Red Hammer 1994

by Ratcliffe, Robert

“Relax,” Buck coached. “Breathe deep. The effects will pass.”

  Ledermeyer pushed himself up a few inches, groaning.

  “Oh, man, I hurt.” How could the plane have survived? he thought. Years of analysis had convinced most STRATCOM flyers that their planes were much softer than their own bodies and that they would most likely perish in a blazing fireball, not slumped over, puking blood.

  Buck shook his head to clear his vision. He had to come up in altitude, no matter what the consequences.

  “You’ve got to help me get these bombs off. I can’t do it myself. Come on.”

  A sharp, clacking noise grabbed Ledermeyer’s attention. Next to his station, an SHF satellite transceiver came to life. The Lacrosse downlink was live, spitting out a stream of characters across a small LCD readout.

  “Shit,” Ledermeyer cursed.

  “Read it,” ordered Buck.

  Ledermeyer supported the thermal paper as it rolled from the printer. The first characters were an authentication, standard fare. The next began a target description, including a confidence factor and priority.

  “Priority one. Possible SS-24 ICBM train. West of Kirov. Possible multiple targets.”

  “They can’t mean us. Someone on the other side of the mountains will have to cover it,” answered Buck.

  “No acknowledgement yet,” said Ledermeyer.

  Lacrosse broadcast target data to all airborne platforms. STRATCOM added a header to the message that recommended assignment based on planned EWO routes. But it was up to the individual bomber commanders to roger up for an assignment. Only they could make a realistic assessment of their chances.

  After five minutes, there were still no volunteers. Buck haltingly reached for a switch, which would trigger a transponder near the tail. The encrypted signal, a combination of a unique identifier and position data, would bounce off a satellite and wind its way to CINCSTRAT’s mobile command post. He paused before depressing it.

  At this point, Kirov was no farther than Sverdlovsk, and the odds of him completing his primary mission were zilch. Taking out SS-24s would put more of a dent in the Russians’ war machine than blowing up power plants. The overpowering vision of his earlier weapon’s detonation still lingered. Each of the SS-24s RVs packed four times the wallop, and each missile carried ten of them. He could save a lot of lives. A quick jab signaled his commitment.

  “We’re going,” he announced, mostly for himself. Ledermeyer didn’t answer.

  Transiting the Urals had been surprisingly easy. The Russians’ principle air-defense threat axis was north, not east, and the plane was masked by the radar clutter reflected off the numerous craggy peaks. Buck crossed south of Vuktyl then steadied on a course that would cover a stretch of sparsely populated territory before approaching Kirov from the northeast. It was only three hundred miles to the target area, less than half an hour.

  The desolate landscape of the eastern slope had been replaced on the west by lush, green forests extending as far as Buck could see. He hugged the treetops, tightly gripping the stick, fighting an abrupt, periodic shudder that started at the nose and rippled to the tail. The bomber seemed to be deteriorating at the same pace as he was. He felt nauseous, and a tenderness in his lower abdomen sent shooting pains throughout his body. Hold together, he prayed.

  “Ledermeyer?”

  “Yeah, I’m still here.” The words came slowly and were slurred.

  “Get weapons ready. At least three”

  “I’m ahead of you, Buck.” Ledermeyer flashed a confident thumbs-up that Buck caught out of the corner of his eye. He acknowledged it with a nod.

  The miles rolled by as the sky began to thicken with grayish-black clouds. Each passing minute increased their survival against the endless stream of interceptors. But their biggest concern would be the rings of SAMs around Kirov. Buck would forego any defensive suppression shots and hope to slip past the Russian defensive positions.

  Ten minutes from Kirov, Lacrosse spit out an updated target position. A second satellite had crossed the target area and a comparison to earlier data provided fresh intelligence. Ledermeyer updated the location residing in the SRAMs guidance computer. The target was on the move, heading east toward Glazov. Buck eased the bomber to port to intercept the new track. In his mind, he could picture the slow train crammed full of nuclear warheads just waiting for destruction. He would gladly oblige.

