The Hunt for Red October

All the characters in this book, with the exception of Sergey Gorshkov, Yuri Padorin, Oleg Penkovskiy, Valery Sablin, Hans Tofte, and Greville Wynne, are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The names, incidents, dialogue and opinions expressed are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Nothing is intended or should be interpreted as expressing or representing the views of the US Navy or any other department or agency of any government body.

HarperCollinsPublishers

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 1985

First published in the USA by Naval Institute Press 1984

Copyright © Jack Ryan Enterprises, Ltd 1984

Tom Clancy asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

Cover design by Holly Macdonald © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

Cover illustration © Shutterstock.com

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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Ebook Edition © JUNE 2018 ISBN: 9780007375059

SOURCE ISBN: 9780008279530

Version 2018-11-15

PRAISE FOR TOM CLANCY:

‘He constantly taps the current world situation for its imminent dangers and spins them into an engrossing tale’

New York Times

‘Heart-stopping action … entertaining and eminently topical’

Washington Post

‘Exhilarating. No other novelist is giving so full a picture of modern conflict’

Sunday Times

‘A brilliantly constructed thriller that packs a punch like Semtex’

Daily Mail

‘A virtuoso display of page-turning talent’

Sunday Express

DEDICATION

For Ralph Chatham,

a sub driver who spoke the truth,

and for all the men who wear dolphins

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise

Dedication

The First Day: Friday, 3 December

The Second Day: Saturday, 4 December

The Third Day: Sunday, 5 December

The Fourth Day: Monday, 6 December

The Fifth Day: Tuesday, 7 December

The Sixth Day: Wednesday, 8 December

The Seventh Day: Thursday, 9 December

The Eighth Day: Friday, 10 December

The Ninth Day: Saturday, 11 December

The Tenth Day: Sunday, 12 December

The Eleventh Day: Monday, 13 December

The Twelfth Day: Tuesday, 14 December

The Thirteenth Day: Wednesday, 15 December

The Fourteenth Day: Thursday, 16 December

The Fifteenth Day: Friday, 17 December

The Sixteenth Day: Saturday, 18 December

The Seventeenth Day: Sunday, 19 December

The Eighteenth Day: Monday, 20 December

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by Tom Clancy

About the Publisher

THE FIRST DAY

Friday, 3 December

THE RED OCTOBER

Captain First Rank Marko Ramius of the Soviet Navy was dressed for the Arctic conditions normal to the Northern Fleet submarine base at Polyarnyy. Five layers of wool and oilskin enclosed him. A dirty harbour tug pushed his submarine’s bow around to the north, facing down the channel. The dock that had held his Red October for two interminable months was now a water-filled concrete box, one of the many specially built to shelter strategic missile submarines from the harsh elements. On its edge a collection of sailors and dockyard workers watched his ship sail in stolid Russian fashion, without a wave or a cheer.

‘Engines ahead slow, Kamarov,’ he ordered. The tug slid out of the way, and Ramius glanced aft to see the water stirring from the force of the twin bronze propellers. The tug’s commander waved. Ramius returned the gesture. The tug had done a simple job, but done it quickly and well. The Red October, a Typhoon-class sub, moved under her own power towards the main ship channel of the Kola Fjord.

‘There’s Purga, Captain.’ Gregoriy Kamarov pointed to the icebreaker that would escort them to sea. Ramius nodded. The two hours required to transit the channel would tax not his seamanship but his endurance. There was a cold north wind blowing, the only sort of north wind in this part of the world. Late autumn had been surprisingly mild, and scarcely any snow had fallen in an area that measures it in metres; then a week before a major winter storm had savaged the Murmansk coast, breaking pieces off the Arctic icepack. The icebreaker was no formality. The Purga would butt aside any ice that might have drifted overnight into the channel. It would not do at all for the Soviet Navy’s newest missile submarine to be damaged by an errant chunk of frozen water.

The water in the fjord was choppy, driven by the brisk wind. It began to lap over the October’s spherical bow, rolling back down the flat missile deck which lay before the towering black sail. The water was coated with the bilge oil of numberless ships, filth that would not evaporate in the low temperatures and that left a black ring on the rocky walls of the fjord as though from the bath of a slovenly giant. An altogether apt simile, Ramius thought. The Soviet giant cared little for the dirt it left on the face of the earth, he grumbled to himself. He had learned his seamanship as a boy on inshore fishing boats, and knew what it was to be in harmony with nature.

‘Increase speed to one-third,’ he said. Kamarov repeated his captain’s order over the bridge telephone. The water stirred more as the October moved astern of the Purga. Captain Lieutenant Kamarov was the ship’s navigator, his last duty station having been harbour pilot for the large combatant vessels based on both sides of the wide inlet. The two officers kept a weather eye on the armed icebreaker three hundred metres ahead. The Purga’s after deck had a handful of crewmen stomping about in the cold, one wearing the white apron of a ship’s cook. They wanted to witness the Red October’s first operational cruise, and besides, sailors will do almost anything to break the monotony of their duties.

