Red Hammer 1994 (33 page)

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.

“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.