Clancy, Tom - The Hunt For Red October

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Tom Clancy
The Hunt
For Red
October
Acknowledgements
For technical information and advice I am especially indebted to Michael Shelton, former naval
aviator; Larry Bond, whose naval wargame, “Harpoon,” was adopted for the training of NROTC
cadets; Drs. Gerry Sterner and Craig Jeschke; and Lieutenant Commander Gregory Young, USN.
For Ralph Chatham,
A sub driver who spoke the truth,
And for all the men who wear dolphins
THE FIRST DAY
FRIDAY, 3 DECEMBER
The Red October
Captain First Rank Marko Ramius of the Soviet Navy was dressed for the Arctic conditions
normal to the Northern Fleet submarine base at Polyarnyy. Five layers of wool and oilskin
enclosed him. A dirty harbor tug pushed his submarine's bow around to the north, facing down
the channel. The dock that had held his Red October for two interminable months was now a
water-filled concrete box, one of the many specially built to shelter strategic missile submarines
from the harsh elements. On its edge a collection of sailors and dockyard workers watched his
ship sail in stolid Russian fashion, without a wave or a cheer.
"Engines ahead slow, Kamarov," he ordered. The tug slid out of the way, and Ramius
glanced aft to see the water stirring from the force of the twin bronze propellers. The tug's
commander waved. Ramius returned the gesture. The tug had done a simple job, but done it
quickly and well. The Red October, a Typhoon-class sub, moved under her own power towards
the main ship channel of the Kola Fjord.
"There's Purga, Captain." Gregoriy Kamarov pointed to the icebreaker that would escort
them to sea. Ramius nodded. The two hours required to transit the channel would tax not his
seamanship but his endurance. There was a cold north wind blowing, the only sort of north wind
in this part of the world. Late autumn had been surprisingly mild, and scarcely any snow had
fallen in an area that measures it in meters; then a week before a major winter storm had savaged
the Murmansk coast, breaking pieces off the Arctic icepack. The icebreaker was no formality.
The Purga would butt aside any ice that might have drifted overnight into the channel. It would
not do at all for the Soviet Navy's newest missile submarine to be damaged by an errant chunk of
frozen water.
The water in the fjord was choppy, driven by the brisk wind. It began to lap over the
October's spherical bow, rolling back down the flat missile deck which lay before the towering
black sail. The water was coated with the bilge oil of numberless ships, filth that would not
evaporate in the low temperatures and that left a black ring on the rocky walls of the fjord as
though from the bath of a slovenly giant. An altogether apt simile, Ramius thought. The Soviet
giant cared little for the dirt it left on the face of the earth, he grumbled to himself. He had
learned his seamanship as a boy on inshore fishing boats, and knew what it was to be in harmony
with nature.
"Increase speed to one-third," he said. Kamarov repeated his captain's order over the bridge
telephone. The water stirred more as the October moved astern of the Purga. Captain
Lieutenant Kamarov was the ship's navigator, his last duty station having been harbor pilot for
the large combatant vessels based on both sides of the wide inlet. The two officers kept a
weather eye on the armed icebreaker three hundred meters ahead. The Purga's after deck had a
handful of crewmen stomping about in the cold, one wearing the white apron of a ship's cook.
They wanted to witness the Red October's first operational cruise, and besides, sailors will do
almost anything to break the monotony of their duties.
Ordinarily it would have irritated Ramius to have his ship escorted out—the channel here was
wide and deep—but not today. The ice was something to worry about. And so, for Ramius, was
a great deal else.
"So, my Captain, again we go to sea to serve and protect the Rodina!" Captain Second Rank
Ivan Yurievich Putin poked his head through the hatch—without permission, as usual—and
clambered up the ladder with the awkwardness of a landsman. The tiny control station was
already crowded enough with the captain, the navigator, and a mute lookout. Putin was the
ship's zampolit (political officer). Everything he did was to serve the Rodina (Motherland), a
word that had mystical connotations to a Russian and, along with V. I. Lenin, was the
Communist party's substitute for a godhead.
