Red Hammer 1994 (17 page)

Sanchez was sitting pretty with both Russians captured in his hydrophone arrays. A beam aspect was always best to detect sudden bearing shifts that signaled a contact’s change of course. Sanchez leaned against the polished railing near the tree trunk of the Type 18 periscope, chewing on his options. He sensed this was more than a run-of-the-mill ASW exercise—playing tag with Ivan. What would his opponents do if they detected him? Normally, despite the belligerent rhetoric, both sides would beat a hasty retreat. But this time he wondered. The Russians were a long way from home. If he blew their cover, they could just possibly panic and send a couple fish his way. Who would be the wiser? Three months previously, a US attack boat had strayed too close to Russian territorial waters and was vigorously prosecuted by Russian surface and airborne ASW forces. Two live torpedoes were dropped by helo, both missed, but it was a sobering encounter for the US submarine force. Had the rules changed? And how would he possibly know until it was too late?

“The Delta’s coming up,” announced Sonar.

Sanchez frowned. What the hell was the Russian skipper doing now?

The XO’s controlled voice broke the silence in Control. “Coming to comm depth I bet.” The skipper nodded, but for some reason, he didn’t quite believe it. Had he been sucked into a trap by the Russian duo, knowing that the overeager American would fall for their ploy? This was unlike anything Sanchez had faced.

As the Delta rose steadily to a much-shallower depth,
San Francisco
would have to follow or lose her through the acoustically opaque thermal layer. “We’re getting hung out to dry,” groused Sanchez. Maybe he should slide away, dive deep, drift, let the two Russian boats steam by, and wait for another opportunity. He chaffed at being thrown into a constant reactive mode. This two-boat squeeze was cramping his usually aggressive style.

“Is the Victor coming up?” asked Sanchez. That would be the clincher.

“No, sir,” came the answer, “maintaining depth.” The answer pleasantly surprised him.

“Diving Officer, fifteen degree up angle on the stern planes. Level out at three hundred and twenty feet.” He would leave the Victor behind and follow his prize. Better, he thought. Maybe the Russians weren’t acting together after all.

“Aye, aye, Skipper.” The young sailor carefully pulled back on the oval control wheel, pitching
San Francisco
gently upward. Sanchez wanted to quickly pop through the thermal layer, calculated to be at three hundred and fifty feet.

“Slow to five knots.” Sanchez’s eyes narrowed, and his mouth grew taut. “What’s the tube load out?” The question caught the ops officer off guard. Standard patrol procedure called for the six torpedo tubes to have at least four Mark 48 torpedoes loaded at all times. Harpoon or Tomahawk missiles complemented the weapons load out. Maybe one would be empty for maintenance or for holding an acoustic decoy.

“One through four with fish,” responded the ops officer nervously. Even the XO gave him an odd look.

“Very well.” He sensed the apprehension. “Just a precaution. Any objections?” he asked kiddingly. But he wasn’t kidding.

Sanchez turned inward. He was troubled and not sure why. Instincts developed by years of patrolling the Russians’ backyard, always in danger, always looking over his shoulder, signaled danger. Get the signature data, and get the hell away, he concluded.

“Delta’s leveling out.”

Sanchez grunted. The big boomer should have risen to periscope depth for a satellite dump. But instead she had stopped a hundred feet short. Maybe she would trail a VLF wire? The XO gave him a shrug. He was confused too.

“Captain, she’s opening doors,” said a panicked voice from sonar. The words ignited the control room.

A chorus of curses filled the cramped quarters. “We’ve been had,” snapped Sanchez. He had foolishly underestimated the Victor’s commanding officer. The man had him nailed and now was jerking his chain. The tube doors were Ivan’s subtle calling card—I’ve got you, you stupid, American asshole, and I could clean your clock if I chose to. He cursed and kicked himself for booting the ball like a rookie at second base.

Sanchez squeezed the rail surrounding the periscope platform with both hands, mentally calculating his escape. Mortified at being had, his mouth flexed and formed to let loose the necessary orders. He had been humiliated in front of his men, and it hurt.

