The Hunt for Red October - Tom Clancy [2]
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 even 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, blond 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 misjudgment. 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