"Indeed, Ivan," Ramius replied with more good cheer than he felt. "Two weeks at sea. It is
good to leave the dock. A seaman belongs at sea, not tied alongside, overrun with bureaucrats
and workmen with dirty boots. And we will be warm."
"You find this cold?" Putin asked incredulously.
For the hundredth time Ramius told himself that Putin was the perfect political officer. His
voice was always too loud, his humor too affected. He never allowed a person to forget what he
was. The perfect political officer, Putin was an easy man to fear.
"I have been in submarines too long, my friend. I grow accustomed to moderate temperatures
and a stable deck under my feet." Putin did not notice the veiled insult. He'd been assigned to
submarines after his first tour on destroyers had been cut short by chronic seasickness—and
perhaps because he did not resent the close confinement aboard submarines, something that
many men cannot tolerate.
"Ah, Marko Aleksandrovich, in Gorkiy on a day like this, flowers bloom!"
"And what sort of flowers might those be, Comrade Political Officer?" Ramius surveyed the
fjord through his binoculars. At noon the sun was barely over the southeast horizon, casting
orange light and purple shadows along the rocky walls.
"Why, snow flowers, of course," Putin said, laughing loudly. "On a day like this the faces of
the children and the women glow pink, your breath trails behind you like a cloud, and the vodka
tastes especially fine. Ah, to be in Gorkiy on a day like this!"
The bastard ought to work for Intourist, Ramius told himself, except that Gorkiy is a city
closed to foreigners. He had been there twice. It had struck him as a typical Soviet city, full of
ramshackle buildings, dirty streets, and ill-clad citizens. As it was in most Russian cities, winter
was Gorkiy's best season. The snow hid all the dirt. Ramius, half Lithuanian, had childhood
memories of a better place, a coastal village whose Hanseatic origin had left rows of presentable
buildings.
It was unusual for anyone other than a Great Russian to be aboard—much less command—a
Soviet naval vessel. Marko's father, Aleksandr Ramius, had been a hero of the Party, a
dedicated, believing Communist who had served Stalin faithfully and well. When the Soviets
first occupied Lithuania in 1940, the elder Ramius was instrumental in rounding up political
dissidents, shop owners, priests, and anyone else who might have been troublesome to the new
regime. All were shipped off to fates that now even Moscow could only guess at. When the
Germans invaded a year later, Aleksandr fought heroically as a political commissar, and was
later to distinguish himself in the Battle of Leningrad. In 1944 he returned to his native land
with the spearhead of the Eleventh Guards Army to wreak bloody vengeance on those who had
collaborated with the Germans or been suspected of such. Marko's father had been a true Soviet
hero—and Marko was deeply ashamed to be his son. His mother's health had been broken
during the endless siege of Leningrad. She died giving birth to him, and he was raised by his
paternal grandmother in Lithuania while his father strutted through the Party Central Committee
in Vilnius, awaiting his promotion to Moscow. He got that, too, and was a candidate member of
the Politburo when his life was cut short by a heart attack.
Marko's shame was not total. His father's prominence had made his current goal a possibility,
and Marko planned to wreak his own vengeance on the Soviet Union, enough, perhaps, to satisfy
the thousands of his countrymen who had died before he was even born.
"Where we are going, Ivan Yurievich, it will be colder still."
Putin clapped his captain's shoulder. Was his affection feigned or real? Marko wondered.
Probably real. Ramius was an honest man, and he recognized that this short, loud oaf did have
some human feelings.
"Why is it, Comrade Captain, that you always seem glad to leave the Rodina and go to sea?"
Ramius smiled behind his binoculars. "A seaman has one country, Ivan Yurievich, but two
wives. You never understand that. Now I go to my other wife, the cold, heartless one that owns
my soul." Ramius paused. The smile vanished. "My only wife, now."
