Red Hammer 1994

by Ratcliffe, Robert

  The master chief stood erect, surveying the mood of the crew. He was scared stiff but didn’t show it. “Guards are posted, Skipper. What now?”

  “I’ll tell you in a minute.”

  Jackson stepped to the center of Control and held down the lever on the 1MC. He paused. He sighed heavily and began.

  “This is the captain. Everyone listen up. We don’t have much time. We’ve just received an emergency order to sortie. And to make matters worse, a DEFCON ONE alert. I honestly don’t know what’s going on. If I did, I’d tell you. But we’re going to get the hell out of here, fast.” It was cold, unemotional, but what was he supposed to say? He was heading into uncharted waters, blind and rudderless.

  Throughout the boat, sailors slumped against bulkheads. Some cried in anguish. Even the salty veterans fought their emotions. Everyone, including the greenest sailor knew, what DEFCON one meant. For a few minutes, no one spoke, the passageways eerily silent. Gloom hung heavily as each man came to grips with the devastating disclosure in their own way. Each asked the same question. What would happen to them? No one wanted to admit that a nuclear bomb might suddenly be dropped out of the sky square on their heads.

  Jackson moved around Control deliberately, weighing his options. They were few. He forced himself to focus on a viable plan, tightly gripping the rail near the periscope platform. Five minutes had gone by. At least he could get the boat far enough away from the pier to submerge in the channel. It was fairly deep even here. Anything would be better than being caught in the open tied up to the pier. Don’t forget Engineering!

  Leaning over the 21MC, he hailed Maneuvering back aft.

  “What the hell is going on, Skipper? I’d like to be able to answer these guys.”

  Jackson ignored the chief engineer and replied with a blunt order. “I want the boat underway in ten minutes.”

  “What? That’s crazy, Skipper. The plant is at normal operating temperature, but we just started to bring steam into the engine room. And we’re still on shore power. It will take an hour; I can’t stress the steam piping that way.”

  “I’m not going to repeat myself, Mister,” he shouted into the box, “I want the boat underway in ten minutes. You bring in steam now. Open every God damn steam trap. Do I make myself clear?”

  There was a pause before the chief engineer replied grudgingly, “Aye, sir.”

  The bluster was just as much for the benefit of those in Control. The chief engineer was a fine officer, one of the best. As he straightened, Jackson scanned the cramped quarters filled with a jungle of equipment, control panels, gauges, and piping. His eyes were met with a mixture of shock, disbelief, and anger. He ached knowing what his crew must be feeling. He was proud of how well his men were holding up. If he could just get them out of this alive. If. How the hell was he going to do that?

  “Master Chief,” Jackson said, lowering his voice, “go aft, and secure the hatches. We’ll get the forward hatch.”

  “Aye, aye, Skipper.” The master chief was a pro, and he knew when to play the part. He proceeded aft at a brisk walk, the armed sailors trailing behind.

  “XO, take charge, I’m going topside. I’ll handle the Conn myself.”

  “Yes, sir.” He reached out and touched Jackson’s arm as he started up the ladder.

  “Skipper, shouldn’t we think about buttoning up and settling on the bottom next to the pier? It may be our only chance.”

  “No way. We’re sitting on ground zero. A few feet of water over our heads won’t do any good.”

  Jackson hauled himself through the hatch and into sail trunk. He moved up the ladder, hand over hand, until he popped through to the warm sunshine. The striking inactivity pier side floored him. His world below had just disintegrated, yet around the wharf groups of workers puttered near electrical junction boxes and steam connections, and traffic flowed normally by the row of drab buildings facing the waterfront. His brain struggled to reconcile the incongruities.

  “On board, Michigan,” the Georgia’s captain yelled. “What are your plans?” The question had a sharp edge.

  Jackson leaned forward over the sail, cupping his hands next to his mouth to overcome the rattle of machinery and pumps discharging water overboard. “Getting underway,” he shouted.

  The Georgia’s captain replied with a nod. “What can we do to help? I’ve only got a skeleton crew aboard.”

  “Help us haul out the shore power cables and cast off. We got to secure the worker’s hatch shacks and the brow. We aren’t going to have a crane.”