  Suddenly, the threat emitter alarm blared. To starboard, thin white exhaust trails rose from the forest, at first two, then a total of five. The intermediate range SAMs were fired too close, and he was too low for them to be effective, but their position was exposed. Searching the horizon, Buck noticed a sparsely forested depression dead ahead. And through it, he saw a glimpse of railroad tracks.

  “Son-of-a-bitch,” he muttered. “Dead-on.” He maneuvered to follow the tracks, rising slightly to obtain a better perspective. Ledermeyer kicked in the electronic countermeasures. There was no sense holding back at this juncture.

  “Bracket the DGZ, plus one on top.”

  Ledermeyer had read his mind. “Missiles armed,” he announced.

  The sweat streamed down Buck’s forehead. His flight suit was soaked. He tightened his grip on the stick with two hands, settling back in the ejection seat, guiding the broken bomber. He summoned his last ounces of strength. Every breath brought more pain.

  “This is it, Russ. Let’s cream those bastards.” His earlier hesitancy was gone. This attack had become personal.

  Ledermeyer hugged the console, his right forefinger resting on the first launch switch. He watched a counter decrement inches from his face. It was all he could do to stay conscious.

  Directly ahead, the afternoon sky lit up with fireworks. Mobile antiaircraft guns pumped out hundreds of 30mm rounds. Handheld missiles flashed skyward, only to be deflected by the red-hot flares popping outward every ten seconds. Fragmentation rounds ripped holes in the fuselage and wings, shattering equipment and spraying the interior with shrapnel. More SAMs arced upward but passed harmlessly overhead. The furious barrage was more than anyone could possibly survive.

  “God damn, Buck. We’ve hit the jackpot. They’re throwing everything at us,” Ledermeyer yelled. “Must be something big down there.”

  “Ten seconds…” A handheld SAM slammed into the starboard wing, blasting away the outboard nacelle, leaving the engine dangling and in flames. The mortally wounded bomber pitched violently upward, presenting a fat target to the defenders. Buck fought to keep her in the air.

  On cue, the B-1B’s three missiles dropped and ignited, one after the other. The rotary launcher’s whine was drowned out by the intense racket from exploding shells. As the third bird disappeared in the distance, a stream of tracers tore through the forward fuselage, disintegrating Ledermeyer’s station and blowing out the windscreen. Buck groaned, struck by shrapnel, the rushing wind tearing at his face. He struggled to reach back, gently touching Ledermeyer’s leg.

  “We did it, man. We did it.” The starboard wing snapped upward, tearing away, leaving an ugly scar of broken structure and dangling hydraulic lines. The B-1B bomber nosed into the trees, disappearing in a tremendous fireball fueled by thousands of gallons of JP5.

  Seconds later, the SRAM trio detonated in sequence. The farthest warhead went first, the blast wave rolling outward, flattening concentric circles of trees. The relentless wave caught the command train parked on a spur with the full fury of twenty psi overpressure and five-hundred-mile-an-hour winds. The train, crushed by the overpressure, splintered into chunks, which bounced across the landscape, leaving a trail of debris and rubble for hundreds of yards. Not a living soul was left alive within three miles.

  CHAPTER 27

  At 0420, Jackson rang up all stop and pulled the plug. Michigan settled to the bottom, resting mid-channel, splitting the distance between Port Townsend to port and Whidbey Island Naval Air Station to starboard. They had observed only an occasional flickering light on shore—possibly headlights from so
me terror-stricken civilian—and no surface craft whatsoever. Normally the choppy waters of the Puget Sound would be thick with vessels of all flavors, but not now. It was unsettling, as if everyone and everything had mysteriously dissolved into the ether. The boat’s sonar hydrophone arrays had detected intermittent screw noises tentatively classified as possible bulk carriers or container ships, but the acoustics were worthless for pinpointing the source. As the ops officer had predicted, their sonar performance stunk. The shallow, muddy bottom sucked up any man-made noise like a vacuum cleaner. God help them if the Russian Akula had crept farther east than they had estimated. In the meantime, Sonar would be working overtime to weed out any buried acoustical emissions from the background biologics that fouled the sensors.