Putin was quiet for once, Marko noted. The political officer had been there, had cried real
tears as the coffin of polished pine rolled into the cremation chamber. For Putin the death of
Natalia Bogdanova Ramius had been a cause of grief, but beyond that the act of an uncaring God
whose existence he regularly denied. For Ramius it had been a crime committed not by God but
the State. An unnecessary, monstrous crime, one that demanded punishment.
"Ice." The lookout pointed.
"Loose-pack ice, starboard side of the channel, or perhaps something calved off the east-side
glacier. We'll pass well clear," Kamarov said.
"Captain!" The bridge speaker had a metallic voice. "Message from fleet headquarters."
"Read it."
"'Exercise area clear. No enemy vessels in vicinity. Proceed as per orders. Signed, Korov,
Fleet Commander.'"
"Acknowledged," Ramius said. The speaker clicked off. "So, no Amerikantsi about?"
"You doubt the fleet commander?" Putin inquired.
"I hope he is correct," Ramius replied, more sincerely than his political officer would
appreciate. "But you remember our briefings."
Putin shifted on his feet. Perhaps he was feeling the cold.
"Those American 688-class submarines, Ivan, the Los Angeleses. Remember what one of
their officers told our spy? That they could sneak up on a whale and bugger it before it knew
they were there? I wonder how the KGB got that bit of information. A beautiful Soviet agent,
trained in the ways of the decadent West, too skinny, the way the imperialists like their women,
blond hair . . ." The captain grunted amusement. "Probably the American officer was a boastful
boy, trying to find a way to do something similar to our agent, no? And feeling his liquor, like
most sailors. Still. The American Los Angeles class, and the new British Trafalgars, those we
must guard against. They are a threat to us."
"The Americans are good technicians, Comrade Captain," Putin said, "but they are not giants.
Their technology is not so awesome. Nasha lutcha," he concluded. Ours is better.
Ramius nodded thoughtfully, thinking to himself that zampoliti really ought to know
something about the ships they supervised, as mandated by Party doctrine.
"Ivan, didn't the farmers around Gorkiy tell you it is the wolf you do not see that you must
fear? But don't be overly concerned. With this ship we will teach them a lesson, I think."
"As I told the Main Political Administration," Putin clapped Ramius' shoulder again, "Red
October is in the best of hands!"
Ramius and Kamarov both smiled at that. You son of a bitch! the captain thought, saying in
front of my men that you must pass on my fitness to command! A man who could not command
a rubber raft on a calm day! A pity you will not live to eat those words, Comrade Political
Officer, and spend the rest of your life in the gulag for that misjudgment. It would almost be
worth leaving you alive.
A few minutes later the chop began to pick up, making the submarine roll. The movement
was accentuated by their height above the deck, and Putin made excuses to go below. Still a
weak-legged sailor. Ramius shared the observation silently with Kamarov, who smiled
agreement. Their unspoken contempt for the zampolit was a most un-Soviet thought.
The next hour passed quickly. The water grew rougher as they approached the open sea, and
their icebreaker escort began to wallow on the swells. Ramius watched her with interest. He had
never been on an icebreaker, his entire career having been in submarines. They were more
comfortable, but also more dangerous. He was accustomed to the danger, though, and the years
of experience would stand him in good stead now.
"Sea buoy in sight, Captain." Kamarov pointed. The red lighted buoy was riding actively on
the waves.
"Control room, what is the sounding?" Ramius asked over the bridge telephone.
"One hundred meters below the keel, Comrade Captain."
"Increase speed to two-thirds, come left ten degrees." Ramius looked at Kamarov. "Signal
our course change to Purga, and hope he doesn't turn the wrong way."
Kamarov reached for the small blinker light stowed under the bridge coaming. The Red
October began to accelerate slowly, her 30,000-ton bulk resisting the power of her engines.
