The Hunt for Red October. Tom Clancy

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      ‘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 metres,’ Kamarov said.

      ‘Level off at one hundred metres.’ 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 levelling 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 metres 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 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 a bank of nickel-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 numbed robots.’ Ramius was counting on that.

      ‘And we could solve this by having capitalist luxuries?’ Putin sneered.

      ‘A true Marxist is objective, Comrade Political Officer,’ Ramius chided, savouring this last argument with Putin. ‘Objectively, that which aids us in carrying out our mission is good, that which hinders us is bad. Adversity is supposed to hone one’s spirit and skill, not dull them. Just being aboard a submarine is hardship enough, is it not?’

      ‘Not for you, Marko.’ Putin grinned over his tea.

      ‘I am a seaman. Our crewmen are not, most never will be. They are a mob of farmers’ sons and boys who yearn to be factory workers. We must adjust to the times, Ivan. These youngsters are not the same as we were.’

      ‘That is true enough,’ Putin agreed. ‘You are never satisfied, Comrade Captain. I suppose it is men like you who force progress upon us all.’

      Both men knew exactly why Soviet missile submarines spent so little of their time – barely fifteen percent of it – at sea, and it had nothing to do with creature comforts. The Red October carried twenty-six SS-N-20 Seahawk missiles, each with eight 500-kiloton multiple independently targetable re-entry vehicles – MIRVs – enough to destroy two hundred cities. Land-based bombers could only fly a few hours at a time, then had to return to their bases. Land-based missiles arrayed along the main East–West Soviet rail network were always where paramilitary troops of the KGB could get at them lest some missile regiment commander suddenly came to realize the power at his fingertips. But missile submarines were by definition beyond any control from land. Their entire mission was to disappear.

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