The Hunt for Red October. Tom Clancy
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depth to get more detailed instructions from SSIX, the submarine satellite information exchange, a geosynchronous communications satellite used exclusively by submarines.
The tactical situation was becoming clearer, though its strategic implications were beyond his ability to judge. The ten-mile move eastward had given them adequate range information for their initial three contacts and another Alfa which had turned up a few minutes later. The first of the contacts, Vic 6, was now within torpedo range. A Mark 48 was locked in on her, and there was no way that her skipper could know the Dallas was here. Vic 6 was a deer in his sights – but it wasn’t hunting season.
Though not much faster than the Victors and Charlies, and ten knots slower than the smaller Alfas, the Dallas and her sisters could move almost silently at nearly twenty knots. This was a triumph of engineering and design, the product of decades of work. But moving without being detected was useful only if the hunter could at the same time detect his quarry. Sonars lost effectiveness as their carrier platform increased speed. The Dallas’ BQQ-5 retained twenty percent effectiveness at twenty knots, nothing to cheer about. Submarines running at high speed from one point to another were blind and unable to harm anyone. As a result, the operating pattern of an attack submarine was much like that of a combat infantryman. With a rifleman it was called dash-and-cover; with a sub, sprint-and-drift. After detecting a target, a sub would race to a more advantageous position, stop to reacquire her prey, then dash again until a firing position had been achieved. The sub’s quarry would be moving too, and if the submarine could gain position in front of it, she had then only to lie in wait like a great hunting cat to strike.
The submariner’s trade required more than skill. It required instinct, and an artist’s touch; monomaniacal confidence, and the aggressiveness of a professional boxer. Mancuso had all of these things. He had spent fifteen years learning his craft, watching a generation of commanders as a junior officer, listening carefully at the frequent round-table discussions which made submarining a very human profession, its lessons passed on by verbal tradition. Time on shore had been spent training in a variety of computerized simulators, attending seminars, comparing notes and ideas with his peers. Aboard surface ships and ASW aircraft he learned how the ‘enemy’ – the surface sailors – played his own hunting game.
Submariners lived by a simple motto: there are two kinds of ships, submarines … and targets. What would Dallas be hunting? Mancuso wondered. Russian subs? Well, if that was the game and the Russians kept racing around like this, it ought to be easy enough. He and the Swiftsure had just bested a team of NATO ASW experts, men whose countries depended on their ability to keep the sea-lanes open. His boat and his crew were performing as well as any man could ask. In Jones he had one of the ten best sonar operators in the fleet. Mancuso was ready, whatever the game might be. As on the opening day of the hunting season, outside considerations were dwindling away. He was becoming a weapon.
CIA HEADQUARTERS
It was 4.45 in the morning, and Ryan was dozing fitfully in the back of a CIA Chevy taking him from the Marriott to Langley. He’d been over for what? twenty hours? About that, enough time to see his boss, see Skip, get the presents for Sally, and check the house. The house looked to be in good shape. He had rented it to an instructor at the Naval Academy. He could have gotten five times the rent from someone else, but he didn’t want any wild parties in his home. The officer was a Bible-thumper from Kansas, and made an acceptable custodian.
Five and a half hours of sleep in the past – thirty? Something like that; he was too tired to look at his watch. It wasn’t fair. Sleeplessness murders judgement. But it made little sense telling himself that, and telling the admiral would make less.
He was in Greer’s office five minutes later.
‘Sorry to have to wake you up, Jack.’
‘Oh, that’s all right, sir,’ Ryan returned the lie. ‘What’s up?’
‘Come on over and grab some coffee. It’s going to be a long day.’
Ryan dropped his topcoat on the sofa and walked over to pour a mug of navy brew. He decided against Coffee Mate or sugar. Better to endure it naked and get the caffeine full force.
‘Any place I can shave around here, sir?’
‘Head’s behind the door, over in the corner.’ Greer handed him a yellow sheet torn from a telex machine. ‘Look at this.’