  A short-lived emotional lift had been triggered by an acknowledgement of their message telling the world they were alive and in one piece. The response had meant that others had survived as well, most likely tucked away in mobile command centers in the mountains of the West or the dense forests of the Southeast. Their orders—stand by for missile launch—had been sent by the Commander-in-Chief Strategic Command, or CINCSTRAT. Any forthcoming launch order would be immediately followed by a satellite dump of critical target data. The stuff they had was hopelessly out of date. The EAM could arrive over a variety of frequencies, but the target data, compressed and transmitted in a series of burst transmissions, would have to come over the satellite submarine broadcast channel. An identical volume of traffic would take hours over a VLF circuit with its sluggish seventy-five baud data rate. Besides, Jackson doubted that any of the navy’s fleet of E-6A TACAMO aircraft would still be airborne. Their time on station was barely twelve hours; then they would have to call it quits and reel in the miles of VLF trailing wire antennas. The handful of shore-based VLF transmission sites was surely rubble.

  Over an hour later, the executive officer had the conn. “Blow ballast. Come to periscope depth. Maneuvering, make turns for two knots, be prepared for emergency bells.” Each order was crisply repeated, followed by an “Aye, sir.” The crew was holding up surprisingly well.

  “Up periscope.” The XO wanted the scope fully extended even before they settled at the proper depth. They might be farther from the channel centerline than he originally gauged, and he would have to react instantly. There was little margin for error.

  Michigan rumbled as high-pressure compressed air forced seawater from the fore and aft ballast tanks. The diving officer, a senior chief petty officer, had the unenviable job of trying to trim the huge boat in shallow water at minimum speed. With a jerk Michigan let loose of the bottom and floated upward, with a slight five-degree forward angle. The senior chief patiently encouraged the junior enlisted men manning the ballast control panels, leaning over their backs, pointing here, then there. Within two minutes, he had leveled the boat, no mean feat. To his immediate right, the helmsman and the planesman struggled with the stern control surfaces to maintain course and to gently drive the boat upward. Prudence dictated that they maintain slight negative buoyancy to avoid broaching and exposing the sail. Turns for two knots barely provided needed steerageway.

  Even before the announcement of “periscope depth,” the executive officer hung over the large Type 18 scope. When it popped through the surface, he quickly spun 360 degrees to probe for intruders. The navigator had already briefed him on what landmarks to shoot. He swung the scope to the first feature, a small jut of land that lay off the port bow.

  “Point Alpha, bearing 347.” Then he made a quick turn to the right. “Point Bravo, bearing 031.” Then he looked back. “Point Charlie, bearing 212.” He wasn’t sure about the last one. The supposedly prominent landmark on the chart seemed to dissolve against the shimmering water. “Position in the channel looks good.” At the plotting table, the Nav team furiously plotted the three lines of bearing and within seconds, had a solution. A small triangle surrounded a black dot that lay slightly off the original penciled track.

  “One hundred yards right of track, recommend course 028.”

  The XO accepted the advice. “Steer 028, all ahead one third.”

  Jackson could feel the subtle acceleration as Maneuvering slowly opened the throttles that controlled the saturated steam flow to the main engine turbine. The added speed brought relief to the enlisted men manipulating the rudder and diving planes. Jackson felt like he was in control again. The XO stood upright, releasing the scope. “Skipper?”

  Jackson nodded and stepped to the platform for his turn. He had slept for only thirty minutes in the last twenty-four hours, and it showed. Black semicircles hung beneath his eyes. But he sucked it up, pumped full of caffeine. The emotional tug-of-war in his skull continued. Rage threatened to breach the barrier of professional responsibility necessary to do his job.

  The others looked just as miserable. Sweat stained and unshaven, the assembled sailors sat stoically, while the smell of body odor permeated the cramped quarters. Jackson knew they needed to make their dash for freedom or his dog-tired crew could collapse before his eyes.