Ordinarily it would have irritated Ramius to have his ship escorted out – the channel here was wide and deep – but not today. The ice was something to worry about. And so, for Ramius, was a great deal else.

‘So, my Captain, again we go to sea to serve and protect the Rodina!’ Captain Second Rank Ivan Yurievich Putin poked his head through the hatch – without permission, as usual – and clambered up the ladder with the awkwardness of a landsman. The tiny control station was already crowded enough with the captain, the navigator, and a mute lookout. Putin was the ship’s zampolit (political officer). Everything he did was to serve the Rodina (Motherland), a word that had mystical connotations to a Russian and, along with V. I. Lenin, was the Communist Party’s substitute for a godhead.

‘Indeed, Ivan,’ Ramius replied with more good cheer than he felt. ‘Two weeks at sea. It is good to leave the dock. A seaman belongs at sea, not tied alongside, overrun with bureaucrats and workmen with dirty boots. And we will be warm.’

‘You find this cold?’ Putin asked incredulously.

For the hundredth time Ramius told himself that Putin was the perfect political officer. His voice was always too loud, his humour too affected. He never allowed a person to forget what he was. The perfect political officer, Putin was an easy man to fear.

‘I have been in submarines too long, my friend. I grow accustomed to moderate temperatures and a stable deck under my feet.’ Putin did not notice the veiled insult. He’d been assigned to submarines after his first tour on destroyers had been cut short by chronic seasickness – and perhaps because he did not resent the close confinement aboard submarines, something that many men cannot tolerate.

‘Ah, Marko Aleksandrovich, in Gorkiy on a day like this, flowers bloom!’

‘And what sort of flowers might those be, Comrade Political Officer?’ Ramius surveyed the fjord through his binoculars. At noon the sun was barely over the southeast horizon, casting orange light and purple shadows along the rocky walls.

‘Why, snow flowers, of course,’ Putin said, laughing loudly. ‘On a day like this the faces of the children and the women glow pink, your breath trails behind you like a cloud, and the vodka tastes especially fine. Ah, to be in Gorkiy on a day like this!’

The bastard ought to work for Intourist, Ramius told himself, except that Gorkiy is a city closed to foreigners. He had been there twice. It had struck him as a typical Soviet city, full of ramshackle buildings, dirty streets, and ill-clad citizens. As it was in most Russian cities, winter was Gorkiy’s best season. The snow hid all the dirt. Ramius, half Lithuanian, had childhood memories of a better place, a coastal village whose Hanseatic origin had left rows of presentable buildings.

It was unusual for anyone other than a Great Russian to be aboard – much less command – a Soviet naval vessel. Marko’s father, Aleksandr Ramius, had been a hero of the Party, a dedicated, believing Communist who had served Stalin faithfully and well. When the Soviets first occupied Lithuania in 1940, the elder Ramius was instrumental in rounding up political dissidents, shop owners, priests, and anyone else who might have been troublesome to the new regime. All were shipped off to fates that now even Moscow could only guess at. When the Germans invaded a year later, Aleksandr fought heroically as a political commissar, and was later to distinguish himself in the Battle of Leningrad. In 1944 he returned to his native land with the spearhead of the Eleventh Guards Army to wreak bloody vengeance on those who had collaborated with the Germans or been suspected of such. Marko’s father had been a true Soviet hero – and Marko was deeply ashamed to be his son. His mother’s health had been broken during the endless siege of Leningrad. She died giving birth to him, and he was raised by his paternal grandmother in Lithuania while his father strutted through the Party Central Committee in Vilnius, awaiting his promotion to Moscow. He got that, too, and was a candidate member of the Politburo when his life was cut short by a heart attack.

Marko’s shame was not total. His father’s prominence had made his current goal a possibility, and Marko planned to wreak his own vengeance on the Soviet Union, enough, perhaps, to satisfy the thousands of his countrymen who had died before he was ever born.

‘Where we are going, Ivan Yurievich, it will be colder still.’

Putin clapped his captain’s shoulder. Was his affection feigned or real? Marko wondered. Probably real. Ramius was an honest man, and he recognized that this short, loud oaf did have some human feelings.

‘Why is it, Comrade Captain, that you always seem glad to leave the Rodina and go to sea?’

Ramius smiled behind his binoculars. ‘A seaman has one country, Ivan Yurievich, but two wives. You never understand that. Now I go to my other wife, the cold, heartless one that owns my soul.’ Ramius paused. The smile vanished. ‘My only wife, now.’