  The CO of Georgia gave a thumbs-up. His boat was helpless, and he knew it.

  A new thought entered Jackson’s head. He caught the Georgia CO’s attention. “I can take some of your crew. Maybe thirty or so. I can’t take everyone.” The Georgia’s CO nodded in the affirmative. “I’ll get my XO over there to work it out.” It would be a two-minute life-or-death drill as they screened for critical missing skills.

  Just then the huge, seven-bladed propeller protruding from the water’s surface turned. Jackson quickly growled Maneuvering. The watch officer answered, panting.

  “Take it easy; we still have lines over.”

  “Yes, sir,” the watch officer replied. “We’ve got steam in, Captain, but God, what a mess! We’ve got water everywhere. It will be a miracle if we haven’t ruined the main steam lines and the turbines.”

  “Good work,” he replied, satisfaction in his voice.

  The last of the mooring lines went over, draped over Georgia like spaghetti. Sailors pulled the shore power cables from the deck of Michigan, and others tugged on the steel brow, dragging it across until it teetered precariously on Georgia’s back. The makeshift wooden shacks, which covered the six-foot maintenance hatches, were pushed overboard, floating down the port side.

  “Get below,” Jackson bellowed to the few remaining men on deck.

  “Maneuvering, Conn, stand by to answer bells.”

  Jackson peered down the side, swearing. “Damn, why couldn’t we at least have one tug?” He would have to gently swing out from Georgia, but not get crossways in the channel and run aground.

  Michigan’s bronze propeller slapped the water, inching the massive boat forward. Reversing the prop swung the bow gently out from Georgia. After four such cycles Michigan was fifteen feet from Georgia, with a thirty-degree outward angle on her bow. Jackson glanced at his watch. The precious minutes were melting away.

  “Ahead one-third,” Jackson ordered. The giant propeller turned more rapidly, churning the oily water near the pier. A swirl of light brown mud kicked up from the bottom clung stubbornly to her stern. As Michigan slid slowly away, Jackson glanced instinctively at Georgia’s sail. There stood her captain, grim faced, braced at attention, saluting. On Georgia’s deck and pier side, sailors did likewise. Jackson smartly returned the farewell, choked with emotion, tears welling in his eyes.

  Michigan had gotten underway in less than twenty-five minutes, an astonishing feat given she was a nuclear power plant in hot standby. Jackson turned his attention down the channel and for the first time, thought of his family in east Bremerton. His wife was most likely starting to get ready for the dinner party they were scheduled to attend. His kids were outside enjoying the weather, looking forward to the long weekend. He tried to fight the rush of emotion, but couldn’t. He wiped away small tears as Michigan slipped through the still waters of the Hood Canal, gathering speed. They’ll make it, he told himself, they have to. He shook his head in anger. It was useless to dwell on possibilities. They were in God’s hands.

  “Full speed ahead,” he barked into the handset resting in his palm. As Michigan accelerated, the seawater poured over the rounded bow and back around the sail. Only the raised missile deck aft was still dry.

  It was over ten tortuous miles to the entrance of Puget Sound and another twenty-five to the relative safety of the Strait of Juan de Fuca. There Michigan would have some badly needed maneuvering room. The Hood Canal was over a mile wide and roughly
250 to 350 feet deep along its entire length. Theoretically, Michigan could operate submerged in less than 300 feet of water, but they would be bouncing off the bottom, kicking up muck, and possibly ruining the prop. But time was running out. He knew he was pressing his luck.

  Ten minutes down the chute, Jackson lined up Michigan on the channel centerline and ceased rudder orders. They were well over two miles from Bangor, hopefully safe from all but a direct hit.

  “All ahead one-third,” he said. “Prepare to submerge.”

  “What’s the depth, Navigator?” Jackson asked on the 21MC.

  “About three hundred twenty-five feet, Captain.”

  Jackson took one last long look before climbing down. He sucked in a deep breath of the cool sea air, closed his eyes, and said a short prayer for his family and his country—an awkward act for him. He wasn’t a religious man; not because he was a disbeliever, he just never seemed to have the time. His wife had always assumed that role. But he prayed that God would be watching over the United States of America.

