Red Hammer 1994

by Ratcliffe, Robert

  “Don’t know.” Sprinting up two ladders, Chelson burst through the door into the combat information center. Total confusion reigned.

  “What’s going on?” No immediate answer.

  Chelson relieved the CIC watch officer on duty and motioned for the phone talker to bird-dog him around the space. “Tell me when you get manned and ready reports.”

  “Yes, sir,” answered the young sailor excitedly.

  The captain stepped out on bridge wing, studying the Russian frigate. So far she had not made a move. Within one minute, sailors and officers with general quarters stations on the bridge had arrived and were donning battle dress. The ship’s executive officer, the general quarters officer-of-the-deck, stepped toward the captain, buckling the strap on his helmet.

  “What the hell is going on, Skipper?”

  “Here, take a look at this,” answered the captain, handing the message to the XO.

  “My God, execute the CINCPAC OPLAN? Are they serious?”

  “No idea, but we’re not going to wait for clarification. I’ll be in CIC. I want to know the minute that frigate makes a change in course or speed or trains a gun mount. So far it looks like Ivan hasn’t got the word. Any questions?”

  “No, sir.”

  The captain strode through the door into the blackness of CIC, broken only by an occasional red light and the soft glow from radar repeaters and computer consoles. Instant transition from day to night forced him to stand there blinking. His sight would slowly be restored to capture the dim light. Near the large navy tactical data-system console he spied Chelson, the tactical action officer.

  “I saw the message, Skipper,” said Chelson grimly. “What are your orders?”

  “Where are the destroyer and the cruiser?” Chelson poked at the horizontal repeater. He touched two separate symbols, both diamonds, denoting hostiles, but there was no radar blip under them.

  The captain tugged at the stubble on his chin. “Lock on the frigate with both guns and open fire,” said the captain, poking at the flat screen. “When we’ve put the frigate out of action, we’ll steam southeast at flank speed and let loose Harpoons on the two to the northwest. How good is our last position on those two?”

  Chelson swallowed hard. The transition to combat had been too rapid. He finally answered his CO’s question. “It’s about half an hour old. They moved out of radar range, but we had a good course and speed on both of them. We could launch the helo for an update?”

  “We don’t have time,” responded the captain. “We’ll just spread the shots over a sector based on a DR from their last position and hope we get a couple of hits.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.”

  Chelson dutifully passed the orders over his headset.

  “Weapons free track 5147,” he ordered crisply. Those down the chain of command at other consoles understood the words but twisted their torsos to visibly spot the TAO. Yes, he was serious.

  The young officer at the gun fire control console pressed a square, plastic button and slewed the five-inch gun director to the azimuth of the frigate.

  “Locked on target,” he reported in less than ten seconds. The Russian frigate’s electronic warfare suite would instantly detect the fire-control radar’s unique emissions. But it would be too late for anything but curses and prayers.

  The sharp retort of the twin guns fore and aft jerked the bridge sailors as each projectile blasted from the slender gray barrels in sheets of flame and smoke. The first two rounds were short, benchmark water spouts mushrooming near the frigate. The next salvo was dead on target, erupting violently near the Russian frigate’s bridge and aft superstructure. The guns continued to pound away unmercifully.

  “CIC, Bridge,” the executive officer reported excitedly, “multiple hits on the frigate. No topside activity, nothing.”

  After more than fifteen hits on the Russian frigate, Chelson ordered cease-fire. By then she was dead in the water with a port list; topside fires roared the length of the hapless ship. Thick, black smoke billowed skyward, marking her grave in the icy waters of the North Pacific.

  Texas swung briskly to port, changing course to unmask the Harpoon canisters. When steadied up, Chelson signaled to engage the other two hostiles. With only an estimated position, they would launch each Harpoon down a bearing line, leaving it up to the super-smart missile to figure out where the target lay.

  “Ready to fire,” reported the officer at the Harpoon control panel.

  “Fire,” was the order.

  The first Harpoon burst out of its canister in a cloud of billowing smoke and flame. The roar was deafening. It was followed by two more. Texas changed course, firing another salvo from the quad canister on the opposite side.

