The Hunt for Red October - Tom Clancy [174]
Ryan fired twice as he went around the tube. Four to go. His bullets clanged uselessly as they hit the forward bulkhead. There was a remote chance that a carom shot—no . . .He looked left and saw that Ramius was still with him, shading to the port side of the tubes. He had no gun. Why hadn't he gotten himself one?
Ryan took a deep breath and leaped around the next tube. The guy was waiting for this. Ryan dove to the deck, and the bullet missed him.
"Who are you?" Ryan asked, raising himself on his knees and leaning against the tube to catch his breath.
"A Soviet patriot! You are the enemy of my country, and you shall not have this ship!"
He was talking too much, Ryan thought. Good. Probably. "You have a name?"
"My name is of no account."
"How about a family?" Ryan asked.
"My parents will be proud of me."
A GRU agent. Ryan was certain. Not the political officer. His English was too good. Probably some kind of backup for the political officer. He was up against a trained field officer. Wonderful. A trained agent, and just like he said, a patriot. Not a fanatic, a man trying to do his duty. He was scared, but he'd do it.
And blow this whole fucking ship up, with me on it.
Still, Ryan knew he had an edge. The other guy had something he had to do. Ryan only had to stop him or delay him long enough. He went to the starboard side of the tube and looked around the edge with just his right eye. There was no light at his end of the compartment—another edge. Ryan could see him more easily than he could see Ryan.
"You don't have to die, my friend. If you just set the gun down . . ." And what? End up in a federal prison? More likely just disappear. Moscow could not learn that the Americans had their sub.
"And CIA will not kill me, eh?" the voice sneered, quavering. "I am no fool. If I am to die, it will be to my purpose, my friend!"
Then the light clicked off. Ryan had wondered how long that would take. Did it mean that he was finished whatever the hell he was doing? If so, in an instant they'd be all gone. Or maybe the guy just realized how vulnerable the light made him. Trained field officer or not, he was a kid, a frightened kid, and probably had as much to lose as Ryan had. Like hell, Ryan thought, I have a wife and two kids, and if I don't get to him fast, I'll sure as hell lose them.
Merry Christmas, kids, your daddy just got blown up. Sorry there's no body to bury, but you see . . .It occurred to Ryan to pray briefly—but for what? For help in killing another man? It's like this, Lord . . .
"Still with me, Captain?" he called out.
"Da."
That would give the GRU agent something to worry about. Ryan hoped the captain's presence would force the man to shade more to the port side of his tube. Ryan ducked and rushed around the port side of his. Three to go. Ramius followed suit on his side. He drew a shot, but Ryan heard it miss.
He had to stop, to rest. He was hyperventilating. It was the wrong time for that. He had been a marine lieutenant—for three whole months before the chopper crashed—and he was supposed to know what to do! He had led men. But it was a whole lot easier to lead forty men with rifles than it was to fight all by himself.
Think!
"Maybe we can make a deal," Ryan suggested.
"Ah, yes, we can decide which ear the shot comes in."
"Maybe you'd like being an American."
"And my parents, Yankee, what of them?"
"Maybe we can get them out," Ryan said from the starboard side of his tube, moving left as he waited for a reply. He jumped again. Now there were two missile tubes separating him from his friend in the GRU, who was probably trying to crosswire the warheads and make half a cubic mile of ocean turn to plasma.
"Come, Yankee, we will die together. Now only one puskatel separates us."
Ryan thought quickly. He couldn't remember how many times he'd fired, but the pistol held thirteen rounds. He'd have enough. The extra clip was useless. He could toss it one way and move the other, creating a diversion. Would it work? Shit! It worked in the movies. It was for damned sure that doing nothing