Red Hammer 1994 (22 page)

It was over ten tortuous miles to the entrance of Puget Sound and another twenty-five to the relative safety of the Strait of Juan de Fuca. There
Michigan
would have some badly needed maneuvering room. The Hood Canal was over a mile wide and roughly 250 to 350 feet deep along its entire length. Theoretically,
Michigan
could operate submerged in less than 300 feet of water, but they would be bouncing off the bottom, kicking up muck, and possibly ruining the prop. But time was running out. He knew he was pressing his luck.

Ten minutes down the chute, Jackson lined up
Michigan
on the channel centerline and ceased rudder orders. They were well over two miles from Bangor, hopefully safe from all but a direct hit.

“All ahead one-third,” he said. “Prepare to submerge.”

“What’s the depth, Navigator?” Jackson asked on the 21MC.

“About three hundred twenty-five feet, Captain.”

Jackson took one last long look before climbing down. He sucked in a deep breath of the cool sea air, closed his eyes, and said a short prayer for his family and his country—an awkward act for him. He wasn’t a religious man; not because he was a disbeliever, he just never seemed to have the time. His wife had always assumed that role. But he prayed that God would be watching over the United States of America.

In Control, the air was thick with depression and pain. The men had gone through instant hell. Many had been crying, others still clung to rails, their heads burrowed in their arms. Over thirty-five minutes had passed since the alert, yet no attack. Had both sides pulled back from the brink? If only he had some goddamn information.

“All stop,” he ordered, “put her on the bottom, XO.”

He was interrupted by the chief radioman, a person certain to have only bad news. “Skipper, could you please come to Radio?”

“What is it?” he snapped.

“EAM,” whispered the chief.

Jackson was crestfallen. The air filling his lungs exited with a sudden grunt. No doubt now about a Russian attack. It was all-out war, and they were smack-dab in the middle.

Inside Radio, Jackson was met by the weapons officer and the communications officer, standing side by side, holding the message and an authenticator. They had just played out a well-rehearsed scenario that had always been an exercise—until now. “EAM, Skipper,” said the comm officer, handing him the message, his hand shaking as much as his voice. “It’s been authenticated, sir.” The young officer was ready to cry.

“We’ve got to get to our assigned patrol area,” Jackson said. “And we need to get word to STRATCOM that we’re still alive.” He looked up at the weapons officer. “We’re gonna have to review the target list once we get clear. I’ll bet the coordinates loaded in our birds aren’t right. We’re not one of the alert boats.” Jackson handed the message back to the pair. He wanted to say something, but struggled for the right words. He gave up and left.

Halfway back to Control Jackson was knocked hard against the bulkhead when
Michigan
impacted the bottom, sliding to rest with a tolerable ten-degree starboard list.

Back in the control room, the XO reported they had settled at 275 feet. Jackson stepped to the 1MC, intending to communicate his own personal anguish to the crew and start the slow process of building their spirits and resolve for the difficult mission ahead. Before he could depress the pot-metal level,
Michigan
was hit by a shock wave that knocked him off his feet. Bodies flew in all directions, crashing into equipment. It was big, and it was close.

“Shit,” exclaimed the XO, trying to regain his feet. “What the hell was that?” he asked instinctively. Jackson knew what it was, and so did the executive officer. He immediately called to Maneuvering.

“Damage report, Chief Engineer.”

“Don’t know yet, Skipper,” came a confused reply. “Some seawater leaks and one busted steam line outside Maneuvering. We’re securing the valves now. A turbine generator tripped off-line, but we got to it before the breaker tripped. We’ll have a full damage report in a few minutes.”

“Keep me informed.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

The brutal concussion from the thermonuclear weapon exploding directly over the submarine base had rocked
Michigan
underwater, even at two miles. The crew’s reaction was universal. The emotional devastation and trauma of the last half an hour was replaced by a mix of anger and resolve. Sailors started to converse again. The detonation had wiped away any pretenses of hope and severed the remaining ties to home and family. They were now clearly alone, stuck on the bottom, and the crew was primed for a swift and sure retaliation.

“We’re going to be on the bottom for a while, XO, pass the word to relax GQ. In a couple hours, we’ll switch to port and starboard, so the crew can get some rest and chow. I want an all-officer’s meeting in the wardroom in twenty minutes. That includes the chief engineer. I’ll be in my stateroom.” Jackson turned slowly to head aft. He felt drained and overwhelmed. He needed privacy to regroup and plot
Michigan
’s next move.

Halfway to his stateroom, another shock wave hammered
Michigan
’s hull. “Bastards,” he cursed, grabbing anything to steady himself. “Fucking bastards.” He knew that each explosion pounding the boat intensified the rage and thirst for revenge boiling up in the crew. He swore he would get free and launch his load of missiles if it was the last thing he would ever do.

CHAPTER 19

The bone-weary watch commander, hammered by bad news, strained to decipher a damage assessment over a voice circuit flooded with white noise. Fifteen short minutes had aged the man. He grimaced as the news confirmed what the constellation of sensitive nuclear-detonation sensors floating in space had already reported. The United States was being systematically pummeled by scores of Russian submarine-launched nuclear bombs. The knockout blow, the fast approaching Russian ICBM reentry vehicles, which streaked through space, were only minutes away.

Thomas, Alexander, and the chairman were transfixed on the animated strategic plot, numbed by the scores of miniature red triangles poised to strike. The entire ten-by-fifteen-foot screen was flooded with nothing but hostile symbols. Speed leaders pointed directly at their intended targets. Well into their trajectories, any idiot could predict the aim points. It was like helplessly watching someone slowly strangle the life out of you. Thomas couldn’t banish the thought that the Russians had recklessly thrown the nuclear dice and rolled a seven.

“The first Peacekeeper should be fired momentarily,” said someone off to the side.