  “All birds away, Captain,” reported Chelson. “Three at the cruiser and two at the destroyer.”

  “Very well,” answered the captain. “Set EMCON. Secure all radar and communications emissions. I’m going back to the bridge.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.” He stepped quickly through the oval doorway and barked an order at his number two. “Come right to one nine zero.”

  The order was properly repeated back followed by an “aye, sir.”

  “XO, come here.” The captain was leaning over the navigator’s chart, formulating a plan for rendezvousing with the battle group.

  “What is it, Skipper?”

  “We’ll steam southwest for a few hours to see if we can throw Ivan off our trail. They’ll expect us to head due east. Our biggest problem will be stumbling across a Russian submarine. Maintain twenty-six knots and commence zigzagging.”

  “Aye, aye, Skipper.”

  “I want a meeting of all department heads in my cabin in fifteen minutes. Get the navigator to relieve you. I’ll be down in radio.”

  “Bridge, Radio, is the captain there?” said a voice over the 21MC. “We have additional flash traffic.”

  “Radio, Bridge, the captain is on his way.”

  CHAPTER 18

  USS Michigan, the second Trident ballistic-missile submarine of the Ohio class, was securely berthed outboard of USS Georgia at Delta pier, Naval Submarine Base, Bangor, Washington. As big as a World War II cruiser, her seventeen thousand tons were masked by the graceful lines of her cigar-shaped albacore hull, especially when hidden beneath the blue-green water that lapped against the pier. Like a majestic black iceberg, one had to see a Trident perched naked on supporting wooden blocks in dry dock to truly appreciate her immenseness and her stark beauty.

  Both PACFLT boats were in refit following rigorous seventy-five-day patrols in the Northern Pacific. Michigan had been recuperating for four hectic weeks. Georgia had docked only three days previously, fresh from sea. Her sailors had spilled onto the dock soon after the mooring lines had gone over, replaced by her second crew for the next patrol. And so it went in the Trident fleet. Two crews per boat, over fifty percent of the boats at sea, month after month, year after year.

  The eighteen Trident ballistic-missile submarines of the United States Navy proudly carried the torch first lit with the commissioning of USS George Washington in the early 60s. The old boats were long since scrapped, but the new Tridents, with their C-4 and D-5 MIRVed nuclear-tipped missiles, kept the faith. Just like thirty years earlier, the navy’s stealthy missile boats secured the peace. Despite the evaporation of the Cold War and the disintegration of the Soviet Empire, the top-secret target grid coordinates for the missile warheads still lay in Russia. The C-4s, or Trident 1s, less accurate and carrying a smaller punch, were assigned the urban-industrial target base, while the super-accurate D-5s or Trident 2s threatened nuclear delivery systems and command and control. The Tridents continued to generate more heartburn in the Kremlin than any missile since the ancient Atlas E ICBMs in the early sixties.

  Michigan’s Blue Crew was commanded by Captain Stephen Jackson. Jackson, lean and trim for his forty-five years and a top Naval Academy graduate, was a veteran of twelve SSBN patrols, mostly in the older Poseidon submarines n
ow decommissioned and resting in the boneyard. This command tour was his first in an SSBN and the culmination of twenty-four arduous years assigned to the boats. It had been backbreaking, yet immensely rewarding. He rankled having to share Michigan with the commanding officer of the Gold Crew. Captain Hallowell was a fine naval officer and a close personal friend, but there is a strong emotional bond between a captain and his ship. Reporting on board for turnover was always discomforting. It took weeks before he truly felt she was once again his.

  The Friday before Labor Day was hot and clear, with a refreshing, light breeze blowing from the west, rippling the calm Hood Canal. The crew eagerly awaited the long holiday weekend, their last respite before another grueling patrol. Jackson relaxed in the Conning station atop the massive black sail jutting skyward from Michigan’s hull. The fairwater planes attached to the sail made him feel like he was soaring in the cockpit of one of those stealth bombers the air force raved about. But he personally commanded more destructive power than they could ever imagine. His twenty-four D-5 missiles carried enough brute power to dismantle a century of civilization in half the world. It was a sobering proposition, but one that all SSBN skippers lived with and learned to accept. Directly behind him, the multipurpose and attack periscopes towered overhead like pine trees, their mottled camouflage paint scheme contrasting with the flat black of the sail.

