Red Hammer 1994 (26 page)

Jackson frowned and rubbed his chin, now covered with rough stubble. He closed his eyes momentarily to clear his thoughts, to get balanced. He was searching beyond the highlighted pencil dot on the chart. The strait, that shallow, broad inland sea that led to the vast Pacific Ocean, that’s where his eyes were now transfixed. What lay out there? Who might be lurking?

Russian visitors had never dared venture into the landlocked Strait. They were satisfied to loiter off Cape Flattery in deeper water, hoping to tag a careless Trident departing for patrol. The executive officer, squinting to study the chart from the side, interrupted. He looked puzzled, which was unusual for him.

“How the hell are we going to make it to the sound, Skipper, let alone the strait?” Jackson didn’t immediately answer. His mind still focused on Cape Flattery. “I know you’re there, Ivan,” he said under his breath.

“What was the last position on that Akula out of Petro?” he asked the group, his head screwing left and right. Jackson referred to the latest and greatest Russian attack submarine that rivaled American boats in quietness, sensor performance, and weapons, and vastly outperformed them in raw speed and operating depth. One had been lurking a few hundred miles from the West Coast for two weeks. In a few short years, the Akulas had become the bane of American submarine skippers long accustomed to technological superiority and a very comfortable acoustical advantage. An ensign standing next to the master chief answered first.

“Ninety miles southwest of the Cape, Skipper.”

“That’s six hours to the entrance at fifteen knots,” grunted the completely bald operations officer.

“He can go faster,” reminded the XO. “None of our attack boats are near.” With ample warning, US attack submarines would have scrambled from San Diego or Pearl and sanitized or “deloused” the narrow approaches to the Trident transit lanes. But this Akula had no such worry. The nearest US attack boat was a thousand miles away. “He could make it in four,” the XO added as an afterthought.

“Maybe to the mouth, but he’d be crazy to steam down into the strait, Skipper,” offered operations officer.

The executive officer had astutely picked up on the captain’s mental restlessness. “He knows we can launch in the strait. That bastard could be sitting at the edge of our launch depth, just waiting for us to make a stupid move.”

The executive officer plucked the navigator’s dividers from his hand and marked off the distance from the entrance eastward. End over end they went, the sharp points digging into the chart. “If he made the entrance in four hours, he’d need another four to get in position. Even if he slowed to ten knots, he could reach here, well past the six hundred-foot contour.” All faces leaned forward in unison to see the spot under the XO’s forefinger. It was sobering.

The ops officer scrunched his face. He was habitually throwing cold water on other people’s ideas, but he knew his job inside and out. A more gregarious man than the stiff executive officer, he was the perfect complement. The sometimes feuding pair brought a balance to tactical discussions.

“Ivan wouldn’t go that shallow; he’d lose his tactical advantage, his maneuverability. He’d hang around in seven hundred or eight hundred feet of water to maximize sensor performance. He’d let us come to him. In four hundred or five hundred feet of water with this mucky bottom he wouldn’t be able to hear shit. Acoustical torpedoes wouldn’t work worth a damn either. I’ll bet he’s counting on us to make a run for the ocean.” A chorus of nods validated the ops officer’s sensible observation.

“I don’t know,” Jackson said softly, circling his finger around the disputed location. “If I knew a Trident was alive, I’d steam up to the pier at Bangor if I had to.”

Jackson looked over at Ops. “You’ve got a point, though. There’s a limit to how far he would go. Looks like 123-30 degrees to me. After that it would be dicey. Farther east and he could get in deep shit with the bottom. You’re right.” He nodded grudgingly. “He’d be too unfamiliar with the waters to screw around.” Jackson stretched his arms out in front, resting his sticky palms on the table. He let out a relieved sigh.