Presently the bow wave grew to a three-meter standing arc of water; man-made combers rolled
down the missile deck, splitting against the front of the sail. The Purga altered course to
starboard, allowing the submarine to pass well clear.
Ramius looked aft at the bluffs of the Kola Fjord. They had been carved to this shape
millennia before by the remorseless pressure of towering glaciers. How many times in his
twenty years of service with the Red Banner Northern Fleet had he looked at the wide, flat U-
shape? This would be the last. One way or another, he'd never go back. Which way would it
turn out? Ramius admitted to himself that he didn't much care. Perhaps the stories his
grandmother had taught him were true, about God and the reward for a good life. He hoped so—
it would be good if Natalia were not truly dead. In any case, there was no turning back. He had
left a letter in the last mailbag taken off before sailing. There was no going back after that.
"Kamarov, signal to Purga: 'Diving at—,'" he checked his watch, "'—1320 hours. Exercise
OCTOBER FROST begins as scheduled. You are released to other assigned duties. We will
return as scheduled.'"
Kamarov worked the trigger on the blinker light to transmit the message. The Purga
responded at once, and Ramius read the flashing signal unaided: "IF THE WHALES DON'T
EAT YOU. GOOD LUCK TO RED OCTOBER!"
Ramius lifted the phone again, pushing the button for the sub's radio room. He had the same
message transmitted to fleet headquarters, Severomorsk. Next he addressed the control room.
"Depth under the keel?"
"One hundred forty meters, Comrade Captain."
"Prepare to dive." He turned to the lookout and ordered him below. The boy moved towards
the hatch. He was probably glad to return to the warmth below, but took the time for one last
look at the cloudy sky and receding cliffs. Going to sea on a submarine was always exciting, and
always a little sad.
"Clear the bridge. Take the conn when you get below, Gregoriy." Kamarov nodded and
dropped down the hatch, leaving the captain alone.
Ramius made one last careful scan of the horizon. The sun was barely visible aft, the sky
leaden, the sea black except for the splash of whitecaps. He wondered if he were saying
goodbye to the world. If so, he would have preferred a more cheerful view of it.
Before sliding down he inspected the hatch seat, pulling it shut with a chain and making sure
the automatic mechanism functioned properly. Next he dropped eight meters down the inside of
the sail to the pressure hull, then two more into the control room. A michman (warrant officer)
shut the second hatch and with a powerful spin turned the locking wheel as far as it would go.
"Gregoriy?" Ramius asked.
"Straight board shut," the navigator said crisply, pointing to the diving board. All hull-
opening indicator lights showed green, safe. "All systems aligned and checked for dive. The
compensation is entered. We are rigged for dive."
The captain made his own visual inspection of mechanical, electrical, and hydraulic
indicators. He nodded, and the michman of the watch unlocked the vent controls.
"Dive," Ramius ordered, moving to the periscope to relieve Vasily Borodin, his starpom
(executive officer). Kamarov pulled the diving alarm, and the hull reverberated with the racket
of a loud buzzer.
"Flood the main ballast tanks. Rig out the diving planes. Ten degrees down-angle on the
planes," Kamarov ordered, his eyes alert to see that every crewman did his job exactly. Ramius
listened carefully but did not look. Kamarov was the best young seaman he had ever
commanded, and had long since earned his captain's trust.
The Red October's hull was filled with the noise of rushing air as vents at the top of the ballast
tanks were opened and water entering from the tank floods at the bottom chased the buoying air
out. It was a lengthy process, for the submarine had many such tanks, each carefully subdivided
by numerous cellular baffles. Ramius adjusted the periscope lens to look down and saw the
black water change briefly to foam.
The Red October was the largest and finest command Ramius had ever had, but the sub had
one major flaw. She had plenty of engine power and a new drive system that he hoped would
befuddle American and Soviet submarines alike, but she was so big that she changed depth like a
crippled whale. Slow going up, even slower going down.
"Scope under." Ramius stepped away from the instrument after what seemed a long wait.