“Captain, it’s the Delta; she’s opening her missile-tube doors!” The words from Sonar came slower this time and were a smack across his face. A sudden flash of fear tore at his brain. He fought to maintain calm. A muffled cry filled Control. Stiff, frozen faces marked the crew.

Sonar’s unbelievable message left Sanchez momentarily speechless. Two quick steps placed him at the 21MC. He depressed the small pot-metal lever. The words wouldn’t come. Sanchez broke through the resistance.

“What the hell are you talking about? You mean the Victor, don’t you? The Victor is opening her torpedo-tube doors.”

“No, sir,” bellowed the chief sonarman. “The fucker is opening missile-tube doors; the second one is moving now. I’ve heard it before. In the Bering Sea, during Russian missile tests.”

Sanchez straightened and closed his eyes. He couldn’t believe this was happening. His heart began to pound. He broke into a sweat. His eyes locked on the XO, everyone else’s locked on him. Someone had dealt
San Francisco
a dog-shit hand. Sanchez gritted his teeth. Was Ivan putting him through the ultimate wringer, laughing all the way to Moscow?

“I want a firing solution on the Delta, now,” he shouted.

“What the fuck?” replied the ops officer with a look of total disbelief. The man was disoriented. “We can’t unload on the Delta, Skipper. The Victor will nail us in the ass; we’re totally out of position.”

The executive officer stepped over. “Maybe we don’t have enough to go on,” he offered privately, not necessarily believing what he said but understanding his role. “Remember the rules of engagement.”

“Fuck the ROE,” said Sanchez. “If this Russian skipper is playing some fucking game, he just crossed the line.”

By now everyone in the control room was staring in disbelief, scared and confused. Terrified would be a better word. They were thinking, break off and get us out of here. We don’t want to die.

Sanchez turned and glared. The crew tensed as their leader stared them down. “Listen up,” he said in a low voice. “This is no bullshit peacetime game. We’re going to blow the motherfucker out of the water. Do I make myself clear? If I’m wrong, the Victor will be caught off guard, and we’ll nail him too.” He didn’t elaborate on if he was right.

No one in Control said a word. The ops officer slowly turned to his panel, his face as white as a sheet, and began preparations for torpedo firing. The others resumed their duties, shaken.

“All tubes flooded and ready for firing, Skipper,” reported the ops officer, his voice cracking with the strain.

“Open outer doors.”

“Opening outer doors.” The creaking of the Delta’s massive missile-tube doors would mask the slight rumbling as
San Francisco
’s torpedo-tube doors were retracted and locked.

“Doors open.”

“Any change in the Victor?”

“No, sir.”
San Francisco
might have a chance to break away at flank speed and elude any retaliatory torpedoes, maybe even to get in firing position for a shot. It was a big maybe.

With four missile-tube doors open, the Delta was well into the firing sequence for the first salvo of the SS-N-23 SLBMs resting in her tubes. Each massive door slamming against its stop vindicated Sanchez’ order. Even the XO was now resigned, his normally unshakable mask starting to crack. He couldn’t believe it was happening—a submariner’s fantasy turned nightmare.

“Fire one through four,” ordered Sanchez hoarsely. He took a deep breath. “Standby for a flank bell, maximum down angle on the planes. Hard turn to port.”

The ops officer hesitated, his finger resting on the plastic button on the attack console. He swallowed hard and then pushed the glowing buttons in sequence. They changed color when depressed. “One away, two away, three away, four away,” he reported in cadence.

As each Mark 48 torpedo was ejected from
San Francisco
in a rush of pressurized air, she shuddered. The sailors in Control flinched in response to each impulse transmitted through the hull, as if a lethal jolt of electricity had just surged through their bodies. When number four cleared, the pressure hull was pummeled by the harsh, ringing ping of the Victor’s active sonar. It was certain death knocking on their steel door.

Sanchez barked orders, sending
San Francisco
into a radical, steep dive, her single propeller spinning to maximum RPM, the whine reverberating throughout the boat.