“So where does that leave us?” He started to think out loud, chewing on the options—something his officers always appreciated. “We’d have to go to 123-30 degrees ourselves in order to launch, which we’re not ordered to do yet. The EAM was only an alert. No one knows for sure we’re alive. If the order comes, we could launch in the strait, but it would be a lousy choice. Someone would surely see the missiles broach, and I’d wager we’d be dead in less than an hour. Or the Akula could surprise us and slip farther east than we think and nail our ass. No, we have to keep moving and go for the Pacific. But we’ll take our time and try to draw him out.” Jackson seemed satisfied. So did the others.

“Any questions?”

The master chief spoke up. “Skipper, do you really think a Russian boat would do that? Come down the strait, I mean.” He had twice the sea time as Jackson and easily as much common sense. “It just don’t figure.”

“I’d do it,” replied Jackson, pinching the ridge of his nose to relieve the pressure. “This is war. We’ll survive by doing things the enemy doesn’t expect. He’ll be thinking the same.” The word “war” had an unsettling effect. It made the cramped room squirm.

“Could we transit faster, sir?” asked a lieutenant. “Get to deep water sooner and be in better position to detect a sub?”

“Good thought, but we can’t risk being on the surface, even at night. We know there are always agents monitoring traffic on the Canal. I’ve got to believe they’re still there. If we’re spotted, they won’t need an attack boat, they could finish us with a ballistic missile. It only takes thirty minutes, and we’d have moved along a known path.”

“You think they’d spot us at night, Skipper?”

“We can’t take that chance. We shouldn’t even have our scope exposed for any length of time, at least not until we reach the sound.” That meant a submerged transit at night. The executive officer cringed. That’s what he was afraid the skipper had meant.

“But no one’s ever done that. Any dickhead on the Russian payroll is long gone. We could make ten to fifteen knots on the surface, even at night.”

“Can’t risk it. We go submerged. We’ll lift off the bottom at 2130. We’ll follow the navigator’s plan and set down past Foulweather Bluff early in the morning and take inventory. In the meantime, get as much rest as possible and some chow. Any other questions?” Jackson looked around one final time. “Dismissed.” There was a surge for the door and fresh air.

Jackson glanced at his watch. “Lieutenant Brandice.” A medium-built, blond-haired officer jerked to a halt and looked up. “Have a seat.” Brandice struggled against the tide of bodies until he was opposite the captain and then sat down nervously. Jackson waited until the others had departed. But all had known the topic as soon as the officer’s name was called. Lieutenant Norman Brandice was the strategic weapons officer.

The lieutenant was in his late twenties, with a round face and was slightly overweight. It was a curse that plagued the constantly confined submariners who rated the best chow in the fleet. He was relatively new aboard
Michigan
, and Jackson had not gotten to know him very well, too much confusion during refit. He disposed of any pleasantries. He looked at Brandice hard.

“When the order comes, and it will, I need to be assured there won’t be any problems.” The lieutenant understood, nodding, and started to respond, but Jackson cut him off.

“I know what you’re going to say, but hear me out.” Jackson folded his hands and rested them on the table. His eyes bored in on Brandice. “We’ve all gone through the drills. We try to imagine what we would do if the real thing ever happened. Well, it has. If any man has moral reservations, I won’t hold it against him. But I can’t have hesitation. Canvas your department, and let me know. Give them time to think it over.” Jackson started to stand. “That includes you by the way.”

“There won’t be a problem, Captain.” Brandice’s tone was soft, yet firm. Jackson managed a slight smile. “That’s all.”

Jackson watched the weapons officer depart, and then hung his hand over the open door. He was so tired he could barely stand. “Go lie down,” he scolded. The thought of an hour in his rack brought a rush of contentment. Then he flashed back to Brandice’s final comment. Won’t be a problem? he thought. He remembered once reading interviews with the crewmen of the
Enola Gay
. How would he feel days, weeks, years after—if he were alive?
Michigan
would make the historic suffering imposed on the Japanese people look like child’s play.