  In Control, the air was thick with depression and pain. The men had gone through instant hell. Many had been crying, others still clung to rails, their heads burrowed in their arms. Over thirty-five minutes had passed since the alert, yet no attack. Had both sides pulled back from the brink? If only he had some goddamn information.

  “All stop,” he ordered, “put her on the bottom, XO.”

  He was interrupted by the chief radioman, a person certain to have only bad news. “Skipper, could you please come to Radio?”

  “What is it?” he snapped.

  “EAM,” whispered the chief.

  Jackson was crestfallen. The air filling his lungs exited with a sudden grunt. No doubt now about a Russian attack. It was all-out war, and they were smack-dab in the middle.

  Inside Radio, Jackson was met by the weapons officer and the communications officer, standing side by side, holding the message and an authenticator. They had just played out a well-rehearsed scenario that had always been an exercise—until now. “EAM, Skipper,” said the comm officer, handing him the message, his hand shaking as much as his voice. “It’s been authenticated, sir.” The young officer was ready to cry.

  “We’ve got to get to our assigned patrol area,” Jackson said. “And we need to get word to STRATCOM that we’re still alive.” He looked up at the weapons officer. “We’re gonna have to review the target list once we get clear. I’ll bet the coordinates loaded in our birds aren’t right. We’re not one of the alert boats.” Jackson handed the message back to the pair. He wanted to say something, but struggled for the right words. He gave up and left.

  Halfway back to Control Jackson was knocked hard against the bulkhead when Michigan impacted the bottom, sliding to rest with a tolerable ten-degree starboard list.

  Back in the control room, the XO reported they had settled at 275 feet. Jackson stepped to the 1MC, intending to communicate his own personal anguish to the crew and start the slow process of building their spirits and resolve for the difficult mission ahead. Before he could depress the pot-metal level, Michigan was hit by a shock wave that knocked him off his feet. Bodies flew in all directions, crashing into equipment. It was big, and it was close.

  “Shit,” exclaimed the XO, trying to regain his feet. “What the hell was that?” he asked instinctively. Jackson knew what it was, and so did the executive officer. He immediately called to Maneuvering.

  “Damage report, Chief Engineer.”

  “Don’t know yet, Skipper,” came a confused reply. “Some seawater leaks and one busted steam line outside Maneuvering. We’re securing the valves now. A turbine generator tripped off-line, but we got to it before the breaker tripped. We’ll have a full damage report in a few minutes.”

  “Keep me informed.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  The brutal concussion from the thermonuclear weapon exploding directly over the submarine base had rocked Michigan underwater, even at two miles. The crew’s reaction was universal. The emotional devastation and trauma of the last half an hour was replaced by a mix of anger and resolve. Sailors started to converse again. The detonation had wiped away any pretenses of hope and severed the remaining ties to home and family. They were now clearly alone, stuck on the bottom, and the crew was primed for a swift and sure retaliation.

  “We’re going to be on the bottom for a while, XO, pass the word to relax GQ. In a couple hours, we’ll switch to port and starboard, so the crew can get some rest and chow. I want an all-officer’s meeting in the wardroom in twenty minutes. That includes the chief engineer. I’ll be in my stateroom.” Jackson turned slowly to head aft. He felt drained and overwhelmed. He needed privacy to regroup and plot Michigan’s next move.

  Halfway to his stateroom, another shock wave hammered Michigan’s hull. “Bastards,” he cursed, grabbing anything to steady himself. “Fucking bastards.” He knew that each explosion pounding the boat intensified the rage and thirst for revenge boiling up in the crew. He swore he would get free and launch his load of missiles if it was the last thing he would ever do.

  CHAPTER 19

  The bone-weary watch commander, hammered by bad news, strained to decipher a damage assessment over a voice circuit flooded with white noise. Fifteen short minutes had aged the man. He grimaced as the news confirmed what the constellation of sensitive nuclear-detonation sensors floating in space had already reported. The United States was being systematically pummeled by scores of Russian submarine-launched nuclear bombs. The knockout blow, the fast approaching Russian ICBM reentry vehicles, which streaked through space, were only minutes away.