  The scenery surrounding Bangor was breathtaking. Sunlight danced and shimmered off the azure water of the Hood Canal, framed by stands of tall pines as far as the eye could see. It looked like a scene from a glossy travel brochure. Jackson ran his fingers through the remnants of his sandy brown hair. Touches of gray had only recently sprouted around his ears, but he had lost the majority of his crop on top. Deep lines, fed by years of constant worry and lack of sleep, ran under his intense brown eyes and down to the corners of his mouth. His wife teased him that he was far too serious. But his toughness was born of a crushing accountability that burned out most nuclear navy men long before thirty-five, sending them packing to the civilian world with ulcers and broken marriages. The unforgiving standards of the navy’s nuclear-power program stressed the twin tenants of a near-religious attention to detail and adherence to written procedures. Those who failed their masters at Naval Reactors were summarily cashiered. A handful like Jackson thrived, the lure of command at sea outweighing any short-term discomfort. He was a different breed, and he knew it. The obnoxious growl of an old-fashioned-looking sound-powered phone snapped him back to reality. “Captain.”

  “Sir,” reported the chief engineer from down in the bowels of the boat, “we’ve finished the reactor instrumentation tests. We’ll clean things up and then conduct a few casualty drills with the duty section. We should have everything wrapped in two or three hours. Still want to steam the plant over the weekend?”

  “Yeah,” Jackson replied. “Public Works called after lunch, and they’re still having problems with the shore power. I don’t want any problems this weekend. The last thing I want is some late-night phone call.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” the chief engineer answered, “I’ll let you know when we’re done.”

  “I may not be here,” Jackson said, “I’ve got a party tonight, so I’ll be going ashore early. Tell the command duty officer.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Jackson savored one final sweep of the horizon before descending. Then the phone growled again.

  “Captain,” he answered once more.

  “Sir, this is the comm officer. Could you please come to Radio? I’m not sure I understand this message.” Jackson shook his head. Three freshly minted nuke officers had joined the wardroom during the stand down; the comm officer was one. He swore the quality was slipping from when he went through the program over twenty years earlier. Maybe he was getting too set in his ways.

  “How come we old-timers always think we were better in our day than the current JOs joining the fleet?” he chuckled to himself.

  “What is it?” Jackson finally asked.

  “I think you had better see for yourself, sir.”

  “Very well, I’ll be right down,” he replied, annoyed the young man had screwed up his afternoon daydreaming.

  Jackson slipped through the thick steel hatch at his feet and into the dark, confined trunk leading to Michigan’s pressure hull. At the bottom of the ladder, he descended through the main hatch into the upper reaches of the boat. Radio was on the first level just aft of the control room, behind an aluminum cipher-locked door. He was greeted by the comm officer and the chief radioman, both worried. The chief’s look bothered him.

  The nervous young comm officer stammered while the captain scanned the short message. “I don’t understand this, Skipper; it’s an emergency dispersal order. Looks like the real thing. But it’s got to be a mistake. This sure isn’t funny right before Labor Day.”

  The lines on Jackson’s forehead deepened. He rubbed his chin and raised his eyebrows.

  “It’s authentic,” he observed in guarded tones. It took a few seconds for the impact to hit. Shit, he thought, I don’t believe this. Then his heart began to race as he catalogued the implications. Why would CINCPACFLT order an emergency dispersal? And there wasn’t a clue as to a time limit. Immediately, twenty-four hours, or what? He had forgotten the different response codes in the applicable OPNAV instruction stuffed in some out-of-the-way safe. He would have the duty officer retrieve it.

  “Chief, let me use the 21MC.” The veteran sailor stepped aside, skirting the racks of radio gear to give the captain breathing room. Before Jackson could depress the lever, the chief radioman interrupted.