“Left five degrees rudder,” he ordered. Sailors struggled to maintain their balance amid flying gear.

Suddenly,
San Francisco
’s sonar picked up a spread of enemy torpedoes launched from the Victor. They immediately went active, their miniature sonars easily acquiring the Americans at such short range. But Sonar also picked up the deafening underwater roar as
San Francisco
’s Mark 48 torpedoes tore into the Delta, ripping her hull to shreds, aided by tons of detonating solid-rocket propellant.

Desperately turning and twisting through the ocean depths,
San Francisco
tried to shake the Russian torpedoes that dogged her like hungry sharks drawn to blood. At fifty-five knots, the torpedoes advanced indomitably, rapidly decreasing the range. Sanchez said a silent prayer as he gazed at his magnificent crew. He loved them like family. But he knew there was no escape. In seconds, death’s cold hand would reach out and plunge his brave men to an icy end.

CHAPTER 16

A creation of 1950s Cold War hysteria, the American/Canadian North American Aerospace Defense Command was buried deep within the bowels of Cheyenne Mountain, west of Colorado Springs. NORAD, as it was called, stood watch over the vast air and space frontiers of the North American land mass. Despite the end of the Cold War, the primary threat axis was still due north—the shortest distance for missiles and bombers from Russia. That rump superpower was still the only sovereign nation on the planet that could annihilate the United States in an afternoon.

Constructed to withstand a determined nuclear onslaught, Cheyenne Mountain’s survivability was suspect in the modern age. The intricate design of fifteen huge steel boxes suspended on massive steel springs in a cavern carved from solid granite boggled the mind. Twenty-five-ton blast doors sealed the drive-through entrance, and when those steel monstrosities loudly locked into place, it sent shivers up your spine. Redundant emergency power systems and ample supplies of food and water reinforced the determination to survive any attack. Its longevity was classified, but leaked reports put it at well over one year. Cynics snickered, as if any rational human being could tolerate being locked in a tomb for that duration with the outside world in flames.

Component commands were the Missile Warning Center, keeper of the early warning satellites floating over the earth and the giant, phased-array radars encircling the continent, and the Space Defense Operations Center. The SPADOC, as it was called, tracked thousands of objects, big and small, orbiting the planet with a system of highly sophisticated radars, optical telescopes, and infrared satellites. Their current focus was on the plague of spaceborne debris. Particles as tiny as a few microns could disable a satellite or pit the Plexiglas on a shuttle. Larger objects, those pushing a few centimeters, were like hundred-mile-per-hour bowling balls in space.

Both the SPADOC and the MWC were at heightened readiness. Sensors, computer systems, and communications gear had been checked and rechecked. Tensions had been higher only twice in the distant past—the Cuban missile crisis and the one day when the Soviets had brazenly launched a handful of ICBMs north from their silos, only to detonate them midflight, shortly after they crossed the pole. They had never said a word, nor had the United States.

At that moment, 22,300 miles above the equator, shortwave, infrared-sensing DSP early warning satellites scanned the earth’s surface. They monitored all Russian silo fields and vast ocean areas for the telltale fiery plumes of ballistic missiles. These marvels were America’s first line of defense. Their sensitivity for detecting even minute amounts of heat was legend.

During a routine communication check with STRATCOM’s airborne command post, code-named Looking Glass, the DSP over Asia detected a series of hot spots against the cool earth background. The news was instantly bounced off communication satellites and downlinked to satellite control at Falcon AFB on the other side of the globe at Colorado Springs. Forwarded to NORAD, the news triggered an incredibly loud horn, which blared for ten seconds, shattering the tense atmosphere.

Watch standers froze. Astonished faces turned in unison toward the big screen. They searched for the indicator that would jump out, announcing a system-hardware fault or software bug. Instead they were greeted with a rapid succession of small symbols popping on the center screen, marking DSP-provided launch detections in central Russia. It had to be a computer malfunction, they convinced themselves, like the false alarms in the early eighties.