Red Hammer 1994 (20 page)

Enough, the captain thought. “Officer of the Deck,” he called, rising up in his chair, “Get rid of that frigate. All ahead flank.” They had done the same to a destroyer two days earlier, running a Russian skipper into the ground.

“Yes, sir,” responded the OOD. While orders flew, the communications officer burst through the back door to the Bridge, slamming it hard against the bulkhead.

“Captain,” he stammered, out of breath. “Flash message from CINCPACFLT.”

The captain looked puzzled, taking the message and holding it in one hand. All eyes were glued on the man in the chair, his face expressionless.

“I’m not sure what they mean, sir.”

The captain knew. “Boatswain,” shouted the captain, quickly jumping from his chair, “sound general quarters. OOD, cancel that flank bell. Ahead standard.”

The boatswain hesitated, his mouth hanging open. A stern look sent him flying to the 1MC with a prompt, “Aye, aye, sir.”

The general alarm brought the ship to life. The boatswain’s repeated call over the 1MC that it was not a drill ratcheted the sense of urgency. Sailors flew down ladders and sprinted down passageways to their assigned battle stations.

Chelson, working on message traffic in the wardroom, threw his pen on the table and tripped trying to get out of his chair. What the shit? he thought, grabbing his cap and heading out the door.

“What’s going on, sir?” yelled a first class machinist’s mate headed in the same direction.

“Don’t know.” Sprinting up two ladders, Chelson burst through the door into the combat information center. Total confusion reigned.

“What’s going on?” No immediate answer.

Chelson relieved the CIC watch officer on duty and motioned for the phone talker to bird-dog him around the space. “Tell me when you get manned and ready reports.”

“Yes, sir,” answered the young sailor excitedly.

The captain stepped out on bridge wing, studying the Russian frigate. So far she had not made a move. Within one minute, sailors and officers with general quarters stations on the bridge had arrived and were donning battle dress. The ship’s executive officer, the general quarters officer-of-the-deck, stepped toward the captain, buckling the strap on his helmet.

“What the hell is going on, Skipper?”

“Here, take a look at this,” answered the captain, handing the message to the XO.

“My God, execute the CINCPAC OPLAN? Are they serious?”

“No idea, but we’re not going to wait for clarification. I’ll be in CIC. I want to know the minute that frigate makes a change in course or speed or trains a gun mount. So far it looks like Ivan hasn’t got the word. Any questions?”

“No, sir.”

The captain strode through the door into the blackness of CIC, broken only by an occasional red light and the soft glow from radar repeaters and computer consoles. Instant transition from day to night forced him to stand there blinking. His sight would slowly be restored to capture the dim light. Near the large navy tactical data-system console he spied Chelson, the tactical action officer.

“I saw the message, Skipper,” said Chelson grimly. “What are your orders?”

“Where are the destroyer and the cruiser?” Chelson poked at the horizontal repeater. He touched two separate symbols, both diamonds, denoting hostiles, but there was no radar blip under them.

The captain tugged at the stubble on his chin. “Lock on the frigate with both guns and open fire,” said the captain, poking at the flat screen. “When we’ve put the frigate out of action, we’ll steam southeast at flank speed and let loose Harpoons on the two to the northwest. How good is our last position on those two?”

Chelson swallowed hard. The transition to combat had been too rapid. He finally answered his CO’s question. “It’s about half an hour old. They moved out of radar range, but we had a good course and speed on both of them. We could launch the helo for an update?”

“We don’t have time,” responded the captain. “We’ll just spread the shots over a sector based on a DR from their last position and hope we get a couple of hits.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

Chelson dutifully passed the orders over his headset.

“Weapons free track 5147,” he ordered crisply. Those down the chain of command at other consoles understood the words but twisted their torsos to visibly spot the TAO. Yes, he was serious.

The young officer at the gun fire control console pressed a square, plastic button and slewed the five-inch gun director to the azimuth of the frigate.

