Red Hammer 1994 (10 page)

“I suppose,” said Thomas. “But the Russians might be looking for a chance to mix it up. Are we ready?” Alexander would most certainly pose the same question to the Joint Chiefs later in the day. The admiral’s answer didn’t really matter.

“I can assure you, we won’t be put in that position,” responded the admiral, speaking for the navy. “The
Texas
is heavily armed, and I personally know the commanding officer. He’s first-rate.

Alexander raised his thick eyebrows at Thomas. The look wasn’t lost on the others. “I hope so. Thank you, Admiral. Does anyone have any other questions?”

Thomas flashed on an old incident, remembering the
Glomar Explorer
. He prayed this wouldn’t be another CIA escapade. He did hit on something else, though, and raised a finger.

“That particular Delta IV was involved in the new sea-launched ballistic-missile development program,” remarked Thomas. “This could have a real impact on the development schedule of the SS-N-27X missile, couldn’t it?”

“That’s correct,” replied the admiral. “They were to conduct a test launch before transiting to their final patrol area. This makes it even more important that we get a look at the wreckage.” A long pause followed.

“That it?” said the secretary, after no further questions arose from the crowd, “Let’s move on to the problem with the C-17 production.” Alexander leaned to his right and whispered to Thomas, “Keep an eye on this one, Bob.”

The USS
Texas
, a nuclear-powered guided-missile cruiser, steamed leisurely toward the broad entrance of Tokyo Bay at eighteen knots. Her final destination was the harbor adjacent to Yokosuka Naval Base.
Texas
was two months into a seven-month Western Pacific cruise as part of Battle Group Echo, spearheaded by the aircraft carrier USS
Ranger
. The Battle Group was slated to dock in Yokosuka for minor repairs, loading stores and taking a week of well-deserved liberty, then push off for the long transit to the Indian Ocean via the Strait of Malacca and eventually move to operations in the Arabian Sea. Duty in the IO, as the sailors called it, was arduous, monotonous, and exhausting. Long stretches underway were broken only by infrequent, dismal port calls. The best the crew could hope for was a few warm beers at Mombasa, Kenya. The worst would be Karachi, Pakistan.

One rumor had spread like wildfire through the ship’s passageways. A radioman had leaked the word at chow time—a message had been received proposing a week-long visit to the Australian port of Perth after their three-month sentence in the IO. The ship buzzed as wide-eyed sailors happily went about their duties. If true, it would partly compensate for the devastating loss of Subic Bay’s notorious Olongapo City as the crème de la crème of liberty ports. The lovely ladies of Subic had scattered to the four winds once the last Americans trooped home in late 1992. Fleet sailors still wept at the passing of such a venerable institution overtaken by both time and politics.

After weeks at sea, shipboard operations were in autopilot.
Texas
alternated between mundane carrier escort ops and occasionally leading a surface-action group to intercept and investigate Russian combatants nosing around in the Northern Pacific—although these days the pests were fewer. The handful that could still get underway mostly hugged the coasts both in the Sea of Japan and that perennial Russian lake, the Sea of Okhotsk, which also served as the last Pacific bastion for ballistic-missile-carrying submarines.

On
Ranger
, the air wing stepped up the tempo in anticipation of the rigors of life in the Indian Ocean. Flight operations commenced at first light and continued well into the night. It was a grueling schedule that exhausted both flight crews and the young sailors braving the flight deck. So far, to the credit of all, they hadn’t lost a man or a plane.

Lieutenant Commander Brad Chelson, United States Navy, Operations Officer on Texas, was hunched over a radar repeater in the blackened Combat Information Center, or CIC, located a stone’s throw behind the bridge. An occasional red fluorescent backlit the shadowy characters that called this electronic dungeon home. Chelson was slightly over medium height, with thick, sandy blond hair that flopped in a mop on top but was shaved to the scalp above the ears, a tribute to the skill of shipboard barbers. He fought constantly to maintain his college weight, but the sedentary shipboard life coupled with greasy food presented a formidable challenge. His only exercise consisted of daily laps around
Texas
’s steel decks, weather permitting. A look in the reflective glass of the repeater revealed a young-looking face with intelligent eyes.