TOP SECRET
102200Z*****38976
NSA SIGINT BULLETIN REDNAV OPS
MESSAGE FOLLOWS
AT 083145Z NSA MONITOR STATIONS [DELETED] [DELETED] AND [DELETED] RECORDED AN ELF BROADCAST FROM REDFLEET ELF FACILITY SEMIPOLIPINSK XX MESSAGE DURATION 10 MINUTES XX 6 ELEMENTS XX
ELF SIGNAL IS EVALUATED AS ‘PREP’ BROADCAST TO REDFLEET SUBMARINES AT SEA XX
AT 090000Z AN ‘ALL SHIPS’ BROADCAST WAS MADE BY REDFLEET HEADQUARTERS CENTRAL COMMO STATION TULA AND SATELLITES THREE AND FIVE XX BANDS USED: HF VHF UHF XX MESSAGE DURATION 39 SECONDS WITH 2 REPEATS IDENTICAL CONTENT MADE AT 091000Z AND 092000Z XX 475 5-ELEMENT CIPHER GROUPS XX
SIGNAL COVERAGE AS FOLLOWS: NORTHERN FLEET AREA BALTIC FLEET AREA AND MED SQUADRON AREA XX NOTE FAR EAST FLEET NOT REPEAT NOT AFFECTED BY THIS BROADCAST XX
NUMEROUS ACKNOWLEDGEMENT SIGNALS EMANATED FROM
ADDRESSES IN AREAS CITED ABOVE XX ORIGIN AND TRAFFIC ANALYSIS TO FOLLOW XX NOT COMPLETED AT THIS TIME XX
BEGINNING AT 100000Z NSA MONITOR STATION [DELETED] [DELETED] AND [DELETED] RECORDED INCREASED HF AND VHF TRAFFIC AT REDFLEET BASES POLYARNYY SEVEROMORSK PECHENGA TALLINN KRONSTADT AND EASTERN MED AREA XX ADDITIONAL HF AND VHF TRAFFIC FROM REDFLEET ASSETS AT SEA XX AMPLIFICATION TO FOLLOW XX
EVALUATION: A MAJOR UNPLANNED REDFLEET OPERATION HAS BEEN ORDERED WITH FLEET ASSETS REPORTING AVAILABILITY AND STATUS XX
END BULLETIN
NSA SENDS
102215Z BREAKBREAK
Ryan looked at his watch. ‘Fast work by the boys at NSA, and fast work by our duty watch officers, getting everybody up.’ He drained his mug and went over for a refill. ‘What’s the word on signal traffic analysis?’
‘Here.’ Greer handed him a second telex sheet.
Ryan scanned it. ‘That’s a lot of ships. Must be nearly everything they have at sea. Not much on the ones in port, though.’
‘Landline,’ Greer observed. ‘The ones in port can phone fleet ops, Moscow. By the way, that is every ship they have at sea in the Western Hemisphere. Every damned one. Any ideas?’
‘Let’s see, we have that increased activity in the Barents Sea. Looks like a medium-sized ASW exercise. Maybe they’re expanding it. Doesn’t explain the increased activity in the Baltic and Med, though. Do they have a war game laid on?’
‘Nope. They just finished CRIMSON STORM a month ago.’
Ryan nodded. ‘Yeah, they usually take a couple of months to evaluate that much data – and who’d want to play games up there at this time of the year? The weather’s supposed to be a bitch. Have they ever run a major game in December?’
‘Not a big one, but most of these acknowledgements are from submarines, son, and subs don’t care a whole lot about the weather.’
‘Well, given some other preconditions, you might call this ominous. No idea what the signal said, eh?’
‘No. They’re using computer-based ciphers, same as us. If the spooks at the NSA can read them, they’re not telling me about it.’ In theory the National Security Agency came under the titular control of the director of Central Intelligence. In fact it was a law unto itself. ‘That’s what traffic analysis is all about. Jack. You try to guess intentions by who’s talking to whom.’
‘Yes, sir, but when