“Locked on target,” he reported in less than ten seconds. The Russian frigate’s electronic warfare suite would instantly detect the fire-control radar’s unique emissions. But it would be too late for anything but curses and prayers.

The sharp retort of the twin guns fore and aft jerked the bridge sailors as each projectile blasted from the slender gray barrels in sheets of flame and smoke. The first two rounds were short, benchmark water spouts mushrooming near the frigate. The next salvo was dead on target, erupting violently near the Russian frigate’s bridge and aft superstructure. The guns continued to pound away unmercifully.

“CIC, Bridge,” the executive officer reported excitedly, “multiple hits on the frigate. No topside activity, nothing.”

After more than fifteen hits on the Russian frigate, Chelson ordered cease-fire. By then she was dead in the water with a port list; topside fires roared the length of the hapless ship. Thick, black smoke billowed skyward, marking her grave in the icy waters of the North Pacific.

Texas
swung briskly to port, changing course to unmask the Harpoon canisters. When steadied up, Chelson signaled to engage the other two hostiles. With only an estimated position, they would launch each Harpoon down a bearing line, leaving it up to the super-smart missile to figure out where the target lay.

“Ready to fire,” reported the officer at the Harpoon control panel.

“Fire,” was the order.

The first Harpoon burst out of its canister in a cloud of billowing smoke and flame. The roar was deafening. It was followed by two more.
Texas
changed course, firing another salvo from the quad canister on the opposite side.

“All birds away, Captain,” reported Chelson. “Three at the cruiser and two at the destroyer.”

“Very well,” answered the captain. “Set EMCON. Secure all radar and communications emissions. I’m going back to the bridge.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.” He stepped quickly through the oval doorway and barked an order at his number two. “Come right to one nine zero.”

The order was properly repeated back followed by an “aye, sir.”

“XO, come here.” The captain was leaning over the navigator’s chart, formulating a plan for rendezvousing with the battle group.

“What is it, Skipper?”

“We’ll steam southwest for a few hours to see if we can throw Ivan off our trail. They’ll expect us to head due east. Our biggest problem will be stumbling across a Russian submarine. Maintain twenty-six knots and commence zigzagging.”

“Aye, aye, Skipper.”

“I want a meeting of all department heads in my cabin in fifteen minutes. Get the navigator to relieve you. I’ll be down in radio.”

“Bridge, Radio, is the captain there?” said a voice over the 21MC. “We have additional flash traffic.”

“Radio, Bridge, the captain is on his way.”

CHAPTER 18

USS
Michigan
, the second Trident ballistic-missile submarine of the Ohio class, was securely berthed outboard of USS
Georgia
at Delta pier, Naval Submarine Base, Bangor, Washington. As big as a World War II cruiser, her seventeen thousand tons were masked by the graceful lines of her cigar-shaped albacore hull, especially when hidden beneath the blue-green water that lapped against the pier. Like a majestic black iceberg, one had to see a Trident perched naked on supporting wooden blocks in dry dock to truly appreciate her immenseness and her stark beauty.

Both PACFLT boats were in refit following rigorous seventy-five-day patrols in the Northern Pacific.
Michigan
had been recuperating for four hectic weeks.
Georgia
had docked only three days previously, fresh from sea. Her sailors had spilled onto the dock soon after the mooring lines had gone over, replaced by her second crew for the next patrol. And so it went in the Trident fleet. Two crews per boat, over fifty percent of the boats at sea, month after month, year after year.

The eighteen Trident ballistic-missile submarines of the United States Navy proudly carried the torch first lit with the commissioning of USS
George Washington
in the early 60s. The old boats were long since scrapped, but the new Tridents, with their C-4 and D-5 MIRVed nuclear-tipped missiles, kept the faith. Just like thirty years earlier, the navy’s stealthy missile boats secured the peace. Despite the evaporation of the Cold War and the disintegration of the Soviet Empire, the top-secret target grid coordinates for the missile warheads still lay in Russia. The C-4s, or Trident 1s, less accurate and carrying a smaller punch, were assigned the urban-industrial target base, while the super-accurate D-5s or Trident 2s threatened nuclear delivery systems and command and control. The Tridents continued to generate more heartburn in the Kremlin than any missile since the ancient Atlas E ICBMs in the early sixties.