"Down periscope."
"Passing forty meters," Kamarov said.
"Level off at one hundred meters." Ramius watched his crewmen now. The first dive could
make experienced men shudder, and half his crew were farmboys straight from training camp.
The hull popped and creaked under the pressure of the surrounding water, something that took
getting used to. A few of the younger men went pale but stood rigidly upright.
Kamarov began the procedure for leveling off at the proper depth. Ramius watched with a
pride he might have felt for his own son as the lieutenant gave the necessary orders with
precision. He was the first officer Ramius had recruited. The control room crew snapped to his
command. Five minutes later the submarine slowed her descent at ninety meters and settled the
next ten to a perfect stop at one hundred.
"Well done, Comrade Lieutenant. You have the conn. Slow to one-third speed. Have the
sonarmen listen on all passive systems." Ramius turned to leave the control room, motioning
Putin to follow him.
And so it began.
Ramius and Putin went aft to the submarine's wardroom. The captain held the door open for
the political officer, then closed and locked it behind himself. The Red October's wardroom was
a spacious affair for a submarine, located immediately forward of the galley, aft of the officer
accommodations. Its walls were soundproofed, and the door had a lock because her designers
had known that not everything the officers had to say was necessarily for the ears of the enlisted
men. It was large enough for all of the October's officers to eat as a group—though at least three
of them would always be on duty. The safe containing the ship's orders was here, not in the
captain's stateroom where a man might use his solitude to try opening it by himself. It had two
dials. Ramius had one combination, Putin the other. Which was hardly necessary, since Putin
undoubtedly knew their mission orders already. So did Ramius, but not all the particulars.
Putin poured tea as the captain checked his watch against the chronometer mounted on the
bulkhead. Fifteen minutes until he could open the safe. Putin's courtesy made him uneasy.
"Two more weeks of confinement," the zampolit said, stirring his tea.
"The Americans do this for two months, Ivan. Of course, their submarines are far more
comfortable." Despite her huge bulk, the October's crew accommodations would have shamed a
gulag jailer. The crew consisted of fifteen officers, housed in fairly decent cabins aft, and a
hundred enlisted men whose bunks were stuffed into corners and racks throughout the bow,
forward of the missile room. The October's size was deceptive. The interior of her double hull
was crammed with missiles, torpedoes, a nuclear reactor and its support equipment, a huge
backup diesel power plant, and bank of nickle-cadmium batteries outside the pressure hull,
which was ten times the size of its American counterparts. Running and maintaining the ship
was a huge job for so small a crew, even though extensive use of automation made her the most
modern of Soviet naval vessels. Perhaps the men didn't need proper bunks. They would only
have four or six hours a day to make use of them. This would work to Ramius' advantage. Half
of his crew were draftees on their first operational cruise, and even the more experienced men
knew little enough. The strength of his enlisted crew, unlike that of Western crews, resided
much more in his eleven michmanyy (warrant officers) than in his glavnyy starshini (senior petty
officers). All of them were men who would do—were specifically trained to do—exactly what
their officers told them. And Ramius had picked the officers.
"You want to cruise for two months?" Putin asked.
"I have done it on diesel submarines. A submarine belongs at sea, Ivan. Our mission is to
strike fear into the hearts of the imperialists. We do not accomplish this tied up in our barn at
Polyarnyy most of the time, but we cannot stay at sea any longer because any period over two
weeks and the crew loses efficiency. In two weeks this collection of children will be a mob of
摘要：

TomClancyTheHuntForRedOctoberAcknowledgementsFortechnicalinformationandadviceIamespeciallyindebtedtoMichaelShelton,formernavalaviator;LarryBond,whosenavalwargame,“Harpoon,”wasadoptedforthetrainingofNROTCcadets;Drs.GerrySternerandCraigJeschke;andLieutenantCommanderGregoryYoung,USN.ForRalphChatham,Asu...

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