Red Hammer 1994

by Ratcliffe, Robert

  “All stations report manned and ready,” said the young phone talker bird-dogging Jackson.

  “Right standard rudder,” he ordered as they entered the first leg through the shallows.

  “Right standard rudder, aye, sir.” Michigan heeled gently to starboard; the crew shifted instinctively to port. Minutes later, the maneuver was adeptly reversed. Halfway through the port turn, Michigan jerked violently, and a loud grating noise filled the hull. Sailors grabbed the nearest handhold to steady themselves.

  “Shit,” Jackson shouted angrily, nearly toppled from the platform himself. “Up ten degrees on the planes. Maintain speed.” The navigator’s face blanched.

  “Skipper, nothing should be here. Nothing.” Jackson couldn’t blame the lad, only himself. The scraping ceased, and then a loud bang announced that the Michigan’s stern had bounced off the sandbar.

  “We’re going to broach, Skipper.” Michigan’s huge black sail broke through the surface in an explosion of white frothy foam visible for miles. Panic crossed all the faces in Control. Any idiot would be able to pinpoint their location.

  Jackson grappled to regain control, and his heart began to race. “Up scope. Slow to five knots. Get her back down, Chief.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” Jackson hugged the stainless-steel scope as it rose. The navigator had been correct. The shoreline lay far to starboard. “How far to deep water?”

  “Three minutes at this speed. Then recommend course 260,” the answer shot back.

  The deceleration eased the turbulence around the protruding sail stub, reducing the boat’s signature substantially. They struggled to coax the bulky submarine back beneath the strait. She finally agreed and once again settled out at periscope depth. The chief’s team was drained—it had been like breaking a wild horse.

  “We should be over the edge, Skipper.” The navigator referred to a sudden steep falloff of the bottom. That was freedom but also danger. It was the gateway to a deep-water haven, yet a portal to an unseen enemy.

  “Take her down to three hundred fifty feet. Make turns for eight knots.” Michigan slid gracefully toward the ordered depth. The only sound in control was heavy breathing broken by an occasional cough. The entire crew was on a razor’s edge, keenly aware of the danger that loomed ahead.

  “Ten minutes to reach the launch point.” The navigator’s not-so-gentle reminder raised the anxiety level another notch.

  “Contact, bearing 262,” shouted the 21MC. Heads jerked in unison.

  Jackson felt a surge of adrenaline kick in. Ivan was waiting, all right. The alarm was followed by silence. He leaned over and hailed sonar.

  “What’s going on up there? What’s the estimated range? Talk to me.”

  “He’s gone, Skipper,” reported the XO. “We barely got any signature data. Maybe it was an anomaly.”

  “Bullshit, it’s got to be real. So you can’t ID it as a Russian boat?”

  “It was single screw and had up Doppler.”

  “That’s it?” Jackson could feel the pressure building behind his temples.

  “We only had him for a second, Captain. He just disappeared.”

  Jackson straightened, a frown spreading across his face. “What do you think, Ops?”

  “We’ve got to launch,” reminded the bald operations officer. “In sixteen minutes.”

  No, shit, Jackson thought. His thrust his hands on his hips with a huff. “Who is that guy?” Maybe it wasn’t the Akula?

  “Up Doppler means inbound. No tanker would be inbound. And our ships are double screwed.”

  “Except the frigates.”

  “None in the area.”

  “How do we flush this guy?”

  “Use a decoy?” the ops officer grimaced. He wished he could reel in his stupid advice.

  Jackson pounced. “Great, he’ll pop a nuke our way and still get us, despite the racket. We’re so confined, he doesn’t have to aim. Our only chance is to blow him clean out of the water before he can get a single shot off.” Jackson arched his back to release the tension. “Well, do you think he picked up us hitting the sandbar?”

  The ops officer became agitated. He didn’t have any answers, unusual for him. “No way to know.”

  Jackson stepped defiantly back up on the platform. He would not give up that easily. “Come right to course 330. Bring her up to two hundred feet. Let’s see if we can draw this turkey out.”

  The ops officer formed a quick mental snapshot of the orders. “We could be trapped against the shore.”