Chelson had just assumed the watch when the Bridge urgently signaled Main Control over the 21MC squawk box.

“Main Control, Bridge, we’re being detached from the Battle Group, stand by for a high-speed run.” The CIC sailors stared at each other in mouth-open shock.

“Oh shit!” exclaimed the Lieutenant J.G., on watch with his boss, “My wife is going to meet the ship in Japan.”

“You mean was,” replied Chelson unsympathetically. “I’ve told you guys not to make plans. Don’t worry,” he added thoughtfully, “they’ll get word to her. If not, she’ll have a once-in-a-lifetime shopping spree without you.” The thought of his mate loose with the other wardroom wives in a shopper’s paradise caused a sharp pain in the young lieutenant’s already thin wallet.

“Where are we going, sir?” asked the senior enlisted man on watch.

“You know as much as I do.” Chelson quickly retrieved the secret message board and rummaged through the old traffic. Did I miss something? he thought. What the hell is going on?

The executive officer called an all-officers meeting in the wardroom for 1300. By then the
Texas
had steamed 350 degrees true at a flank bell, a magnificent, frothing rooster tail spewing fifty feet skyward, driven by the ship’s twin screws churning the sea. At precisely 1300, the commanding officer strode through the oval-shaped wardroom door.

“Attention on deck,” called the executive officer. All the officers quickly stood and braced at attention.

After a mental survey to spot absentees, the CO remarked, “Seats, gentlemen. All right, we’ve gotten new orders.” He stepped to his left, tapping his finger on a chart of the Pacific Ocean, which leaned on an easel. He pulled out his reading glasses and rested them on his nose. They made him look like a college professor. The officers knew better than to make a smart-ass comment on the old man’s appearance.

“Commander-in-Chief, US Pacific Fleet has ordered us to proceed to an op-area southeast of the Kurile Islands. It appears the Russians have lost something important. They’ve got surface units supported by land-based aircraft covering the area. CINCPACFLT thinks it was a sub. So far it’s hard to tell, but there was a Delta IV ballistic-missile submarine patrolling in the Sea of Okhotsk that’s turned up missing. On the other hand, it could have been just about anything. In any case, they’re worried as hell.”

At that moment, the biggest concern for all was the lost liberty. It was a bitter blow to the single men. The more numerous married officers had supposedly learned to control themselves when let loose amid the Far East liberty ports. An after-port check at the doctor’s office didn’t always support that hypothesis.

“Our orders are to patrol the area and gather whatever intelligence we can. They’ve got one of their new destroyers up there, so we should be able to get a good look at it. Hopefully, we can pick up communications traffic and get signature data on the various platforms. Might as well make the trip worthwhile.

“We’re scheduled to rendezvous with a supply ship farther north for stores,” he said, pointing to a location off the mainland, “and we’ll pick up linguists. This looks like a straightforward operation, but we’re going to have to be on our toes. The patrol area is very close to Russian territorial waters. We can expect them to tell us to clear the area, but we’ll hang tough and exercise our rights of navigation in international waters and the right of innocent passage through the territorial sea. That means precise navigation at all times, got that, Navigator? We’ve got to know exactly where we are.”

“Yes, sir,” came a voice from the end of the table. The navigator was sharp and confident, and his voice showed it.

The Captain walked to his chair and sat down. He thought for a moment then turned to an officer next to Chelson.

“We’ll make a high-speed run the entire transit. That means no engineering casualty drills, Chief Engineer; we can’t take the risk of losing one of the plants.” Then he looked at them all. “Once on station, we’ll shift to port and starboard watches throughout the ship, including one fully manned repair party.” The last comment brought a pained look to the faces surrounding the table. Port and starboard watch standing cursed the life of sailors at sea.