  Jackson checked his watch as he always did before peering out the scope. 0552. Pressing his face flush against the large rubber eyepieces, he saw a brightening summer-morning sky. The serene picture was masked by thin wisps of fog just beginning to melt. The deep blue waters displayed their usual chop. Tiny whitecaps formed then disappeared, like so many seabirds darting about the undulating surface. To port, the fog thickened near the shore, making any view of Port Townsend impossible. Slowly turning the periscope head to starboard, the white curtain thinned. A sick feeling gripped his stomach as a grotesque image formed through the haze. Where Whidbey used to be was now blackened, charred shoreline. Trees were splintered like matchsticks or chopped off clean at the ground, and small fires smoldered amid the carnage. Buildings weren’t visible from his vantage point a few feet above the water’s surface, but he could imagine their fate. He flashed back to an image of Bangor then to the twin concussions that had rocked the boat. The destruction before his eyes rekindled the hate that had subsided. Any naive hopes about Bangor’s survival were instantly dashed, crushed by the imagery before his eyes. He could only shake his head and focus his energy down the channel. He spared his weary crew more bad news.

  Jackson hung limply on the folding scope handles for the next fifteen miles, shooting bearings when appropriate and scanning the horizon for any telltale sign of a vessel steaming for the open sea. They might just get lucky and pick up a noisy bulk carrier whose ample baffles would provide a safe haven. The unsuspecting ship would run interference westward through the straits. But so far, no luck.

  By now the morning sun cast a soft golden tint over the sound, kicking up a blinding glare that danced across the water. Jackson squinted into the eyepiece, occasionally retracting his unshaven face and pinching the crown of his nose to relieve the strain. Steering a base course of 290, Michigan zigzagged across the channel centerline, seeking the deepest water possible. Bottom soundings were notoriously apocryphal, but so far they had been lucky. A true test of their seamanship lay dead ahead—an irregular bottom—the worst part of the transit. He seriously considered a short sprint on the surface.

  “Control, Radio, flash traffic.” The executive officer was sprinting forward toward radio before the last word faded into the air. He returned, dragging the comm and weapons officers and waving the yellow sheet. He thrust it in the captain’s hand while the others crowded around the platform handrails, their faces a mixture of anxiety and fatalism.

  “This is it,” said Jackson, not surprised, “look at the time.” The message ordered Michigan to launch eight of her twenty-four missiles at 0845 local, a scant forty-one minutes away. Strict procedures allowed a permissible launch window of only plus or minus two minutes. Missing the ordered attack time would jeopardize a well-coordinated attack. Second-wave bombers counting on Michigan’s warheads to blast corridors through surviving air defenses would be sitting ducks. Any mobile targets would have ample warning
to scurry to safety. All the hard work poured into developing targeting data gleaned from bomb damage assessments would be wasted.

  Forty minutes was barely time to reach the desired 550 feet of water for a successful launch.

  “Get the EAM authenticated and report back immediately,” he ordered the two lieutenants. Jackson collared the XO and dragged him close.

  “Get the torpedo tubes loaded and open the outer doors.” The XO’s dark brown eyes widened as his brow furrowed.

  “You’re chancing a hell of a lot of flow-induced noise from those open tubes, Skipper.”

  Jackson cast him loose and moved to the scope. “We’ve got to take the chance. If Ivan pops up, all we’ll get is a snap shot.” The executive officer nodded and marched off.

  “Come left to course 277. Navigator, aim for a point 123-15 west, 48-15 north by 0835. Plot it.” Jackson sharply slapped the twin periscope handles upward. “Down scope.”

  The navigation team immediately went to work, carefully laying out a multi-legged track that placed them on the mandatory spot at the precise time. The navigator stood behind, nodding like an approving teacher.

  “Skipper, recommend we take the northern path through the shallows. It’s the quickest, and we’ll exit in about four hundred and twenty feet of water. From there, it’s a straight shot to the launch point.”

  “Very well, the north it is.”

  Michigan steamed on. Shoal water lay off both beams and dead ahead. A tricky maneuver would be required in order to avoid high centering on a sandbar.

  “Make turns for twelve knots.” They needed more speed despite the probable onset of cavitation from the tips of the propeller.

  Michigan lurched forward, a detectable hum transmitted through the deck plates. To Jackson’s left, the operations officer made final preparations at the attack center. His men clustered around their chief, ready for action. Aft in the missile-launch control room, Brandice and his crew spun up the gyros in the chosen Trident missiles and input the fresh target-data bit streams into the guidance computers. Throughout the boat, sailors exercised well-rehearsed procedures for securing unnecessary gear to minimize radiated noise. The engineers braced for seawater leaks and battle damage.