The Hunt for Red October

tendency to interpret anomalies as seismic events. He didn’t like the built-in bias, which he felt the research laboratory had not entirely removed. It was one thing to use computers as a tool, quite another to let them do your thinking for you. Besides, they were always discovering new sea sounds that nobody had ever heard before, much less classified.

“Sir, the frequency is all wrong for one thing — nowhere near low enough. How ’bout I try an’ track in on this signal with the R-15?” Jones referred to the towed array of passive sensors the Dallas was trailing behind her at low speed.

Commander Mancuso came in just then, the usual mug of coffee in his hand. If there was one frightening thing about the captain, Thompson thought, it was his talent for showing up when something was going on. Did he have the whole boat wired?

“Just wandering by,” he said casually. “What’s happening this fine day?” The captain leaned against the bulkhead. He was a small man, only five eight, who had fought a battle against his waistline all his life and was now losing because of the good food and lack of exercise on a submarine. His dark eyes were surrounded by laugh lines that were always deeper when he was playing a trick on another ship.

Was it day, Thompson wondered? The six-hour one-in-three rotating watch cycle made for a convenient work schedule, but after a few changes you had to press the button on your watch to figure out what day it was, else you couldn’t make the proper entry in the log.

“Skipper, Jones picked up a funny signal on the lateral. The computer says it’s magma displacement.”

“And Jonesy doesn’t agree with that.” Mancuso didn’t have to make it a question.

“No, sir, Captain, I don’t. I don’t know what it is, but for sure it ain’t that.”

“You against the machine again?”

“Skipper, SAPS works pretty well most of the time, but sometimes it’s a real kludge.” Jones’ epithet was the most perjorative curse of electronics people. “For one thing the frequency is all wrong.”

“Okay, what do you think?”

“I don’t know, Captain. It isn’t screw sounds, and it isn’t any naturally produced sound that I’ve heard. Beyond that…” Jones was struck by the informality of the discussion with his commanding officer, even after three years on nuclear subs. The crew of the Dallas was like one big family, albeit one of the old frontier families, since everybody worked pretty damned hard. The captain was the father. The executive officer, everyone would readily agree, was the mother. The officers were the older kids, and the enlisted men were the younger kids. The important thing was, if you had something to say, the captain would listen to you. To Jones, this counted for a lot.

Mancuso nodded thoughtfully. “Well, keep at it. No sense letting all this expensive gear go to waste.”

Jones grinned. Once he had told the captain in precise detail how he could convert this equipment into the world’s finest stereo rig. Mancuso had pointed out that it would not be a major feat, since the sonar gear in this room alone cost over twenty million dollars.

“Christ!” The junior technician bolted upright in his chair. “Somebody just stomped on the gas.”

Jones was the sonar watch supervisor. The other two watchstanders noted the new signal, and Jones switched his phones to the towed array jack while the two officers kept out of the way. He took a scratch pad and noted the time before working on his individual controls. The BQR-15 was the most sensitive sonar rig on the boat, but its sensitivity was not needed for this contact.

“Damn,” Jones muttered quietly.

“Charlie,” said the junior technician.

Jones shook his head. “Victor. Victor class for sure. Doing turns for thirty knots — big burst of cavitation noise, he’s digging big holes in the water, and he doesn’t care who knows it. Bearing zero- five-zero. Skipper, we got good water around us, and the signal is real faint. He’s not close.” It was the closest thing to a range estimate Jones could come up with. Not close meant anything over ten miles. He went back to working his controls. “I think we know this guy. This is the one with a bent blade on his screw, sounds like he’s got a chain wrapped around it.”

“Put it on speaker,” Mancuso told Thompson. He didn’t want to disturb the operators. The lieutenant was already keying the signal into the BC-10.

The bulkhead-mounted speaker would have commanded a four-figure price in any stereo shop for its clarity and dynamic perfection; like everything else on the 688-class sub, it was the very best that money could buy. As Jones worked on the sound controls they heard the whining chirp of propeller cavitation, the thin screech associated with a bent propeller blade, and the deeper rumble of a Victor’s reactor plant at full power. The next thing Mancuso heard was the printer.

“Victor I-class, number six,” Thompson announced.

“Right,” Jones nodded. “Vic-six, bearing still zero-five-zero.” He plugged the mouthpiece into his headphones. “Conn, sonar, we have a contact. A Victor class, bearing zero-five-zero, estimated target speed thirty knots.”

Mancuso leaned out into the passageway to address Lieutenant Pat Mannion, officer of the deck. “Pat, man the fire-control tracking party.”

“Aye, Cap’n.”

“Wait a minute!” Jones’ hand went up. “Got another one!” He twiddled some knobs. “This one’s a Charlie class. Damned if he ain’t digging holes, too. More easterly, bearing zero-seven- three, doing turns for about twenty-eight knots. We know this guy, too. Yeah, Charlie II, number eleven.” Jones slipped a phone off one ear and looked at Mancuso. “Skipper, the Russkies have sub races scheduled for today?”

“Not that they told me about. Of course, we don’t get the sports page out here,” Mancuso chuckled, swirling the coffee around in his cup and hiding his real thoughts. What the hell was going on? “I suppose I’ll go forward and take a look at this. Good work, guys.”

He went a few steps forward into the attack center. The normal steaming watch was set. Mannion had the conn, with a junior officer of the deck and seven enlisted men. A first-class firecontrolman was entering data from the target motion analyzer into the Mark 117 fire control computer. Another officer was entering control to take charge of the tracking exercise. There was nothing unusual about this. The whole watch went about its work alertly but with the relaxed demeanor that came with years of training and experience. While the other armed services routinely had their components run exercises against allies or themselves in emulation of Eastern Bloc tactics, the navy had its attack submarines play their games against the real thing — and constantly. Submariners typically operated on what was effectively an at-war footing.

“So we have company,” Mannion observed.

“Not that close,” Lieutenant Charles Goodman noted. “These bearings haven’t changed a whisker.”

“Conn, sonar.” It was Jones’ voice. Mancuso took it.

“Conn, aye. What is it, Jonesy?”

“We got another one, sir. Alfa 3, bearing zero-five-five. Running flat out. Sounds like an earthquake, but faint, sir.”

“Alfa 3? Our old friend, the Politovskiy. Haven’t run across her in a while. Anything else you can tell me?”

“A guess, sir. The sound on this one warbled, then settled down, like she was making a turn. I think she’s heading this way — that’s a little shaky. And we have some more noise to the northeast. Too confused to make any sense of just now. We’re working on it.”

“Okay, nice work, Jonesy. Keep at it.”

“Sure thing, Captain.”

Mancuso smiled as he set the phone down, looking over at Mannion. “You know, Pat, sometimes I wonder if Jonesy isn’t part witch.”

Mannion looked at the paper tracks that Goodman was drawing to back up the computerized targeting process. “He’s pretty good. Problem is, he thinks we work for him.”

“Right now we are working for him.” Jones was their eyes and ears, and Mancuso was damned glad to have him.

“Chuck?” Mancuso asked Lieutenant Goodman.