Red Hammer 1994

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.