  “Skipper,” he said, staring at the clattering teletype, “another message. Probably a cancellation, sir. I’ll bet they realized the screwup. Boy is somebody’s tit going to be in the wringer over this one.”

  When the chief ripped the yellow printout from the teletype, his jaw dropped. Beads of sweat in pooled on his brow. Speechless, he passed it to Jackson like a sacred parchment. A quick look for Jackson sufficed.

  “Oh, my God,” Jackson muttered under his breath. It was a defense condition (DEFCON) change from five to one, moving them from peacetime to war in one quick stroke. An attack was imminent. He leaned against an equipment rack; his eyes pointed skyward. Something was wrong, terribly wrong, but he had zero information and precious little time to act.

  “What the hell?” he reflected silently. His head was spinning. “Get a grip,” he told himself. He sucked in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “How much time do I have?” he thought. He turned and faced the frozen lieutenant.

  “Mr. Campbell,” he ordered sternly, “run forward and sound general quarters.”

  “What?” Lieutenant Campbell stammered. His face scrunched in building panic.

  “You heard me, get moving.” Jackson’s scowl sent the officer scurrying on his way. “Chief, find the XO.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “I’ll be in Control.”

  Jackson covered the short distance to Control, bumping sailors flying to GQ stations. The first face he encountered in Control was the chief of the boat, Master Chief Wosinski. The chief’s grizzled appearance concealed his playful sense of humor and an uncompromising concern for his young charges. A twenty-nine-year veteran, the master chief had seen just about everything, but stood bewildered like the others, his hands resting impatiently on his hips. A frown spread underneath his ample mustache, and a cigarette hung from his lower lip. The master chief had a bad habit of smoking during GQ drills, but Jackson overlooked it.

  “Skipper, what the hell is going on?” he exclaimed, flicking half an inch of gray ash into an adjacent butt kit. The cigarette immediately went back into his mouth for a quick drag. Twenty pairs of eyes were on the master chief, who now served as their mouthpiece.

  Jackson leaned forward, wanting some semblance of privacy. “I don’t have time to explain. Go aft to the small-arms locker. Post guards at the hatches. No one leaves the boat except any stray yardb
irds, understand? We’ll secure the hatches in fifteen minutes. Get shore power disconnected and the cables out of the engine room. I’ll tell the Engineering watch.”

  The master chief was dumfounded.

  “Master Chief, did you hear me? We don’t have time to screw around.”

  “Yes, sir, but what am I…” Jackson cut him off with a hard stare. The master chief raised his eye brows and wheeled. He had his orders. On the way aft he grabbed two sailors in Control after mumbling, “Follow me.”

  At two minutes, manned and ready reports poured into Control from throughout the boat. The XO barely beat the deadline, having been topside negotiating a last-minute work order with the shipyard shift supervisor. He strode over out of breath, puzzled, but outwardly calm. A veteran of three missile boats and thirteen patrols, he had experienced drills at much more inconvenient times, like sitting on the can on a quiet Sunday morning reading the newspaper. Jackson matter-of-factly handed him the pair of messages. His face assumed a pained, ashen look as he read and reread them. The executive officer’s normal emotionless demeanor cracked.

  “Mother of God,” he exclaimed, staring at the DEFCON change. He then asked the popular question of the day. “What the hell is going on?” He looked up incredulously. “Are we under attack?” he asked no one in particular. His mind reeled through a series of scenarios, but hit a dead end and abruptly skidded to a stop.

  Jackson shook the man’s thick upper arm to break his debilitating trance. When the executive officer looked up, Jackson asked,. “What percentage of the crew do we have aboard?”

  It took a few seconds for the question to register. “I’m not exactly sure, Skipper,” he stammered. “At least a half, maybe two-thirds. Enough to man the underway stations.”

  “How about stores?”

  “Fully loaded for sea trials,” the executive officer answered, the color slowly returning to his face.

  Before Jackson could ask another question the master chief showed up with three armed sailors. Jackson noticed how sailors always looked misplaced in flak vests and helmets and carrying rifles and shotguns.