Putin was quiet for once, Marko noted. The political officer had been there, had cried real tears as the coffin of polished pine rolled into the cremation chamber. For Putin the death of Natalia Bogdanova Ramius had been a cause of grief, but beyond that the act of an uncaring God whose existence he regularly denied. For Ramius it had been a crime committed not by God but the State. An unnecessary, monstrous crime, one that demanded punishment.

‘Ice.’ The lookout pointed.

‘Loose-pack ice, starboard side of the channel, or perhaps something calved off the east-side glacier. We’ll pass well clear,’ Kamarov said.

‘Captain!’ The bridge speaker had a metallic voice. ‘Message from fleet headquarters.’

‘Read it.’

‘“Exercise area clear. No enemy vessels in vicinity. Proceed as per orders. Signed, Korov, Fleet Commander.”’

‘Acknowledged,’ Ramius said. The speaker clicked off. ‘So, no Amerikantsi about?’

‘You doubt the fleet commander?’ Putin inquired.

‘I hope he is correct,’ Ramius replied, more sincerely than his political officer would appreciate. ‘But you remember our briefings.’

Putin shifted on his feet. Perhaps he was feeling the cold.

‘Those American 688-class submarines, Ivan, the Los Angeleses. Remember what one of their officers told our spy? That they could sneak up on a whale and bugger it before it knew they were there? I wonder how the KGB got that bit of information. A beautiful Soviet agent, trained in the ways of the decadent West, too skinny, the way the imperialists like their women, blonde hair …’ The captain grunted amusement. ‘Probably the American officer was a boastful boy, trying to find a way to do something similar to our agent, no? And feeling his liquor, like most sailors. Still. The American Los Angeles class, and the new British Trafalgars, those we must guard against. They are a threat to us.’

‘The Americans are good technicians. Comrade Captain,’ Putin said, ‘but they are not giants. Their technology is not so awesome. Nasha lutcha,’ he concluded. Ours is better.

Ramius nodded thoughtfully, thinking to himself that zampoliti really ought to know something about the ships they supervised, as mandated by Party doctrine.

‘Ivan, didn’t the farmers around Gorkiy tell you it is the wolf you do not see that you must fear? But don’t be overly concerned. With this ship we will teach them a lesson, I think.’

‘As I told the Main Political Administration,’ Putin clapped Ramius’ shoulder again, ‘Red October is in the best of hands!’

Ramius and Kamarov both smiled at that. You son of a bitch! the captain thought, saying in front of my men that you must pass on my fitness to command! A man who could not command a rubber raft on a calm day! A pity you will not live to eat those words, Comrade Political Officer, and spend the rest of your life in the gulag for that misjudgement. It would almost be worth leaving you alive.

A few minutes later the chop began to pick up, making the submarine roll. The movement was accentuated by their height above the deck, and Putin made excuses to go below. Still a weak-legged sailor. Ramius shared the observation silently with Kamarov, who smiled agreement. Their unspoken contempt for the zampolit was a most un-Soviet thought.

The next hour passed quickly. The water grew rougher as they approached the open sea, and their icebreaker escort began to wallow on the swells. Ramius watched her with interest. He had never been on an icebreaker, his entire career having been in submarines. They were more comfortable, but also more dangerous. He was accustomed to the danger, though, and the years of experience would stand him in good stead now.

‘Sea buoy in sight, Captain.’ Kamarov pointed. The red lighted buoy was riding actively on the waves.

‘Control room, what is the sounding?’ Ramius asked over the bridge telephone.

‘One hundred metres below the keel, Comrade Captain.’

‘Increase speed to two-thirds, come left ten degrees.’ Ramius looked at Kamarov. ‘Signal our course change to Purga, and hope he doesn’t turn the wrong way.’

Kamarov reached for the small blinker light stowed under the bridge coaming. The Red October began to accelerate slowly, her 30,000-ton bulk resisting the power of her engines. Presently the bow wave grew to a three-metre standing arc of water; man-made combers rolled down the missile deck, splitting against the front of the sail. The Purga altered course to starboard, allowing the submarine to pass well clear.

Ramius looked aft at the bluffs of the Kola Fjord. They had been carved to this shape millennia before by the remorseless pressure of towering glaciers. How many times in his twenty years of service with the Red Banner Northern Fleet had he looked at the wide, flat U-shape? This would be the last. One way or another, he’d never go back. Which way would it turn out? Ramius admitted to himself that he didn’t much care. Perhaps the stories his grandmother had taught him were true, about God and the reward for a good life. He hoped so – it would be good if Natalia were not truly dead. In any case, there was no turning back. He had left a letter in the last mailbag taken off before sailing. There was no going back after that.

‘Kamarov, signal to Purga: “Diving at –,”’ he checked his watch, ‘“– 1320 hours. Exercise OCTOBER FROST begins as scheduled. You are released to other assigned duties. We will return as scheduled.”’

