upper deck. When he stepped through the hatch behind Kamarov, he remembered that the missile room’s bright overhead lights had been left on. Hadn’t they?
Ryan was trying to relax and failing at it. The seat was uncomfortable, and he recalled the Russian joke about how they were shaping the New Soviet Man — with airliner seats that contorted an individual into all kinds of impossible shapes. Aft, the engine room crew had begun powering up the reactor. Ramius was speaking over the intercom phone with his chief engineer, just before the sound of moving reactor coolant increased to generate steam for the turboalternators.
Ryan’s head went up. It was as though he felt the sound before hearing it. A chill ran up the back of his neck before his brain told him what the sound had to be.
“What was that?” he said automatically, knowing already what it was.
“What?” Ramius was ten feet aft, and the caterpillar engines were now turning. A strange rumble reverberated through the hull.
“I heard a shot — no, several shots.”
Ramius looked amused as he came a few steps forward. “I think you hear the sounds of the caterpillar engines, and I think it is your first time on a submarine boat, as you said. The first time is always difficult. It was so even for me.”
Ryan stood up. “That may be, Captain, but I know a shot when I hear it.” He unbottoned his jacket and pulled out the pistol.
“You will give me that.” Ramius held out his hand. “You may not have a pistol on my submarine!”
“Where are Williams and Kamarov?” Ryan wavered.
Ramius shrugged. “They are late, yes, but this is a big ship.”
“I’m going forward to check.”
“You will stay at your post!” Ramius ordered. “You will do as I say!”
“Captain, I just heard something that sounded like gunshots, and I am going forward to check it out. Have you ever been shot at? I have. I have the scars on my shoulder to prove it. You’d better take the wheel, sir.”
Ramius picked up a phone and punched a button. He spoke in Russian for a few seconds and hung up. “I will go to show you that my submarine has no souls — ghosts, yes? Ghosts, no ghosts.” He gestured to the pistol. “And you are no spy, eh?”
“Captain, believe what you want to believe, okay? It’s a long story, and I’ll tell it to you someday.” Ryan waited for the relief that Ramius had evidently called for. The rumble of the tunnel drive made the sub sound like the inside of a drum.
An officer whose name he did not remember came into the control room. Ramius said something that drew a laugh — which stopped when the officer saw Ryan’s pistol. It was obvious that neither Russian was happy he had one.
“With your permission, Captain?” Ryan gestured forward.
“Go on, Ryan.”
The watertight door between control and the next space had been left open. Ryan entered the radio room slowly, eyes tracing left and right. It was clear. He went forward to the missile room door, which was dogged tight. The door, four feet or so high and about two across, was locked in place with a central wheel. Ryan turned the wheel with one hand. It was well oiled. So were the hinges. He pulled the door open slowly and peered around the hatch coaming.
“Oh, shit,” Ryan breathed, waving the captain forward. The missile compartment was a good two hundred feet long, lit only by six or eight small glow lights. Hadn’t it been brightly lit before? At the far end was a splash of bright light, and the far hatch had two shapes sprawled on the gratings next to it. Neither moved. The light Ryan saw them by was flickering next to a missile tube.
“Ghosts, Captain?” he whispered.
“It is Kamarov.” Ramius said something else under his breath in Russian.
Ryan pulled the slide back on his FN automatic to make sure a round was in the chamber. Then he stepped out of his shoes.
“Better let me handle this. Once upon a time I was a lieutenant in the marines.” And my training at Quantico, he thought to himself, had damned little to do with this. Ryan entered the compartment.
The missile room was almost a third of the submarine’s length and two decks high. The lower deck was solid metal. The upper one was made of metal grates. Sherwood Forest, this place was called on American missile boats. The term was apt enough. The missile tubes, a good nine feet in diameter and painted a darker green than the rest of the room, looked like the trunks of enormous trees. He pulled the hatch shut behind him and moved to his right.
The light seemed to be coming from the farthest missile tube on the starboard side of the upper missile deck. Ryan stopped to listen. Something was happening there. He could hear a low rustling sound, and the light was moving as though it came from a hand-held work lamp. The sound was traveling down the smooth sides of the interior hull plating.
“Why me?” he whispered to himself. He’d have to get past thirteen missile tubes to get to the source of that light, cross over two hundred feet of open deck.
He moved around the first one, pistol in his right hand at waist level, his left hand tracing the cold metal of the tube. Already he was sweating into the checkered hard-rubber pistol grips. That, he told himself, is why they’re checkered. He got between the first and second tubes, looked to port to make sure nobody was there, and got ready to move forward. Twelve to go.
The deck grating was welded out of eighth-inch metal bars. Already his feet hurt from walking on it. Moving slowly and carefully around the next circular tube, he felt like an astronaut orbiting the moon and crossing a continuous horizon. Except on the moon there wasn’t anybody waiting to shoot you.
A hand came down on his shoulder. Ryan jumped and whirled around. Ramius. He had something to say, but Ryan put his fingertips on the man’s lips and shook his head. Ryan’s heart was beating so loudly that he could have used it for sending Morse code, and he could hear his own breathing — so why the hell hadn’t he heard Ramius?
Ryan gestured his intention to go around the outboard side of each missile. Ramius indicated that he would go around the inboard sides. Ryan nodded. He decided to button his jacket and turn the collar up. It would make him a harder target. Better a dark shape than one with a white triangle on it. Next tube.
Ryan saw that words were painted on the tubes, with other inscriptions forged onto the metal itself. The letters were in Cyrillic and probably said No Smoking or Lenin Lives or something similarly useless. He saw and heard everything with great acuity, as though someone had taken sandpaper to all his senses to make him fantastically alert. He edged around the next tube, his fingers flexing nervously on the pistol grip, wanting to wipe the sweat from his eyes. There was nothing here; the port side was okay. Next one…
It took five minutes to get halfway down the compartment, between the sixth and seventh tubes. The noise from the forward end of the compartment was more pronounced now. The light was definitely moving. Not by much, but the shadow of the number one tube was jittering ever so slightly. It had to be a work light plugged into a wall socket or whatever they called that on a ship. What was he doing? Working on a missile? Was there more than one man? Why didn’t Ramius do a head count getting his crew into the DSRV?
Why didn’t
As he went around the next tube he indicated to Ramius that there was probably one man all the way at the far end. Ramius nodded curtly, having already reached that conclusion. For the first time he noticed that Ryan’s shoes were off, and, thinking that was a good idea, he lifted his left foot to take off a shoe. His fingers, which felt awkward and stiff, fumbled with the shoe. It fell on a loose piece of grating with a clatter. Ryan was caught in the open. He froze. The light at the far end shifted, then went dead still. Ryan darted to his left and peered around the edge of the tube. Five more to go. He saw part of a face — and a flash.
He heard the shot and cringed as the bullet hit the after bulkhead with a
“I will cross to the other side,” Ramius whispered.
“Wait till I say.” Ryan grabbed Ramius’ upper arm and went back to the starboard side of the tube, pistol in front. He saw the face and this time he fired first, knowing he’d miss. At the same moment he pushed Ramius left. The captain raced to the other side and crouched behind a missile tube.
