Red Hammer 1994

“Secondly, we are intensifying our antisubmarine warfare efforts to make an inventory of Russian SSBNs, SSGNs, and SSNs. If it is the Delta IV, we’ve got the makings of a real intelligence coup. Since the water is deeper than the Russians can conduct salvage operations in, we estimate they’ll attempt to locate the wreckage and destroy it. We should be ready to move in and see what pieces we can pick up.”

When the admiral paused, Thomas leaned forward on his elbows and spoke. He had a well-defined role, and Alexander smiled before the words came out of his aide’s mouth.

“Admiral, why are the Russians going to let us waltz in and recover the wreckage?” He was wondering if the navy knew something he didn’t.

The admiral took a drink of ice water before delivering his answer. He had expected a question like that from a civilian, not a fellow officer.

“The Russians can’t stay there forever, and if they don’t find the wreck, they’ll leave. They’ve done the same thing in the past; so have we, for that matter. They’ll stay until they’re convinced that either no one can find it or that they have reduced the wreckage to rubble. Much of this is face-saving. This is a serious loss for the Russian Navy. Someone is doing considerable explaining at the main Naval Headquarters in Moscow. Second, we’ve developed covert recovery techniques. We can’t expect to go in and raise an entire Russian SSBN in their backyard; they would never stand for that. We’ll have to be content with small pieces determined to have the best intelligence value.”

“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.