Kamarov worked the trigger on the blinker light to transmit the message. The Purga responded at once, and Ramius read the flashing signal unaided: ‘IF THE WHALES DON’T EAT YOU. GOOD LUCK TO RED OCTOBER!’

Ramius lifted the phone again, pushing the button for the sub’s radio room. He had the same message transmitted to fleet headquarters, Severomorsk. Next he addressed the control room.

‘Depth under the keel?’

‘One hundred forty metres. Comrade Captain.’

‘Prepare to dive.’ He turned to the lookout and ordered him below. The boy moved towards the hatch. He was probably glad to return to the warmth below, but took the time for one last look at the cloudy sky, and receding cliffs. Going to sea on a submarine was always exciting, and always a little sad.

‘Clear the bridge. Take the conn when you get below, Gregoriy.’ Kamarov nodded and dropped down the hatch, leaving the captain alone.

Ramius made one last careful scan of the horizon. The sun was barely visible aft, the sky leaden, the sea black except for the splash of whitecaps. He wondered if he were saying good-bye to the world. If so, he would have preferred a more cheerful view of it.

Before sliding down he inspected the hatch seat, pulling it shut with a chain and making sure the automatic mechanism functioned properly. Next he dropped eight metres down the inside of the sail to the pressure hull, then two more into the control room. A michman (warrant officer) shut the second hatch and with a powerful spin turned the locking wheel as far as it would go.

‘Gregoriy?’ Ramius asked.

‘Straight board shut,’ the navigator said crisply, pointing to the diving board. All hull-opening indicator lights showed green, safe. ‘All systems aligned and checked for dive. The compensation is entered. We are rigged for dive.’

The captain made his own visual inspection of mechanical, electrical, and hydraulic indicators. He nodded, and the michman of the watch unlocked the vent controls.

‘Dive,’ Ramius ordered, moving to the periscope to relieve Vasily Borodin, his starpom (executive officer). Kamarov pulled the diving alarm, and the hull reverberated with the racket of a loud buzzer.

‘Flood the main ballast tanks. Rig out the diving planes. Ten degrees down-angle on the planes,’ Kamarov ordered, his eyes alert to see that every crewman did his job exactly. Ramius listened carefully but did not look. Kamarov was the best young seaman he had ever commanded, and had long since earned his captain’s trust.

The Red October’s hull was filled with the noise of rushing air as vents at the top of the ballast tanks were opened and water entering from the tank floods at the bottom chased the buoying air out. It was a lengthy process, for the submarine had many such tanks, each carefully subdivided by numerous cellular baffles. Ramius adjusted the periscope lens to look down and saw the black water change briefly to foam.

The Red October was the largest and finest command Ramius had ever had, but the sub had one major flaw. She had plenty of engine power and a new drive system that he hoped would befuddle American and Soviet submarines alike, but she was so big that she changed depth like a crippled whale. Slow going up, even slower going down.

‘Scope under.’ Ramius stepped away from the instrument after what seemed a long wait. ‘Down periscope.’

‘Passing forty metres,’ Kamarov said.

‘Level off at one hundred metres.’ Ramius watched his crewmen now. The first dive could make experienced men shudder, and half his crew were farmboys straight from training camp. The hull popped and creaked under the pressure of the surrounding water, something that took getting used to. A few of the younger men went pale but stood rigidly upright.

Kamarov began the procedure for levelling off at the proper depth. Ramius watched with a pride he might have felt for his own son as the lieutenant gave the necessary orders with precision. He was the first officer Ramius had recruited. The control room crew snapped to his command. Five minutes later the submarine slowed her descent at ninety metres and settled the next ten to a perfect stop at one hundred.

‘Well done. Comrade Lieutenant. You have the conn. Slow to one-third speed. Have the sonarmen listen on all passive systems.’ Ramius turned to leave the control room, motioning Putin to follow him.

And so it began.

Ramius and Putin went aft to the submarine’s wardroom. The captain held the door open for the political officer, then closed and locked it behind himself. The Red October’s wardroom was a spacious affair for a submarine, located immediately forward of the galley, aft of the officer accommodations. Its walls were soundproofed, and the door had a lock because her designers had known that not everything the officers had to say was necessarily for the ears of the enlisted men. It was large enough for all of the October’s officers to eat as a group – though at least three of them would always be on duty. The safe containing the ship’s orders was here, not in the captain’s stateroom where a man might use his solitude to try opening it by himself. It had two dials. Ramius had one combination, Putin the other. Which was hardly necessary, since Putin undoubtedly knew their mission orders already. So did Ramius, but not all the particulars.

Putin poured tea as the captain checked his watch against the chronometer on the bulkhead. Fifteen minutes until he could open the safe. Putin’s courtesy made him uneasy.

‘Two more weeks of confinement,’ the zampolit said, stirring his tea.