  Thomas, Alexander, and the chairman were transfixed on the animated strategic plot, numbed by the scores of miniature red triangles poised to strike. The entire ten-by-fifteen-foot screen was flooded with nothing but hostile symbols. Speed leaders pointed directly at their intended targets. Well into their trajectories, any idiot could predict the aim points. It was like helplessly watching someone slowly strangle the life out of you. Thomas couldn’t banish the thought that the Russians had recklessly thrown the nuclear dice and rolled a seven.

  “The first Peacekeeper should be fired momentarily,” said someone off to the side.

  “It’s about time,” said the chairman excitedly, energized to life. The time remaining to impact for the first Russian ICBM was a tad over three minutes. The Americans’ survivable launch window was about to slam shut. “God, get them off,” the army general mumbled. It now boiled down to them or us, with no middle ground.

  In scattered launch control centers, buried hundreds of feet beneath the prairie, the doomsday message had been duly received. Disciplined young men and women, most in their early to mid-twenties, methodically worked through checklists stamped into their brains, fighting emotions. Undeterred, they pressed on, despite the subconscious notion that they might have only a handful of minutes to live.

  The two-person air force crews turned their brightly colored keys in unison. No power on earth could stop them now. One by one, squadron by squadron, US ICBMs blasted from their silos, rocket motors blazing against a late-afternoon bright blue sky. The well-rehearsed process took less than two minutes; the missiles staggered in time to avoid mutual interference at the business end of their journeys. All escaped the approaching Russian bombs—the stragglers were already dropping first stages when the lead Russian RV detonated in faraway North Dakota. That 600 kiloton nuclear explosion was followed by nearly one thousand others, tearing at the black earth, gouging hideous craters, and spawning blackish-gray clouds of radioactive dust and debris, which billowed toward the heavens, turning a beautiful summer day into a living hell.

  “They all got out,” sighed the chairman. He collapsed in a nearby straight-backed chair. It had been close. Nuclear detonations blossomed on the screen by the hundreds, peppering the northern perimeter of the country, then spreading south, a plague on the land. But out of the electronic chaos, scores of small blue symbols arched skyward through
the mass of red and began their journey northward to answer the Russian onslaught. It was Ivan’s turn now. In thirty minutes, Mother Russia would feel the full fury of Strategic Command.

  Behind the scenes, the watch commander orchestrated his troops, moving from console to console. A message over his headset interrupted his rounds. “Mr. Secretary, the president has arrived,” he announced.

  Alexander nodded. “Upstairs,” he ordered the others.

  The balcony assumed a grim air, the tension palpable. Heavily armed marines guarded the doors, and a handful of senior military officers were clustered by a row of private telephones. Messengers relayed information from the floor to those with the need to know. The secretary and his entourage were immediately ushered to an inconspicuous conference room accessed from a wood-paneled door. At one end was a circular hardwood table for eight, while an adjoining lounge area had overstuffed chairs and end tables with tasteful lamps. The walls contained the usual assortment of pictures of weapon systems in action and military memorabilia expected in such a meeting place for warriors. A tabletop intercom box connected them directly to the watch commander on the floor.

  When the president entered, the trio managed an acknowledgment, which wasn’t returned. It wasn’t an intentional slight. The president looked haggard, his face flushed, his breathing labored. Perspiration streaked his blotchy skin. He was closely followed by Secretary of State Genser and a few others. Genser’s face was imprinted with dread. He wiped his deeply furrowed brow with a handkerchief while further loosening his tie. The president was guided to an upholstered chair at the head of the table. He fought to remain composed, taking rapid, shallow breaths. The others took appropriate seats. Thomas had never witnessed such a collection of pained expressions.

  No one volunteered to start. The momentary pause proved soothing, medicinal. All were content to simply reflect on the shared tragedy for a few moments. After what seemed an eternity, Alexander tapped the president’s arm and whispered that the American ICBMs had escaped destruction. The news fell flat. The president rolled forward on his forearms. He didn’t want to talk military strategy.