Red Hammer 1994 (21 page)

“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 yardbirds, 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.

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.