书名：The Hunt for Red October:A Jack Ryan Novel (Book 1)猎杀红十月号 

作者：Tom Clancy汤姆·克兰西 

出版社名称：Berkley 

出版时间：2010 

语种：英文 

ISBN：9780425240335 

商品尺寸：10.8 x 3.5 x 17.5 cm 

包装：简装 

页数：656在美国出版界一片低迷的不景气声中，汤姆·克兰西可谓军事小说界窜起的一朵奇葩。他的成名作是The Hunt for Red October《猎杀红十月号》，此书因包含有大量真实详尽的技术数据和无可辩驳的内幕细节而引起了美国各界的极大震动，连里根也称之为“一个在技术上近乎完美的故事”，于是，克兰西便获得了“技术型惊险小说之父”的称号。汤姆·克兰西曾有十多部小说被《时代》杂志评为畅销书之冠，其作品便成为美国畅销书排行榜的常客，并缔造了蝉联榜首多周、上榜数十周之久的佳绩。克兰西在1989年出版的《迫切的危机》卖出了1,625,544本精装本，使他成为80年代畅销小说作家。 在一般谍报小说里，不乏玩世不恭、醇酒美女的情节描述，但克兰西的书中却从不见这类东西。他的每部小说的主题都与当前的政治形势密切相关。他笔下的人物，无论是医生、工程师、战士或情报员，个个都立场坚定、爱家爱国、正派之至，他从不在书中穿插绘声绘影的色情场面，“我的书里一定坚守一个原则：绝不写叫人脸红的东西。”这位军事小说大师虽无实际的军旅生活经验，但却靠着其对于科技、政治及军事的丰富涵养及深刻认识，铺陈了一个个栩栩如生、紧张刺激的冒险故事。其中涉及军事、国防情报作业及恐怖组织活动等逼真而详实的描述，甚至一度引起相关单位密切的注意。克兰西对军事技术的熟悉、对政治时局的洞察力和预见性确实令人吃惊，更令人惊讶的是，他在书中所记述的那些详实的技术数据和内幕资料竟然全部取材于报纸、电视和互联网等公开的资源媒体，而非像外界传闻的那样来自于美国的某秘密情报机构。 克兰西的作品，不但每部布局广大、深入多方层面，而且结构严谨、气势磅礴。故事中的主角，往往深深地结合了其本人的道德及价值观，正与克兰西向来率直、坦诚的个性不谋而合。尽管在成名后，每部作品皆为畅销书，并为他带来可观的财富，但这位大师级的小说家却仍秉持其一贯的生活态度及原则，只专注于其创作的小说领域中；将他对世界的热情及敏锐的观察力，透过一个个复杂人性的及情刻画节描述，严谨而完整地传达给每位读者，期待他们与作者共同进入一连串的冒险故事中，探索军事科技及谍报领域的种种奥秘。 The #1 New York Times bestseller that launched the phenomenal career of Tom Clancy—a gripping military thriller that introduced the world to his unforgettable hero, Jack Ryan—nominated as one of America’s best-loved novels by PBS’s The Great American Read. Somewhere under the freezing Atlantic, a Soviet sub commander has just made a fateful decision. The Red October is heading west. The Americans want her. The Russians want her back. The chase for the highly advanced nuclear submarine is on—and there’s only one man who can find her... Brilliant CIA analyst Jack Ryan has little interest in fieldwork, but when covert photographs of Red October land on his desk, Ryan soon finds himself in the middle of a high-stakes game of hide-and-seek played by two world powers—a game that could end in all-out war. Praise for The Hunt for Red October “Flawless...frighteningly genuine.”  — The Wall Street Journal  “Remarkable...intricate and nerve tingling.”  —  Clive Cussler “Gripping narrative...Navy buffs and thriller adepts have been mesmerized.”  — Time Praise for Tom Clancy “He constantly taps the current world situation for its imminent dangers and spins them into an engrossing tale.”  — The New York Times Book Review “A brilliant describer of events.”  — The Washington Post “No one can equal his talent for making military electronics and engineering intelligible and exciting... He remains the best!”  — Houston Chronicle汤姆·克兰西，美国军事历史和间谍小说作家，1947年出生于美国马里兰州。1969年毕业于罗耀拉学院英文文学专业后，他参加了陆军后备役军官培训，但因视力原因未能进入陆军服役，之后成为了一名保险公司职员。1973年汤姆·克兰西跳槽到了她妻子的祖父创建的保险公司，并于1980年买下了这间公司，也是在这一年，他开始利用业余时间创作小说。 1984年，汤姆·克兰西的处女作《猎杀红色十月号》出版，首印时他希望能出版5000本，实际上却印刷了45000本，并获得了时任美国总统里根的称赞。后来这本小说在全美发行超过两百三十万本，而小说中准确的描述甚至让汤姆·克兰西获得了与美军高级军官会面的机会。 随后汤姆·克兰西又出版了许多作品，基本上都成为了畅销小说。二十多年间，汤姆·克兰西共出版了79部作品（包含合著）。 1996年，汤姆·克兰西创作了部名为《总统命令》的小说，小说中描述了恐怖分子劫持波音747客机撞击美国国会山制造恐怖袭击的情节，与2001年发生的9-11恐怖袭击事件如出一辙，民间一直传言本拉登即是参考了这部小说设计的袭击方案。作家写的作品中的恐怖袭击方式被真实的恐怖分子使用，这一桥段也被《图书馆战争》的作者借鉴写入了自己的作品中。 2008年，法国游戏公司育碧娱乐软件公司购买了汤姆·克兰西的冠名权，将以其多部作品为背景打造系列游戏。 2013年10月1日，汤姆·克兰西于马里兰州一间医院去世，死因未向公众公开。 A little more than thirty years ago Tom Clancy was a Maryland insurance broker with a passion for naval history. Years before, he had been an English major at Baltimore’s Loyola College and had always dreamed of writing a novel. His first effort, The Hunt for Red October—the first of the phenomenally successful Jack Ryan novels—sold briskly as a result of rave reviews, then catapulted onto the New York Times bestseller list after President Reagan pronounced it “the perfect yarn.” From that day forward, Clancy established himself as an undisputed master at blending exceptional realism and authenticity, intricate plotting, and razor-sharp suspense. He passed away in October 2013. THE FIRST DAY FRIDAY, 3 DECEMBER The Red October 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-filled concrete box, one of the many specially built to shelter strategic missile submarines from the harsh elements. On its edge a collection of sailors and dockyard workers watched his ship sail in stolid Russian fashion, without a wave or a cheer. “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 propellers. The tug’s commander waved. Ramius returned the gesture. The tug had done a simple job, but done it quickly and well. 