  Jackson didn’t answer for a moment. “Doesn’t matter,” he finally said. He drummed his fingers on the rail. “Come on Sonar.”

  “Captain, depth under the keel two hundred fifty-five feet.” That was close enough.

  “Very well, come left to course 270, make turns for three knots.”

  Michigan dangerously skirted the two-hundred-and-fifty-foot contour, tempting providence. A minor slip, either broaching or scrapping the bottom, would be the end.

  “Depth under the keel two hundred thirty-five feet. Now two hundred twenty-five feet. Skipper, we’ve got to get out of here!” The navigator was shaking.

  “Left five degrees rudder,” Jackson ordered sternly.

  “Two hundred fifteen feet.” There was a collective gasp. Sailors grimaced and slumped in their chairs.

  “Increase your rudder to left fifteen degrees.” Jackson was struck with a sinking feeling that he had overplayed a bad hand and fate was about to bite him on the ass. “Standby to launch torpedoes. Disable the arming delay. Tubes one through three.”

  “I’ve got to have something to shoot at, Skipper,” protested the ops officer.

  “Pick a point mid-channel, enable active search.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” The ops officer’s sudden formality registered his protest. He didn’t say it, but he had long ago voted in favor of backing off and skipping the launch window. Other opportunities would arise. But then, he wasn’t the captain.

  “Passing 260 degrees.”

  “Two hundred and thirty feet beneath the keel.”

  Jackson exhaled with the others, “Rudder amidships, steady on course 255.”

  “Course 255, aye, sir.”

  “Contact bearing 195!” Jackson leapt to the 21MC, almost hugging it. “Stronger now, seven-bladed screw. Turns for five knots. Estimated course, 180. Estimated range, three thousand yards. It’s an Akula!”

  Jackson slapped his leg. “Left standard rudder, steady on course 180.”

  Without being prompted, the ops officer worked the attack console furiously. A firing solution quickly popped up on the computer screen in front of his face. Now he had something to shoot at.

  “Range, two thousand five hundred yards.”

  “Come on Ivan, keep showing us your ass.”

  “She’s turning to port, Skipper. We’re coming out of the Akula’s baffles.” He needed a much shorter range.

  “Two thousand yards.” Still too far. It would take their torpedoes a good minute to cover the distance. Ivan could slap them back in that short time. “Fifteen hundred yards. She’s nearly got a beam aspect now, continuing to port.” If the Russian skipper swung bow on, he would drastically reduce Michigan’s crack at a first shot kill. It had to be now.

  “Fire!” The energy behind the single word jerked the ops officer’s finger down on the red plastic button. The first Mark 48 torpedo burst out of the port-side tube in a fierce blast of compressed air. Its tiny active sonar broadcast acoustical energy ten feet from Michigan’s hull. The 48 armed immediately and accelerated hard to maximum speed. It was immediately joined by two companions fired from the starboard tubes. The faint return from the Akula’s rubber-coated hull was followed by a blast from her own powerful active sonar. She would be fighting mad now. Michigan’s passive sonar instantly detected the rumblings of the Akula’s torpedo-tube doors amid the cacophony of acoustical energy engulfing both boats.

  “First torpedo has acquired,” cried the ops officer. “T
ime to impact twenty-eight seconds.” Twenty-eight seconds was still too long. The Akula could get a shot off even in her death throes.

  “All head flank!” screamed Jackson. Michigan lurched forward, accelerating toward her own torpedoes hunting the Akula. Their only prayer was to close the gap between themselves and the Russian boat as fast as possible.

  “Two torpedoes from the Akula,” shouted the executive officer in a hoarse voice. “Coming down our throat. Range to the Akula, nine hundred yards.”

  In a massive underwater fireball, the 48s from Michigan eviscerated the Akula with over a ton of high explosive. The shockwave caught Michigan head-on at five hundred yards. She jerked and bucked in the roiling turbulence as she passed directly overhead the stricken boat sinking rapidly toward the bottom. The Akula’s counterpunch passed harmlessly down Michigan’s starboard side, failing to arm.

