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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 harbor 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-fil ed
concrete box, one of the many special y built to shelter
strategic missile submarines from the harsh elements. On
its edge a col ection of sailors and dockyard workers
watched his ship sail in stolid Russian fashion, without a
“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
propel ers. The tug’s commander waved. Ramius
returned the gesture. The tug had done a simple job,
but done it quickly and wel . 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
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