The Hunt for Red October

“Aye, okay, the Alfa’s bearing two-two-five, steadying down. We need to come left a little, sir.”

“Ryan, come left five degrees, your course is two-two-five.”

“Left five rudder, coming to two-two-five.”

“The fish is closing rapidly, sir,” Jones said.

“Screw it! Track the Alfa.”

“Aye. Bearing is still two-two-five. Same as the fish.”

The combined speed ate up the distance between the submarines rapidly. The torpedo was closing the October faster still, but it had a safety device built in. To prevent them from blowing up their own launch platform, torpedoes could not arm until they were five hundred to a thousand yards from the boat that launched them. If the October closed the Alfa fast enough, she could not be hurt.

The October was now passing twenty knots.

“Range to the Alfa is seven hundred fifty yards, bearing two-two-five. The torpedo is close, sir, a few more seconds.” Jones cringed, staring at the screen.

Klonk!

The torpedo struck the Red October dead center in her hemispherical bow. The safety lock still had another hundred meters to run. The impact broke it into three pieces, which were batted aside by the accelerating missile submarine.

“A dud!” Jones laughed. “Thank you, God! Target still bearing two-two-five, range is seven hundred yards.”

The V. K. Konovalov

“No explosion?” Tupolev wondered.

“The safety locks!” The starpom swore. He’d had to set it up too fast.

“Where is the target?”

“Bearing zero-four-five, Comrade. Bearing is constant,” the michman replied, “closing rapidly.”

Tupolev blanched. “Left full rudder, all ahead flank!”

The Red October

“Turning, turning left to right,” Jones said. “Bearing is now two-three-zero, spreading out a little. Need a little right rudder, sir.”

“Ryan, come right five degrees.”

“Rudder is right five,” Jack answered.

“No, rudder ten right!” Ramius countermanded his order. He had been keeping a track with pencil and paper. And he knew the Alfa.

“Right ten degrees,” Ryan said.

“Near-field effect, range down to four hundred yards, bearing is two-two-five to the center of the target. Target is spreading out left and right, mostly left,” Jones said rapidly. “Range…three hundred yards. Elevation angle is zero, we are level with the target. Range two hundred fifty, bearing two-two-five to target center. We can’t miss, Skipper.”

“We’re gonna hit!” Mancuso called out.

Tupolev should have changed depth. As it was he depended on the Alfa’s acceleration and maneuverability, forgetting that Ramius knew exactly what these were.

“Contact spread way the hell out — instantaneous return, sir!”

“Brace for impact!”

Ramius had forgotten the collision alarm. He yanked at it only seconds before impact.

The Red October rammed the Konovalov just aft of midships at a thirty-degree angle. The force of the collision ruptured the Konovalov’s titanium pressure hull and crumpled the October’s bow as if it were a beer can.

Ryan had not braced hard enough. He was thrown forward, and his face struck the instrument panel. Aft, Williams was catapulted from his bed and caught by Noyes before his head hit the deck. Jones’ sonar systems were wiped out. The missile submarine bounded up and over the top of the Alfa, her keel grating across the upper deck of the smaller vessel as the momentum carried her forward and upward.

The V. K. Konovalov

The Konovalov had had full watertight integrity set. It did not make a difference. Two compartments were instantly vented to the sea, and the bulkhead between the control room and the after compartments failed a moment later from hull deformation. The last thing that Tupolev saw was a curtain of white foam coming from the starboard side. The Alfa rolled to port, turned by the friction of the October’s keel. In a few seconds the submarine was upside down. Throughout her length men and gear tumbled about like dice. Half the crew were already drowning. Contact with the October ended at this point, when the Konovalov’s flooded compartments made her drop stern first toward the bottom. The political officer’s last conscious act was to yank at the disaster beacon handle, but it was to no avail: the sub was inverted, and the cable fouled on the sail. The only marker on the Konovalov’s grave was a mass of bubbles.

The Red October

“We still alive?” Ryan’s face was bleeding profusely.

“Up, up on the planes!” Ramius shouted.

“All the way up.” Ryan pulled back with his left hand, holding his right over the cuts.

“Damage report,” Ramius said in Russian.

“Reactor system is intact,” Melekhin answered at once. “The damage control board shows flooding in the torpedo room — I think. I have vented high-pressure air into it, and the pump is activated. Recommend we surface to assess damage.”

“Da!” Ramius hobbled to the air manifold and blew all tanks.

The Dallas

“Jesus,” the sonar chief said, “somebody hit somebody. I got breakup noises going down and hull-popping noises going up. Can’t tell which is which, sir. Both engines are dead.”

“Get us up to periscope depth quick!” Chambers ordered.

The Red October

It was 1654 local time when the Red October broke the surface of the Atlantic Ocean for the first time, forty-seven miles southeast of Norfolk. There was no other ship in sight.

“Sonar is wiped out, Skipper.” Jones was switching off his boxes. “Gone, crunched. We got some piddly-ass lateral hydrophones. No active stuff, not even the gertrude.”

“Go forward, Jonesy. Nice work.”

Jones took the last cigarette from his pack. “Any time, sir — but I’m gettin’ out next summer, depend on it.”

Bugayev followed him forward, still deafened and stunned from the torpedo hit.

The October was sitting still on the surface, down by the bow and listing twenty degrees to port from the vented ballast tanks.

The Dallas

“How about that,” Chambers said. He lifted the microphone. “This is Commander Chambers. They killed the Alfa! Our guys are safe. Surfacing the boat now. Stand by the fire and rescue party!”

The Red October

“You okay, Commander Ryan?” Jones turned his head carefully. “Looks like you broke some glass the hard way, sir.”

“You don’t worry till it stops bleeding,” Ryan said drunkenly.

“Guess so.” Jones held his handkerchief over the cuts. “But I sure hope you don’t always drive this bad, sir.”

“Captain Ramius, permission to lay to the bridge and communicate with my ship?” Mancuso asked.

“Go, we may need help with the damage.”