor who’d discovered too late that flying was as attractive a calling as medicine. He went up at every opportunity, often giving pilots special medical care for their dependents to get backseat time in an F-4 Phantom. The Sea Stallion, he noted, was not cruising. It was running flat out.
Pamlico Sound
The Pogy came to a halt about the time the helicopter left Cherry Point. The October altered course to starboard again and halted even with her to the north. The Dallas followed suit. A minute after that the Zodiac reappeared at the Dallas’ side, then approached the Red October slowly, almost wallowing with her cargo of men.
“Ahoy Red October!”
This time Borodin answered. He had an accent but his English was understandable. “Identify.”
“This is Bart Mancuso, commanding officer of USS Dallas. I have our ship’s medical representative aboard and some other men. Request permission to come aboard, sir.”
Ryan saw the starpom grimace. For the first time Borodin really had to face up to what was happening, and he would have been less than human to accept it without some kind of struggle.
“Permission is—yes.”
The Zodiac edged right up to the curve of the hull. A man leaped aboard with a line to secure the raft. Ten men clambered off, one breaking away to climb up the submarine’s sail.
“Captain? I’m Bart Mancuso. I understand you have some hurt men aboard.”
“Yes,” Borodin nodded, “the captain and a British officer, both shot.”
“Shot?” Mancuso was surprised.
“Worry about that later,” Ryan said sharply. “Let’s get your doc working on them, okay?”
“Sure, where’s the hatch?”
Borodin spoke into the bridge mike, and a few seconds later a circle of light appeared on deck at the foot of the sail.
“We haven’t got a physician, we have an independent duty corpsman. He’s pretty good, and Pogy’s man will be here in another couple minutes. Who are you, by the way?”
“He is a spy,” Borodin said with palpable irony.
“Jack Ryan.”
“And you, sir?”
“Captain Second Rank Vasily Borodin. I am—first officer, yes? Come over into the station, Commander. Please excuse me, we are all very tired.”
“You’re not the only ones.” There wasn’t that much room. Mancuso perched himself on the coaming. “Captain, I want you to know we had a bastard of a time tracking you. You are to be complimented for your professional skill.”
The compliment did not elicit the anticipated response from Borodin. “You were able to track us. How?”
“I brought him along, you can meet him.”
“And what are we to do?”
“Orders from shore are to wait for the doc to arrive and dive. Then we sit tight until we get orders to move. Maybe a day, maybe two. I think we could all use the rest. After that, we get you to a nice safe place, and I will personally buy you the best damned Italian dinner you ever had.” Mancuso grinned. “You get Italian food in Russia?”
“No, and if you are accustomed to good food, you may find Krazny Oktyabr not to your liking.”
“Maybe I can fix that. How many men aboard?”
“Twelve. Ten Soviet, the Englishman, and the spy.” Borodin glanced at Ryan with a thin smile.
“Okay.” Mancuso reached into his coat and came out with a radio. “This is Mancuso.”
“We’re here, Skipper,” Chambers replied.
“Get some food together for our friends. Six meals for twenty-five men. Send a cook over with it. Wally, I want to show these men some good chow. Got it?”
“Aye aye, Skipper. Out.”
“I got some good cooks, Captain. Shame this wasn’t last week. We had lasagna, just like momma used to make. All that was missing was the Chianti.”
“They have vodka,” Ryan observed.
“Only for spies,” Borodin said. Two hours after the shootout Ryan had had the shakes badly, and Borodin had sent him a drink from the medical stores. “We are told that your submarine men are greatly pampered.”
“Maybe so,” Mancuso nodded. “But we stay out sixty or seventy days at a time. That’s hard enough, don’t you think?”
“How about we go below?” Ryan suggested. Everyone agreed. It was getting cold.
Borodin, Ryan and Mancuso went below to find the Americans on one si
de of the control room and the Soviets on the other, just like before. The American captain broke the ice.
“Captain Borodin, this is the man who found you. Come here, Jonesy.”
“It wasn’t very easy, sir,” Jones said. “Can I get to work? Can I see your sonar room?”
“Bugayev.” Borodin waved the ship’s electronics officer over. The captain-lieutenant led the sonarman aft.
Jones took one look at the equipment and muttered, “Kludge.” The face plates all had louvers on them to let out the heat. God, did they use vacuum tubes? Jones wondered. He pulled a screwdriver from his pocket to find out.
“You speak English, sir?”
“Yes, a little.”
“Can I see the circuit diagrams for these, please?”
Bugayev blinked. No enlisted man, and only one of his michmanyy, had ever asked for it. Then he took the binder of schematics from its shelf on the forward bulkhead.
Jones matched the code number of the set he was checking with the right section of the binder. Unfolding the diagram, he noted with relief that ohms were ohms, all over the world. He began tracing his finger along the page, then pulled the cover panel off to look inside the set.
“Kludge, megakludge to the max!” Jones was shocked enough to lapse into Valspeak.
“Excuse me, what is this ‘kludge’?”
“Oh, pardon me, sir. That’s an expression we use in the navy. I don’t know how to say it in Russian. Sorry.” Jones stifled a grin as he went back to the schematic. “Sir, this one here’s a low-powered high-frequency set, right? You use this for mines and stuff?”
It was Bugayev’s turn to be shocked. “You have been trained in Soviet equipment?”
“No, sir, but I’ve sure heard a lot of it.” Wasn’t this obvious? Jones wondered. “Sir, this is a high-frequency set, but it doesn’t draw a lot of power. What else is it good for? A low-power FM set you use for mines, for work under ice, and for docking, right?”
“Correct.”