  Jackson held his breath and focused on the digital clock, which hung near the scope. He estimated twenty seconds before they were dead. Braced for the expected nuclear detonation that would split them in two like a ripe melon, the faint pinging of acoustical torpedoes chasing a phantom triggered a rush of emotion that made him gasp.

  The ops officer panted shallowly, sweat ran down his flushed face. “He didn’t fire nukes,” he croaked. “Why didn’t he fire nukes?”

  Jackson closed his eyes to regain his composure. “All ahead one-third, come right to course 270. Ops, take the conn.” He turned to the 21MC, depressed the level and said simply, “XO.” The Ops Officer stumbled into Control. Both Jackson and the executive officer cornered the navigator for a conference. He would trim Michigan for her ordered launch. Then the pair moved out.

  Jackson slid down the ladder to the lower level, followed closely by the XO. Through the hull, they heard the distinctive clang of the massive missile-tube doors slamming against their hinges and locking in place. In single file, they traversed the narrow passageways and turned the last corner to the missile control room. Brandice was arched over the console, supervising the missile techs. Behind him stood the master chief and his guards. No one said a word. Jackson and the XO assumed their stations and removed the small stainless steel keys that hung from their sweaty necks. The much-practiced procedure assumed a sudden solemnness that they all felt. In one fluid motion, they simultaneously inserted the keys into marked slots then twisted them to the right. Red panels turned to green. The missiles were ready.

  Brandice held the solid black handgrip that housed the firing key. It was attached to the console by heavy, protective cable and made a metallic grating sound as he raised it in the air. Procedure called for all present to observe his right forefinger depress the red plastic trigger. He turned his eyes toward the overhead, a blank look covering his emotionally drained face. A momentary hint of supplication faded into a cold, hard stare.

  “Fire,” Jackson simply said.

  One by one, eight Trident missiles belched forth from Michigan. Compressed gases violently pushed them past fiberglass protective covers and thrust them through tons of resistive seawater. Enough energy remained to hurl them thirty feet above the water’s surface, where the first-stage solid rocket motors exploded in a billowing cloud of orange flame and thick gray smoke. Each missile in turn righted itself, its silicon brain instantly recognizing its surroundings. Once stable, each missile began the long journey to Russian airspace.

  Jackson’s thoughts turned to his own family, and how much he loved them and then to visions of Russian citizens bustling through the crowded streets of their magnificent old-world cities. Why had this madness happened? He couldn’t answer, only carry out his orders, and pray to God his missiles weren’t targeting those ancient Russian cities.

  CHAPTER 28

  Thomas slumped against the corrugated trunk of a thick oak, slowly sliding off the emotional high that had peaked an hour earlier. The heightened sensual awareness brought back memories of combat over the skies of Vietnam. The intoxication of facing death and escaping had troubled him then and puzzled him now. He should be trying to catch some sleep. It was nearly four in the morning.

  The night had finally cooled enough to halt the constant sweating under fatigues. In fact, he almost felt chilled sitting in the night air. Shortly after the attack, he had been hustled to a waiting helo and flown down the Shenandoah to a map grid where they had popped over the mountains and headed southeast toward Lynchburg, Virginia. After touchdown, Thomas was forced to cool his heels in the company of a handful of Harcourt’s men. He now sat on the ground with one of them, nursing an injured left arm, waiting for a rendezvous with an army unit assigned to escort him to the new president.

  The camp doctor had extracted a jagged piece of shrapnel that had split open two inches of his forearm. Thomas hadn’t noticed amidst all the commotion, until the blood started dripping on the deck in steady black-red drops. The wound was beginning to throb under the tight gauze bandage. The man with him was a major, the officer in charge. He squatted on one knee, his M-4A cradled under his arm, his free hand resting on a radio, and his eyes locked on the clearing. Smeared face paint made it impossible to discern individual facial features. He looked like any other soldier, except tougher, which was expected from the men of the army’s special operations forces.

  Thomas rubbed an outstretched leg, massaging a cramped thigh muscle. “What’s your name, Major? Where you from?” The Ranger didn’t move and didn’t answer for an uncomfortable period. The major finally accepted that the general wanted to talk.

