Red Hammer 1994

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.

“Control, Sonar,” said the voice on the 21MC squawk box, “we have a contact bearing 025 degrees.”

“Johnson,” said Sanchez, speaking back into the 21MC communications box, “are you picking up whales again?” Everyone within earshot grinned. The crew was loose and relaxed.

The alert sonarman ignored the barb. His voice was tempered, yet strong. “No, sir, can’t tell what it is yet, but it does have twin screws. Maybe a merchant.”

Sanchez straightened, and the smile left his face. He was surprised to find merchant traffic this far from the normal east/west shipping lanes. The executive officer shrugged his shoulders and went back to work.

“Get an ID. Let one of the new boys classify it, but I want you looking over his shoulder.”

“Good idea, Skipper, I’ll get Brown.”

Twenty minutes later, Sanchez was stretched out in his confined stateroom, no bigger than a small-sized walk-in closet, enjoying a hot cup of coffee when the sound-powered phone next to his bunk growled. “Captain,” he answered routinely, as he had hundreds of times on patrol.

“Skipper, could you come to Control?” It was the XO, and his voice sounded on edge. Sanchez sat up stiffly and secured his cup, then jogged the short distance from his stateroom to Control. For some reason his heart began to pound. Come on, he scolded himself, the patrol’s over, relax. The Control Room was business-like as usual.

“What’s up,” he said loudly, working his way past bodies and equipment to a small table used for plotting contacts. The XO was huddled with the Officer of the Deck, a string-bean lieutenant with black navy-issue glasses and red hair.

“Sonar says they have a sub out there, Skipper,” said the XO glancing up, his blue eyes signaling concern. Beads of perspiration had formed on his forehead. Sanchez hadn’t seen his number-two man this concerned since an Akula sniffed their trail off of Vlad. He studied the marks on the paper taped to the table and rubbed his jaw as he formulated an opinion.

“They’ve got an inexperienced man working the contact,” he reminded.

The XO didn’t look up. He stared at the dots and lines as if he could will them to disappear. “I know, Skipper, but Johnson’s confirmed it. It’s a twin-screw submarine. That can only mean one thing—a Russian boat.”

Sanchez straightened and placed his hands on his hips. “Off the Mexican coast? What the hell would they be doing here? I’ve never heard of a Russian submarine in these waters.” He thought for a minute. “What class?” His initial reaction was to disregard the contact, common sense told him so. But a good captain knows his own limitations and relies on the strengths of his officers and men, and the executive officer was a master of the hunt. He had deferred to the good doctor on more than one occasion. And his sonar team was first-rate.

“Don’t know yet. Johnson’s trying to pin that down.”

“OK,” said Sanchez, “we’re ahead of PIM. Change course, and close this mystery boat. Slow to ten knots, and take her down another hundred feet.”

“Aye, aye, Skipper,” responded the OOD. The Control Room sprang to life as watch standers obeyed the CO’s orders.

“I’ll be in my stateroom,” he announced to all.