“It’s about time,” said the chairman excitedly, energized to life. The time remaining to impact for the first Russian ICBM was a tad over three minutes. The Americans’ survivable launch window was about to slam shut. “God, get them off,” the army general mumbled. It now boiled down to them or us, with no middle ground.

In scattered launch control centers, buried hundreds of feet beneath the prairie, the doomsday message had been duly received. Disciplined young men and women, most in their early to mid-twenties, methodically worked through checklists stamped into their brains, fighting emotions. Undeterred, they pressed on, despite the subconscious notion that they might have only a handful of minutes to live.

The two-person air force crews turned their brightly colored keys in unison. No power on earth could stop them now. One by one, squadron by squadron, US ICBMs blasted from their silos, rocket motors blazing against a late-afternoon bright blue sky. The well-rehearsed process took less than two minutes; the missiles staggered in time to avoid mutual interference at the business end of their journeys. All escaped the approaching Russian bombs—the stragglers were already dropping first stages when the lead Russian RV detonated in faraway North Dakota. That 600 kiloton nuclear explosion was followed by nearly one thousand others, tearing at the black earth, gouging hideous craters, and spawning blackish-gray clouds of radioactive dust and debris, which billowed toward the heavens, turning a beautiful summer day into a living hell.

“They all got out,” sighed the chairman. He collapsed in a nearby straight-backed chair. It had been close. Nuclear detonations blossomed on the screen by the hundreds, peppering the northern perimeter of the country, then spreading south, a plague on the land. But out of the electronic chaos, scores of small blue symbols arched skyward through the mass of red and began their journey northward to answer the Russian onslaught. It was Ivan’s turn now. In thirty minutes, Mother Russia would feel the full fury of Strategic Command.

Behind the scenes, the watch commander orchestrated his troops, moving from console to console. A message over his headset interrupted his rounds. “Mr. Secretary, the president has arrived,” he announced.

Alexander nodded. “Upstairs,” he ordered the others.

The balcony assumed a grim air, the tension palpable. Heavily armed marines guarded the doors, and a handful of senior military officers were clustered by a row of private telephones. Messengers relayed information from the floor to those with the need to know. The secretary and his entourage were immediately ushered to an inconspicuous conference room accessed from a wood-paneled door. At one end was a circular hardwood table for eight, while an adjoining lounge area had overstuffed chairs and end tables with tasteful lamps. The walls contained the usual assortment of pictures of weapon systems in action and military memorabilia expected in such a meeting place for warriors. A tabletop intercom box connected them directly to the watch commander on the floor.

When the president entered, the trio managed an acknowledgment, which wasn’t returned. It wasn’t an intentional slight. The president looked haggard, his face flushed, his breathing labored. Perspiration streaked his blotchy skin. He was closely followed by Secretary of State Genser and a few others. Genser’s face was imprinted with dread. He wiped his deeply furrowed brow with a handkerchief while further loosening his tie. The president was guided to an upholstered chair at the head of the table. He fought to remain composed, taking rapid, shallow breaths. The others took appropriate seats. Thomas had never witnessed such a collection of pained expressions.

No one volunteered to start. The momentary pause proved soothing, medicinal. All were content to simply reflect on the shared tragedy for a few moments. After what seemed an eternity, Alexander tapped the president’s arm and whispered that the American ICBMs had escaped destruction. The news fell flat. The president rolled forward on his forearms. He didn’t want to talk military strategy.

“Have we contacted the Russians?” asked the president weakly.

“Not yet,” said Alexander. “We’ve tried every possible frequency, but no luck. We’re still trying Mr. President.”

The president slowly spoke. “We’ve got to stop the killing.” The chief executive’s body shook with emotion; his hands, balled into fists, trembled. A White House doctor leaned forward in his chair, concerned. No one dared move or speak. The president’s face tightened.

“Mr. President?” probed his chief of staff, himself in bad shape.

The president gripped the chair arms and regained his equilibrium. His breathing became less labored as he straightened in place.

“I’m fine.” He leaned forward, regrouping. “I should have listened to Jonathon,” he said out of the blue. He closed his eyes and shook his head. Hard minutes of reflection had triggered a sadness that marked the commander-in-chief. It was a fatalistic, somber air, a bittersweet moment. The president scanned the room, as if looking for a friend not there.

“What about Europe?” he asked.

Alexander cast a glance Thomas’s way. At the moment, Europe was irrelevant. Alexander answered his president. “The NATO countries are in various stages of alert. They’re waiting to see which way the wind blows.” He had painted to neat a picture. He didn’t say that the American forces still garrisoned in Europe were hostages, at that moment being placed under armed guard by their hosts. Genser changed the subject, still habitually wiping the sweat from his brow.

“What about Russian submarines?” Genser asked pointedly. Alexander sensed the agenda.

“When found, they’ll be destroyed,” replied Alexander matter-of-factly.

Genser’s temper flared. He almost leapt out of his chair. “So that means we’re sinking Russian ballistic submarines in home waters,” shouted Genser. “You’re mad. We’ll never stop this.” His fist made a futile gesture against the wood table.

“It’s militarily sound,” replied the chairman sternly, “and I hope we sink every one of the bastards.”

“It’s hopeless, Mr. President,” said Genser angrily. “We’ve backed the Russians into a corner.”

“What?” blasted Alexander. “How can you say that?”

The president buried his face in his hands, defusing the confrontation. He looked up mournfully, running his hand through his thin hair. An eerie calm once again hung heavily.

“We have to contact the Russians,” he said, working his body upright and leaning on the table, “to explain our actions.”

“Mr. President,” interrupted the watch commander over the intercom, “we’ve made contact with the Russians. President Laptev himself.” A glimmer of hope sliced through the gloom. The president sprang to his feet.