The Hunt for Red October

course.”

“Of course. As a practical matter, having the officers is as great a coup as having the submarine.”

“But the navy still wants to keep it.”

“I just don’t see how we can do that, not without eliminating the crewmen, and we can’t do that.”

“Agreed.” The president buzzed his secretary. “Get me General Hilton.”

The Pentagon

The air force’s computer center was in a subbasement of the Pentagon. The room temperature was well below seventy degrees. It was enough to make Tyler’s leg ache where it met the metal-plastic prothesis. He was used to that.

Tyler was sitting at a control console. He had just finished a trial run of his program, named MORAY after the vicious eel that inhabited oceanic reefs. Skip Tyler was proud of his programming ability. He’d taken the old dinosaur program from the files of the Taylor Lab, adapted it to the common Defense Department computer language, ADA — named for Lady Ada Lovelace, daughter of Lord Byron — and then tightened it up. For most people this would have been a month’s work. He’d done it in four days, working almost around the clock not only because the money was an attractive incentive but also because the project was a professional challenge. He ended the job quietly satisfied that he could still meet an impossible deadline with time to spare. It was eight in the evening. MORAY had just run through a one-variable-value test and not crashed. He was ready.

He’d never seen the Cray-2 before, except in photographs, and he was pleased to have a chance to use it. The -2 was five units of raw electrical power, each one roughly pentagonal in shape, about six feet high and four across. The largest unit was the main-frame processor bank; the other four were memory banks, arrayed around it in a cruciform configuration. Tyler typed in the command to load his variable sets. For each of the Red October’s main dimensions — length, beam, height — he input ten discrete numerical values. Then came six subtly different values for her hull form block and prismatic coefficients. There were five sets of tunnel dimensions. This aggregated to over thirty thousand possible permutations. Next he keyed in eighteen power variables to cover the range of possible engine systems. The Cray-2 absorbed this information and placed each number in its proper slot. It was ready to run.

“Okay,” he announced to the system operator, an air force master sergeant.

“Roge.” The sergeant typed “XQT” into his terminal. The Cray-2 went to work.

Tyler walked over to the sergeant’s console.

“That’s a right lengthy program you’ve input, sir.” The sergeant laid a ten-dollar bill on the top of the console. “Betcha my baby can run it in ten minutes.”

“Not a chance.” Tyler laid his own bill next to the sergeant’s. “Fifteen minutes, easy.”

“Split the difference?”

“Alright. Where’s the head around here?”

“Out the door, sir, turn right, go down the hall and it’s on the left.”

Tyler moved towards the door. It annoyed him that he could not walk gracefully, but after four years the inconvenience was a minor one. He was alive — that’s what counted. The accident had occurred on a cold, clear night in Groton, Connecticut, only a block from the shipyard’s main gate. On Friday at three in the morning he was driving home after a twenty-hour day getting his new command ready for sea. The civilian yard worker had had a long day also, stopping off at a favorite watering hole for a few too many, as the police established afterwards. He got into his car, started it, and ran a red light, ramming Tyler’s Pontiac broadside at fifty miles per hour. For him the accident was fatal. Skip was luckier. It was at an intersection, and he had the green light; when he saw the front end of the Ford not a foot from his left-side door, it was far too late. He did not remember going through a pawnshop window, and the next week, when he hovered near death at the Yale-New Haven hospital, was a complete blank. His most vivid memory was of waking up, eight days later he was to learn, to see his wife, Jean, holding his hand. His marriage up to that point had been a troubled one, not an uncommon problem for nuclear submarine officers. His first sight of her was not a complimentary one — her eyes were bloodshot, her hair was tousled — but she had never looked quite so good. He had never appreciated just how important she was. A lot more important than half a leg.

“Skip? Skip Tyler!”

The former submariner turned awkwardly to see a naval officer running towards him.

“Johnnie Coleman! How the hell are you!”

It was Captain Coleman now, Tyler noted. They had served together twice, a year on the Tecumseh, another on the Shark. Coleman, a weapons expert, had commanded a pair of nuclear subs.

“How’s the family, Skip?”

“Jean’s fine. Five kids now, and another on the way.”

“Damn!” they shook hands with enthusiasm. “You always were a randy bugger. I hear you’re teaching at Annapolis.”

“Yeah, and a little engineering stuff on the side.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m running a program on the air force computer. Checking a new ship configuration for Sea Systems Command.” It was an accurate enough cover story. “What do they have you doing?”

“OP-02’s office. I’m chief of staff for Admiral Dodge.”

“Indeed?” Tyler was impressed. Vice Admiral Sam Dodge was the current OP-02. The office of the deputy chief of naval operations for submarine warfare had administrative control of all aspects of submarine operations. “Keeping you busy?”

“You know it! The crap’s really hit the fan.”

“What do you mean?” Tyler hadn’t seen the news or read a paper since Monday.

“You kidding?”

“I’ve been working on this computer program twenty hours a day since Monday, and I don’t get ops dispatches anymore.” Tyler frowned. He had heard something the other day at the Academy but not paid any attention to it. He was the sort who could focus his whole mind on a single problem.

Coleman looked up and down the corridor. It was late on a Friday evening, and they had it entirely to themselves. “Guess I can tell you. Our Russian friends have some sort of major exercise laid on. Their whole Northern Fleet’s at sea, or damned near. They have subs all over the place.”

“Doing what?”

“We’re not sure. Looks like they might have a major search and rescue operation. The question is, after what? They have four Alfas doing a max speed run for our coast right now, with a gaggle of Victors and Charlies charging in behind them. At first we were worried that they wanted to block the trade routes, but they blitzed right past those. They’re definitely heading for our coast, and whatever they’re up to, we’re getting tons of information.”

“What do they have moving?” Tyler asked.

“Fifty-eight nuclear subs, and thirty or so surface ships.”

“Gawd! CINCLANT must be going ape!”

“You know it, Skip. The fleet’s at sea, all of it. Every nuke we have is scrambling for a redeployment. Every P-3 Lockheed ever made is either over the Atlantic or heading that way.” Coleman paused. “You’re still cleared, right?”

“Sure, for the work I do for the Crystal City gang. I had a piece of the evaluation of the new Kirov.”

“I thought that sounded like your work. You always were a pretty good engineer. You know, the old man still talks about that job you did for him on the old Tecumseh. Maybe I can get you in to see what’s happening. Yeah, I’ll ask him.”

Tyler’s first cruise after graduating from nuc school in Idaho had been with Dodge. He’d done a tricky repair job on some ancillary reactor equipment two weeks earlier than estimated with a little creative effort and some back-channel procurement of spare parts. This had earned him and Dodge a flowery letter of commendation.

“I bet the old man would love to see you. When will you be finished down here?”

“Maybe half an hour.”

“You know where to find me?”