“I’m not sure how long we’ll be tasked, but the plan is to have an AFS out of Yokosuka meet us in a few weeks for additional supplies and, hopefully, mail. We’ll get more specific guidance later. Any questions?”

Chelson was the first. “Captain, are we the only ship to get tagged?”

“It appears that way,” answered the Captain. “There’s always the possibility that a sub will join us, but we’ll never know, you know how the bubble heads are.”

“What’s the threat?” inquired the XO. The Captain’s brow knitted.

“Two frigates besides the destroyer and two auxiliaries. The destroyer is the only cruise-missile shooter, but they’ll have search aircraft combing the area, and we’ll be in range of every Backfire in the entire Russian Pacific Fleet. As for subs, that’s anybody’s guess. I’d expect at least one older Victor III or possibly an Akula. We’re going to get a workout, gentleman, make no mistake about it. We’re going to be in Ivan’s backyard. I want all Bridge personnel to brush up on the rules of the road and on the Russian/US Incident at Sea Agreement. Any other questions?” There was nothing from the group.

Great, thought Chelson, just what I need. Instead of drilling holes in the Arabian Sea, we’re going to be up to our ass in Russians. And that meant the usually overworked ops officer would be humping twenty-four hours a day just to keep his head above water.

CHAPTER 9

It was the end of August, and USS
San Francisco
glided effortlessly at four hundred feet, tunneling a stealthy track through the ink-black seawater. At twelve knots, she was impossible to detect. An LA-class fast-attack submarine,
San Francisco
had recently completed a grueling patrol in the North Pacific and the frozen, far reaches of the Bering Sea. The San Diego-based boat had broken new ground utilizing nonacoustical tracking data to bird-dog a couple of Russian attack boats out of Petro. Ivan had never gotten their scent while the
San Francisco
tiptoed in their trails, garnering rich intelligence for fingerprinting the two new-model nuke boats.

Taking a breather in Hawaii for a few days of well-earned relaxation before steaming on to San Diego,
San Francisco
had received a pleasant surprise—an unexpected port call to Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. They were ordered to rendezvous with USS
Cape Cod
, a submarine tender steaming south from San Diego, and tie up outboard of the tender while she anchored in the peaceful, Mexican resort town.

The crew was bouncing off the bulkheads. This would be real liberty for a change. True, they had visited Guam and Sasebo, Japan, but those naval ports hardly ranked as liberty hot spots on the Westpac hit parade. Now they could finally get wild and crazy before returning home to families and loved ones.

Three days out of Pearl and into the homestretch for Mexican waters, the crew really began to loosen up. Mariachi music blared over the boat’s entertainment system, and enterprising cooks had thrown together a sampling of Mexi-can cuisine—the messdeck senior chief’s enchiladas had proved to be the favorite. Even the boat’s skipper was brushing up his long-dormant Spanish.

Commander Raul Sanchez was one of the youngest submarine commanding officers in the US Navy and one of the brightest. He was built like a weight lifter, medium height and stocky, and had a bushy black mustache that grossly violated navy grooming regs. His darting black eyes showed intelligence and cunning, a handy combination for a submarine skipper. A four-year ROTC scholarship had plucked the young Hispanic from East Los Angeles and commissioned him an ensign in the US Navy. The nuclear-power program had immediately claimed him as their own. One of NAVSEA 08’s darlings, he had a sterling reputation for thoroughness and toughness, painstakingly built over the years. The crew adored him, convinced that
San Francisco
was the best attack boat in the fleet. And after their backbreaking cruise, they knew they had proven it once again.

San Francisco
silently slipped through the black sea, rising periodically to periscope depth for a message dump from one of the fleet’s satellites. It was early morning, and Sanchez was standing in the Control Room reviewing in-port watch bills with the executive officer, a senior lieutenant commander with a PhD in physics. All thoughts were on the wonderful Latin liberty just hours ahead.