Michigan
’s Blue Crew was commanded by Captain Stephen Jackson. Jackson, lean and trim for his forty-five years and a top Naval Academy graduate, was a veteran of twelve SSBN patrols, mostly in the older Poseidon submarines now decommissioned and resting in the boneyard. This command tour was his first in an SSBN and the culmination of twenty-four arduous years assigned to the boats. It had been backbreaking, yet immensely rewarding. He rankled having to share
Michigan
with the commanding officer of the Gold Crew. Captain Hallowell was a fine naval officer and a close personal friend, but there is a strong emotional bond between a captain and his ship. Reporting on board for turnover was always discomforting. It took weeks before he truly felt she was once again his.

The Friday before Labor Day was hot and clear, with a refreshing, light breeze blowing from the west, rippling the calm Hood Canal. The crew eagerly awaited the long holiday weekend, their last respite before another grueling patrol. Jackson relaxed in the Conning station atop the massive black sail jutting skyward from
Michigan
’s hull. The fairwater planes attached to the sail made him feel like he was soaring in the cockpit of one of those stealth bombers the air force raved about. But he personally commanded more destructive power than they could ever imagine. His twenty-four D-5 missiles carried enough brute power to dismantle a century of civilization in half the world. It was a sobering proposition, but one that all SSBN skippers lived with and learned to accept. Directly behind him, the multipurpose and attack periscopes towered overhead like pine trees, their mottled camouflage paint scheme contrasting with the flat black of the sail.

The scenery surrounding Bangor was breathtaking. Sunlight danced and shimmered off the azure water of the Hood Canal, framed by stands of tall pines as far as the eye could see. It looked like a scene from a glossy travel brochure. Jackson ran his fingers through the remnants of his sandy brown hair. Touches of gray had only recently sprouted around his ears, but he had lost the majority of his crop on top. Deep lines, fed by years of constant worry and lack of sleep, ran under his intense brown eyes and down to the corners of his mouth. His wife teased him that he was far too serious. But his toughness was born of a crushing accountability that burned out most nuclear navy men long before thirty-five, sending them packing to the civilian world with ulcers and broken marriages. The unforgiving standards of the navy’s nuclear-power program stressed the twin tenants of a near-religious attention to detail and adherence to written procedures. Those who failed their masters at Naval Reactors were summarily cashiered. A handful like Jackson thrived, the lure of command at sea outweighing any short-term discomfort. He was a different breed, and he knew it. The obnoxious growl of an old-fashioned-looking sound-powered phone snapped him back to reality. “Captain.”

“Sir,” reported the chief engineer from down in the bowels of the boat, “we’ve finished the reactor instrumentation tests. We’ll clean things up and then conduct a few casualty drills with the duty section. We should have everything wrapped in two or three hours. Still want to steam the plant over the weekend?”

“Yeah,” Jackson replied. “Public Works called after lunch, and they’re still having problems with the shore power. I don’t want any problems this weekend. The last thing I want is some late-night phone call.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” the chief engineer answered, “I’ll let you know when we’re done.”

“I may not be here,” Jackson said, “I’ve got a party tonight, so I’ll be going ashore early. Tell the command duty officer.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jackson savored one final sweep of the horizon before descending. Then the phone growled again.

“Captain,” he answered once more.

“Sir, this is the comm officer. Could you please come to Radio? I’m not sure I understand this message.” Jackson shook his head. Three freshly minted nuke officers had joined the wardroom during the stand down; the comm officer was one. He swore the quality was slipping from when he went through the program over twenty years earlier. Maybe he was getting too set in his ways.