The Hunt for Red October - Tom Clancy [141]
"Attention, this is the captain speaking," Mancuso said into the sound-powered communications system. The electrically powered speakers were turned off, and his word would be relayed by watchstanders in all compartments. "They circled us again without picking us up. Well done, everybody. We can all breathe again." He placed the handset back in its holder. "Mr. Goodman, let's get back on her tail."
"Aye, Skipper. Left five degrees rudder, helm."
"Left five degrees rudder, aye." The helmsman acknowledged the order, turning his wheel as he did so. Ten minutes later the Dallas was back astern of her contact.
A constant fire control solution was set up on the attack director. The Mark 48 torpedoes would barely have sufficient distance to arm themselves before striking the target in twenty-nine seconds.
Ministry of Defense, Moscow
"And how are you feeling, Misha?"
Mikhail Semyonovich Filitov looked up from a large pile of documents. He looked flushed and feverish still. Dmitri Ustinov, the defense minister, worried about his old friend. He should have stayed in the hospital another few days as the doctors had advised. But Misha had never been one to take advice, only orders.
"I feel good, Dmitri. Any time you walk out of a hospital you feel good—even if you are dead," Filitov smiled.
"You still look sick," Ustinov observed.
"Ah! At our age you always look sick. A drink, Comrade Defense Minister?" Filitov hoisted a bottle of Stolychnaya vodka from a desk drawer.
"You drink too much, my friend," Ustinov chided.
"I do not drink enough. A bit more antifreeze and I would not have caught cold last week." He poured two tumblers half full and held one out to his guest. "Here, Dmitri, it is cold outside."
Both men tipped their glasses, took a gulp of the clear liquid, and expelled their breath with an explosive pah.
"I feel better already." Filitov's laugh was hoarse. "Tell me, what became of that Lithuanian renegade?"
"We're not sure," Ustinov said.
"Still? Can you tell me now what his letter said?"
Ustinov took another swallow before explaining. When he finished the story Filitov was leaning forward at his desk, shocked.
"Mother of God! And he has still not been found? How many heads?"
"Admiral Korov is dead. He was arrested by the KGB, of course, and died of a brain hemorrhage soon thereafter?"
"A nine-millimeter hemorrhage, I trust," Filitov observed coldly. "How many times have I said it? What goddamned use is a navy? Can we use it against the Chinese? Or the NATO armies that threaten us—no! How many rubles does it cost to build and fuel those pretty barges for Gorshkov, and what do we get for it—nothing! Now he loses one submarine and the whole fucking fleet cannot find it. It is a good thing that Stalin is not alive"
Ustinov agreed. He was old enough to remember what happened then to anyone who reported results short of total success. "In any case, Padorin may have saved his skin. There is one extra element of control on the submarine"
"Padorin!" Filitov took another gulp of his drink. "That eunuch! I've only met him, what, three times. A cold fish, even for a commissar. He never laughs, even when he drinks. Some Russian he is. Why is it, Dmitri, that Gorshkov keeps so many old farts like that around?"
Ustinov smiled into his drink. "The same reason I do, Misha" Both men laughed.
"So, how will Comrade Padorin save our secrets and keep his skin? Invent a time machine?"
Ustinov explained to his old friend. There weren't many men whom the defense minister could speak to and feel comfortable with. Filitov drew the pension of a full colonel of tanks and still wore the uniform proudly. He had faced combat for the first time on the fourth day of the Great Patriotic War, as the Fascist invaders were driving east. Lieutenant Filitov had met them southeast of Brest Litovsk with a troop of T-34/76 tanks. A good officer, he had survived his first encounter with Guderian's panzers, retreated in good order, and