CHAPTER 23

The MH-53J helicopter plunged as it crossed the jagged tree line, popping white-hot magnesium flares—a precaution against someone with a Stinger missile. The passengers clung tightly to aluminum tubing welded to the fuselage, fighting the G-forces that squeezed their bodies. The engine vibration shaking the cabin made it worse. Thomas, a veteran of countless helo rides, broke into a sweat. Aft, Genser’s aide was doubled over, vomiting. The foul smell quickly engulfed the cabin, gagging his immediate neighbors.

The special ops bird flared and hung motionless then dipped and bounced roughly to a stop. Colonel Harcourt sprang to his feet, pistol in hand, forcing open the cabin door, jumping to the dirt. The pilot idled, waiting for the reassuring all-clear before securing the engines. When the twin turbines changed pitch and wound down, Harcourt stuck his head back through the retracted door and locked his eyes on Alexander.

“Follow me, sir,” he barked against the racket. He wanted to get his passengers out of the helo. Sitting on the ground, it was a big, fat target.

It was 8:05 p.m. The last traces of daylight disappeared behind tall pines. The trees grew black and ominous. Alexander poked his head through the exit and led his troupe down the aluminum steps. They moved haltingly, gripping the handrail, glancing nervously across the unfamiliar landscape. They were quickly surrounded by twenty or so Rangers in full battle dress, camouflage paint smeared over their exposed skin. All carried the recently issued, shortened M-16, the M4A. Squad leaders maneuvered the soldiers quickly and efficiently, without a sound.

“Where the hell are we?” Alexander asked the colonel.

Harcourt looked exasperated. “Change of plans, sir. The GMCC is not ready. They’ve had trouble getting a full crew and getting underway. It’s going to be a while before we can rendezvous. My orders are to hold here.”

“What’s a while?” barked Alexander. He wasn’t long on patience at the moment.

“Can’t say, sir. Maybe two hours, maybe three. I have to keep you safe. We can’t risk a linkup until the GMCC is operational and security has been set. Right now, it’s a mess. We’ve always had a lot more time.”

Alexander was beside himself. Here he was the secretary of defense, and he felt like a hostage. He needed to get back into the command loop. He needed to find out what was happening. He turned to Thomas. “We’ve got to get some sort of comms going. See what you can do. Coordinate with General Bartholomew. Come up with a plan.”

Thomas grabbed the colonel and moved out. The other passengers were herded well away from the helo. Rangers bracketed the leaders from Washington as they marched down a narrow trail leading into the woods.

Alexander’s troupe had landed on the outskirts of Mathews Arm Campground, a popular overnight campground bordering Skyline Drive. Terrified holiday visitors had been ushered to the exit by men in combat gear. A handful of stubborn campers were under a makeshift house arrest.

Winding one hundred yards through the dense trees, the group emerged into a partial clearing. Here they would wait until further instructions.

The setting was surreal. The secretary of defense and of state and top generals and admirals from the Joint Staff were gathered in a picnic area at Mathews Arm, surrounded by troops. Despite the September heat, the night brought a chill at this elevation. They all stood awkwardly in suits and dress uniforms. Except for the clothes, it could have been something out of the civil war. The only thing missing was a campfire.

At thirteen minutes past nine, Alexander convened a stand-up, ad-hoc war council. Alexander had to raise his voice to be heard. The Rangers had provided makeshift lighting.

“I want this to be short,” began Alexander, kicking the dirt. “We’re not going to make any decisions until I’m certain the vice president has taken the oath of office. Besides, it will be more than two hours before the bombers reach the pole and another five or six until they complete their missions and we know the outcome. General Bartholomew?” He and Thomas had patched together a status report from various sources.

Bartholomew stepped forward. The command and control system was holding up fairly well. “NEACP is over Tennessee. Looking Glass has slipped west toward the Rockies, and the rest of the PACCS network has shifted north to help with line of sight to the bombers. TACAMO survived and are off each coast, linked to the submarines. We have confidence that all EAMs have been transmitted and received by the nuclear forces, including at-sea ballistic-missile submarines.” His tone was flat, unemotional.