  “Benton, sir, from Kentucky.” The soft southern accent confirmed the reply. Thomas focused on the Ranger patch on the major’s shoulder, barely visible from two feet.

  “I thought the 75th Ranger Regiment was split between Fort Benning and Fort Lewis?”

  “That’s right, sir. But we rotate a company every three months to the DC area as part of FEMA’s contingency plans. Support the mobile command center. It was my turn in the barrel.”

  “You the company commander?”

  “Yes, sir, Echo Company, 2nd Battalion.”

  “Well, Major Benton, it looks like we’re gonna be together for a while.”

  Benton cocked his head slightly in Thomas’s direction. The black eyes were hard, committed. “Yes, sir. Colonel Harcourt said I’m not supposed to let you out of my sight until I personally deliver you to wherever the hell we’re going.” The major’s focus shifted back to the perimeter and duty.

  Thomas stopped the interrogation. The major had better things to do than shoot the shit with some hobbled air force general. Although the requirement for a personal bodyguard grated on his sensibility, he couldn’t have picked a better man. He was sure the others out there in the darkness were of the same caliber.

  A sudden roar filled the forest; a chorus of military vehicles reverberated through the trees. The major’s radio crackled to life. A Ranger monitoring the approach road announced the composition of the approaching troops. Benton ordered his men to fall back. Within thirty seconds, ghostly figures drifted from the woods, quickly setting up for an ambush, if such were required. Two M-60 machine-gun teams covered the approach while three men with AT-4s spread out behind. The rest lay flat on their stomachs, rifles ready.

  A foreign call sign floated out of the radio. Benton clicked his penlight over a pad of paper with scribbled codes. Partially satisfied, he answered with a code challenge that was properly authenticated by the strangers on the other end. He looked up.

  “Our ride’s here, General.” Benton got to his feet and strode into the clearing. Headlights came around the bend, bathing the major in a flickering glow that eerily cast a shadow. His M-4A was pointed directly at the lights as a precaution. If it wasn’t who he thought it was, he wouldn’t have a chance. The lead vehicle screeched to a halt. It was a Humvee, the military’s all-purpose vehicle, followed by a second and then a pair of two-and-a-half-ton trucks. All sat idling, the racket tearing at the still night.

  A bird colonel, as evidenced by the shiny eag
les on each collar, exited the cab. Benton stationed himself between Thomas and the men spilling out of the vehicles.

  “We’re here for General Thomas,” announced the colonel loudly over the diesel engine’s racket. Benton let him approach. Thomas had made it to his feet, limping slightly, determined to appear whole. The colonel recognized the officer moving his way.

  “General Thomas?” he asked, saluting.

  Thomas saluted in reply. “That’s right.”

  “I’m to take you, the major, and his men to our camp. We’ll get further instructions there.”

  Benton turned to Thomas and raised his eyebrows. Thomas nodded the OK.

  “Saddle up,” Benton barked to his men. “I’ll ride with you, General.” He held out an arm and guided Thomas to the Humvee. The Rangers piled into the two and a half tons, while Benton and Thomas rode in the backseat of the lead Humvee. With everyone on board, the lead driver spun a U-turn and headed down the first of a series of back roads that would eventually break out onto a state highway for the final approach to the camp.

  “We’re sitting ducks,” observed Benton with a twinge of disgust. It obviously wasn’t the way he would have done it. He had already lost many good men earlier tonight.

  “We’ve cleared the route,” answered the colonel defensively for Thomas’s benefit. Thomas started to open his mouth, wondering whether the speaker had taken the oath and where he was. He thought better and said nothing. This wasn’t the time or place.

  After nearly an hour of winding roads, the Humvee pulled up to a checkpoint with a sandbagged machine-gun emplacement to one side. Daylight was beginning to break. Three soldiers approached, peered in, and then waved the trucks past. Another four hundred yards brought them to a bustling tent complex. The driver stopped at the largest of the tents. A gaggle of officers surged forward and crowded Thomas as he slowly exited. They backed up when Benton crawled out, his M-4A hanging loosely at his side. A brigadier general with silver stars spoke and saluted for the group.