Jack Ryan 4 - The Hunt for Red October (51 page)

“Sunlight, perhaps?” the colonel asked.

“No, Comrade, the clear sky gives even sunlight to the entire area,” the technician said quietly. He was always quiet when he thought he was on to something. “Two submarines, perhaps three, thirty meters under the water.”

“You are certain?”

The technician flipped on a switch to display the radar picture, which showed only the corduroy pattern of small waves.

“There is nothing on the water to generate this heat, Comrade Colonel. Therefore it must be something under the water. The time of year is wrong for mating whales. It can only be nuclear submarines, probably two, perhaps three. I speculate, Colonel, that the Americans have been sufficiently frightened by the deployment of our fleet to seek shelter for their missile submarines. Their missile sub base is only a few hundred kilometers south. Perhaps one of their Ohio-class boats have taken shelter here and is being protected by a hunter sub, as ours are.”

“Then he will soon move out. Our fleet is being recalled.”

'Too bad, it would be good to track him. This is a rare opportunity, Comrade Colonel."

“Indeed. Well done, Comrade Academician.” Ten minutes later the data had been transmitted to
Moscow
.

Soviet Naval High Command,
Moscow

“We will make use of this opportunity, Comrade,” Gorshkov said. “We are now recalling our fleet, and we will allow several submarines to remain behind to gather electronic intelligence. The Americans will probably lose several in the shuffle.” “Quite likely,” the chief of fleet operations said.

“The
Ohio
will go south, probably to their submarine base at
Charleston
or
Kings
Bay
. Or north to
Norfolk
. We have Konovalov at
Norfolk
, and Shabilikov off
Charleston
. Both will stay in place for several days, I think. We must do something right to show the politicians that we have a real navy. Being able to track on an
Ohio
would be a beginning.”

“I'll have the orders out in fifteen minutes, Comrade.” The chief of operations thought this was a good idea. He had not liked the report of the Politburo meeting that he'd gotten from Gorshkov—though if Sergey were on his way out, he would be in a good place to take over the job . . .

The
New Jersey

The R
ED
R
OCKET
message had arrived in Baton's hand only moments before:
Moscow
had just transmitted a lengthy operational letter via satellite to the Soviet fleet. Now the Russians were in a real fix, the commodore thought. Around them were three carrier battle groups—the Kennedy,
America
, and Nimitz—all under Josh Painter's command. Eaton had them in sight, and had operational control of the
Tarawa
to augment his own surface action group. The commodore turned his binoculars on the
Kirov
.

“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 Baton'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 submarine? 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
.”