Tom Clancy: The Hunt for Red October

‘You want to cruise for two months?’ Putin asked.

‘I have done it on diesel submarines. A submarine belongs at sea, Ivan. Our mission is to strike fear into the hearts of the imperialists. We do not accomplish this tied up in our barn at Polyarnyy most of the time, but we cannot stay at sea any longer because any period over two weeks and the crew loses efficiency. In two weeks this collection of children will be a mob of numbed robots.’ Ramius was counting on that.

‘And we could solve this by having capitalist luxuries?’ Putin sneered.

‘A true Marxist is objective, Comrade Political Officer,’ Ramius chided, savouring this last argument with Putin. ‘Objectively, that which aids us in carrying out our mission is good, that which hinders us is bad. Adversity is supposed to hone one’s spirit and skill, not dull them. Just being aboard a submarine is hardship enough, is it not?’

‘Not for you, Marko.’ Putin grinned over his tea.

‘I am a seaman. Our crewmen are not, most never will be. They are a mob of farmers’ sons and boys who yearn to be factory workers. We must adjust to the times, Ivan. These youngsters are not the same as we were.’

‘That is true enough,’ Putin agreed. ‘You are never satisfied, Comrade Captain. I suppose it is men like you who force progress upon us all.’

Both men knew exactly why Soviet missile submarines spent so little of their time – barely fifteen percent of it – at sea, and it had nothing to do with creature comforts. The Red October carried twenty-six SS-N-20 Seahawk missiles, each with eight 500-kiloton multiple independently targetable re-entry vehicles – MIRVs – enough to destroy two hundred cities. Land-based bombers could only fly a few hours at a time, then had to return to their bases. Land-based missiles arrayed along the main East–West Soviet rail network were always where paramilitary troops of the KGB could get at them lest some missile regiment commander suddenly came to realize the power at his fingertips. But missile submarines were by definition beyond any control from land. Their entire mission was to disappear.

Given that fact, Marko was surprised that his government had them at all. The crew of such vessels had to be trusted. And so they sailed less often than their Western counterparts, and when they did it was with a political officer aboard to stand next to the commanding officer, a second captain always ready to pass approval on every action.

‘Do you think you could do it, Marko, cruise for two months with these farmboys?’

‘I prefer half-trained boys, as you know. They have less to unlearn. Then I can train them to be seamen the right way, my way. My personality cult?’

Putin laughed as he lit a cigarette. ‘That observation has been made in the past, Marko. But you are our best teacher and your reliability is well known.’ This was very true. Ramius had sent hundreds of officers and seamen on to other submarines whose commanders were glad to have them. It was another paradox that a man could engender trust within a society that scarcely recognized the concept. Of course, Ramius was a loyal Party member, the son of a Party hero who had been carried to his grave by three Politburo members. Putin waggled his finger. ‘You should be commanding one of our higher naval schools, Comrade Captain. Your talents would better serve the state there.’

‘It is a seaman I am, Ivan Yurievich. Only a seaman, not a schoolmaster – despite what they say about me. A wise man knows his limitations.’ And a bold one seizes opportunities. Every officer aboard had served with Ramius before, except for three junior lieutenants, who would obey their orders as readily as any wet-nosed matros (seaman), and the doctor, who was useless.

The chronometer chimed four bells.

Ramius stood and dialled in his three-element combination. Putin did the same, and the captain flipped the lever to open the safe’s circular door. Inside was a manila envelope plus four books of cipher keys and missile-targeting coordinates. Ramius removed the envelope, then closed the door, spinning both dials before sitting down again.

‘So, Ivan, what do you suppose our orders tell us to do?’ Ramius asked theatrically.

‘Our duty, Comrade Captain.’ Putin smiled.

‘Indeed.’ Ramius broke the wax seal on the envelope and extracted the four-page operation order. He read it quickly. It was not complicated.

‘So, we are to proceed to grid square 54–90 and rendezvous with our attack submarine V. K. Konovalov – that’s Captain Tupolev’s new command. You know Viktor Tupolev? No? Viktor will guard us from imperialist intruders, and we will conduct a four-day acquisition and tracking drill, with him hunting us – if he can.’ Ramius chuckled. ‘The boys in the attack submarine directorate still have not figured how to track our new drive system. Well, neither will the Americans. We are to confine our operations to grid square 54–90 and the immediately surrounding squares. That ought to make Viktor’s task a bit easier.’

‘But you will not let him find us?’

‘Certainly not,’ Ramius snorted. ‘Let? Viktor was once my pupil. You give nothing to an enemy, Ivan, even in a drill. The imperialists certainly won’t! In trying to find us, he also practises finding their missile submarines. He will have a fair chance of locating us, I think. The exercise is confined to nine squares, forty thousand square kilometres. We shall see what he has learned since he served with us – oh, that’s right, you weren’t with me then. That’s when I had the Suslov .’

‘Do I see disappointment?’

‘No, not really. The four-day drill with Konovalov will be an interesting diversion.’ Bastard, he said to himself, you knew beforehand exactly what our orders were – and you do know Viktor Tupolev, liar. It was time.

Putin finished his cigarette and his tea before standing. ‘So, again I am permitted to watch the master captain at work – befuddling a poor boy.’ He turned towards the door. ‘I think –’

Ramius kicked Putin’s feet out from under him just as he was stepping away from the table. Putin fell backwards while Ramius sprang to his feet and grasped the political officer’s head in his strong fisherman’s hands. The captain drove his neck downward to the sharp, metal-edged corner of the wardroom table. It struck the point. In the same instant Ramius pushed down on the man’s chest. An unnecessary gesture – with the sickening crackle of bones Ivan Putin’s neck broke, his spine severed at the level of the second cervical vertebra, a perfect hangman’s fracture.

The political officer had no time to react. The nerves to his body below the neck were instantly cut off from the organs and muscles they controlled. Putin tried to shout, to say something, but his mouth flapped open and shut without a sound except for the exhalation of his last lungful of air. He tried to gulp air down like a landed fish, and this did not work. Then his eyes went up to Ramius, wide in shock – there was no pain, and no emotion but surprise. The captain laid him gently on the tile deck.

Ramius saw the face flash with recognition, then darken. He reached down to take Putin’s pulse. It was nearly two minutes before the heart stopped completely. When Ramius was sure that his political officer was dead, he took the teapot from the table and poured two cups’ worth on the deck, careful to drip some on the man’s shoes. Next he lifted the body to the wardroom table and threw open the door.

‘Dr Petrov to the wardoom at once!’

The ship’s medical office was only a few steps aft. Petrov was there in seconds, along with Vasily Borodin, who had hurried aft from the control room.

‘He slipped on the deck where I spilled my tea,’ Ramius gasped, performing closed heart massage on Putin’s chest. ‘I tried to keep him from falling, but he hit his head on the table.’