The Hunt for Red October

discussing the absence of a thermocline. Mancuso explained that it was not unusual for the area, particularly after violent storms. They agreed that it was unfortunate. A thermal layer would have helped their evasion.

Jones was at the aft entrance of the control room, rubbing his ears. The Russian phones were not very comfortable. “Skipper, I’m getting something to the north, comes and goes. I haven’t gotten a bearing lock on it.”

“Whose?” Mancuso asked.

“Can’t say, sir. The active sonar isn’t too bad, but the passive stuft just isn’t up to the drill, Skipper. We’re not blind, but close to it.”

“Okay, if you hear something, sing out.”

“Aye aye, Captain. You got some coffee out here? Mr. Bugayev sent me for some.”

“I’ll have a pot sent in.”

“Right.” Jones went back to work.

The V. K. Konovalov

“Comrade Captain, I have a contact, but I do not know what it is,” the michman said over the phone.

Tupolev came back, munching on his sandwich. Ohios had been acquired so rarely by the Russians — three times to be exact, and in each case the quarry had been lost within minutes — that no one had a feel for the characteristics of the class.

The michman handed the captain a spare set of phones. “It may take a few minutes, Comrade. It comes and goes.”

The water off the American coast, though nearly isothermal, was not entirely perfect for sonar systems. Minor currents and eddies set up moving walls that reflected and channeled sound energy on a nearly random basis. Tupolev sat down and listened patiently. It took five minutes for the signal to come back.

The michman’s hand waved. “Now, Comrade Captain.”

His commanding officer looked pale.

“Bearing?”

“Too faint, and too short to lock in — but three degrees on either bow, one-three-six to one-four-two.”

Tupolev tossed the headphones on the table and went forward. He grabbed the political officer by the arm and led him quickly to the wardroom.

“It’s Red October!”

“Impossible. Fleet Command said that his destruction was confirmed by visual inspection of the wreckage.” The zampolit shook his head emphatically.

“We have been tricked. The caterpillar acoustical signature is unique, Comrade. The Americans have him, and he is out there. We must destroy him!”

“No. We must contact Moscow and ask for instructions.”

The zampolit was a good Communist, but he was a surface ship officer who didn’t belong on submarines, Tupolev thought.

“Comrade Zampolit, it will take several minutes to approach the surface, perhaps ten or fifteen to get a message to Moscow, thirty more for Moscow to respond at all — and then they will request confirmation! An hour in all, two, three? By that time Red October will be gone. Our original orders are operative, and there is no time to contact Moscow.”

“But what if you are wrong?”

“I am not wrong, Comrade!” the captain hissed. “I will enter my contact report in the log, and my recommendations. If you forbid this, I will log that also! I am right, Comrade. It will be your head, not mine. Decide!”

“You are certain?”

“Certain!”

“Very well.” The zampolit seemed to deflate. “How will you do this?”

“As quickly as possible, before the Americans have a chance to destroy us. Go to your station, Comrade.” The two men went back to the control room. The Konovalov’s six bow torpedo tubes were loaded with Mark C 533-millimeter wire-guided torpedoes. All they needed was to be told where to go.

“Sonar, search forward on all active systems!” the captain ordered.

The michman pushed the button.

The Red October

“Ouch.” Jones’ head jerked around. “Skipper, we’re being pinged. Port side, midships, maybe a little forward. Not one of ours, sir.”

The Pogy

“Conn, sonar, the Alfa’s got the boomer! The Alfa bearing is one-nine-two.”

“All ahead two-thirds,” Wood ordered immediately.

“All ahead two-thirds, aye.”

The Pogy’s engines exploded into life, and soon her propeller was thrashing the black water.

The V. K. Konovalov

“Range seven thousand, six hundred meters. Elevation angle zero,” the michman reported. So, this was the submarine they had been sent to hunt, he thought. He had just donned a headset that allowed him to report directly to the captain and fire control officer.

The starpom was the chief fire control supervisor. He quickly entered the data into the computer. It was a simple problem of target geometry. “We have a solution for torpedoes one and two.”

“Prepare to fire.”

“Flooding tubes.” The starpom flipped the switches himself, reaching past the petty officer. “Outer torpedo tube doors are open.”

“Recheck firing solution!” Tupolev said.

The Pogy

The Pogy’s sonar chief was the only man to hear the transient noise.

“Conn, sonar, Alfa contact — she just flooded tubes, sir! Target bearing is one- seven-nine.”

The V. K. Konovalov

“Solution confirmed, Comrade Captain,” the starpom said.

“Fire one and two,” Tupolev ordered.

“Firing one…Firing two.” The Konovalov shuddered twice as compressed air charges ejected the electrically powered torpedoes.

The Red October

Jones heard it first. “High-speed screws port side!” he said loudly and clearly. “Torpedoes in the water port side!”

“Ryl nalyeva!” Ramius ordered automatically.

“What?” Ryan asked.

“Left, rudder left!” Ramius pounded his fist on the rail.

“Left full, do it!” Mancuso said.

“Left full rudder, aye.” Ryan turned the wheel all the way and held it down. Ramius was spinning the annunciator to flank speed.

The Pogy

“Two fish running,” Palmer said. “Bearing is changing right to left. I say again, torpedo bearing changing right to left rapidly on both fish. They’re targeted on the boomer.”

The Dallas

The Dallas heard them, too. Chambers ordered flank speed and a turn to port. With torpedoes running his options were limited, and he was doing what American practice taught, heading someplace else — very fast.

The Red October