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 only sort of north wind in this part of the world. Late autumn had been surprisingly mild, and scarcely any snow had fallen in an area that measures it in meters; then a week before a major winter storm had savaged the Murmansk coast, breaking pieces off the Arctic icepack. The icebreaker was no formality. The Purga would butt aside any ice that might have drifted overnight into the channel. It would not do at all for the Soviet Navy’s newest missile submarine to be damaged by an errant chunk of frozen water. The water in the fjord was choppy, driven by the brisk wind. It began to lap over the October’s spherical bow, rolling back down the flat missile deck which lay before the towering black sail. The water was coated with the bilge oil of numberless ships, filth that would not evaporate in the low temperatures and that left a black ring on the rocky walls of the fjord as though from the bath of a slovenly giant. An altogether apt simile, Ramius thought. The Soviet giant cared little for the dirt it left on the face of the earth, he grumbled to himself. He had learned his seamanship as a boy on inshore fishing boats, and knew what it was to be in harmony with nature. “Increase speed to one-third,” he said. Kamarov repeated his captain’s order over the bridge telephone. The water stirred more as the October moved astern of the Purga. Captain Lieutenant Kamarov was the ship’s navigator, his last duty station having been harbor pilot for the large combatant vessels based on both sides of the wide inlet. The two officers kept a weather eye on the armed icebreaker three hundred meters ahead. The Purga’s after deck had a handful of crewmen stomping about in the cold, one wearing the white apron of a ship’s cook. They wanted to witness the Red October’s first operational cruise, and besides, sailors will do almost anything to break the monotony of their duties. Ordinarily it would have irritated Ramius to have his ship escorted out—the channel here was wide and deep—but not today. The ice was something to worry about. And so, for Ramius, was a great deal else. “So, my Captain, again we go to sea to serve and protect the Rodina!” Captain Second Rank Ivan Yurievich Putin poked his head through the hatch—without permission, as usual—and clambered up the ladder with the awkwardness of a landsman. The tiny control station was already crowded enough with the captain, the navigator, and a mute lookout. Putin was the ship’s zampolit (political officer). Everything he did was to serve the Rodina (Motherland), a word that had mystical connotations to a Russian and, along with V. I. Lenin, was the Communist party’s substitute for a godhead. “Indeed, Ivan,” Ramius replied with more good cheer than he felt. “Two weeks at sea. It is good to leave the dock. A seaman belongs at sea, not tied alongside, overrun with bureaucrats and workmen with dirty boots. And we will be warm.” “You find this cold?” Putin asked incredulously. For the hundredth time Ramius told himself that Putin was the perfect political officer. His voice was always too loud, his humor too affected. He never allowed a person to forget what he was. The perfect political officer, Putin was an easy man to fear. “I have been in submarines too long, my friend. I grow accustomed to moderate temperatures and a stable deck under my feet.” Putin did not notice the veiled insult. He’d been assigned to submarines after his first tour on destroyers had been cut short by chronic seasickness—and perhaps because he did not resent the close confinement aboard submarines, something that many men cannot tolerate. “Ah, Marko Aleksandrovich, in Gorkiy on a day like this, flowers bloom!” “And what sort of flowers might those be, Comrade Political Officer?” Ramius surveyed the fjord through his binoculars. At noon the sun was barely over the southeast horizon, casting orange light and purple shadows along the rocky walls. “Why, snow flowers, of course,” Putin said, laughing loudly. “On a day like this the faces of the children and the women glow pink, your breath trails behind you like a cloud, and the vodka tastes especially fine. Ah, to be in Gorkiy on a day like this!” The bastard ought to work for Intourist, Ramius told himself, except that Gorkiy is a city closed to foreigners. He had been there twice. It had struck him as a typical Soviet city, full of ramshackle buildings, dirty streets, and ill-clad citizens. As it was in most Russian cities, winter was Gorkiy’s best season. The snow hid all the dirt. Ramius, half Lithuanian, had childhood memories of a better place, a coastal village whose Hanseatic origin had left rows of presentable buildings.