Red Hammer 1994

Sanchez stepped the short distance to radio. The Ops Officer handed him a hand-scribbled message attached to a clipboard. The section labeled “commanding officer’s estimate” was blank. Sanchez rested the clipboard atop a four-drawer safe tucked away in a corner of radio. He thought hard for a moment before putting pen to paper. This contact message would generate a lot of interest, no doubt about that. He began to write.

Contact appears to be loitering, possibly conducting surveillance of a wartime operating area. Could be dropping electronic benchmarks for cruise missile firing positions. Maneuvering to investigate. Request relief on station at earliest possible time as low on stores.

He handed the finished message to a radioman, who would process it then send it over the speedy ultrahigh frequency (UHF) satellite uplink.

“Let the OOD know when it’s ready.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

The short and simple message was transmitted promptly to Commander, Third Fleet; Commander, Submarine Force, Pacific; and the Fleet Intelligence Center, Pacific, all in Hawaii. The hot news would be sent up through the chain of command to CINCPACFLT, then to CINCPAC, and then flashed from the island to the NORAD Missile Warning Center deep in Cheyenne Mountain, and on to the National Military Command Center in Washington, DC. Cruise-missile-carrying Russian attack submarines now commanded special attention. Their low-flying missiles would be almost impossible to detect if fired at strategic targets in the United States. Sanchez could imagine the pandemonium he had personally caused by dropping a Russian cruise-missile carrier into their laps. No question, his nuts were on the chopping block now.

Sanchez felt a hand on his arm. “Captain, we’ve got the Victor again.”

“Same course and speed?”

“Yes, sir.” Sanchez had been in the engine room. He followed the lieutenant, ducking through a series of watertight hatches over the reactor compartment and climbing a ladder to the Control Room.

The Victor was steaming a leisurely racetrack with long legs of 090 and 270 degree true. San Francisco was closing on a course of 010 degrees true, speed ten knots.

“Parallel her course,” ordered Sanchez. “I want a better fix before we move in.”

“Control, Sonar,” called Petty Officer Johnson excitedly. “I’m getting something unusual. I’m picking up noise in the vicinity of the Victor. I can’t ID it; it’s faint, and it’s being masked by the Victor’s prop wash. If we could get a better angle, maybe I can figure it out. Right now I would have to bet that it’s another Russian boat.”

“Very well,” responded the Officer of the Deck instinctively. Seconds later he was stunned, realizing what he had just heard. He face was frozen in an “I don’t believe this is happening” look.

The Ops Officer’s jaw dropped. “What the fuck?”

What the hell is going on? Sanchez thought. Are those people in Sonar losing their minds? His brain was running all the permutations. His outward calm was in stark contrast to his inward turmoil. He knew Russian boats often operated in hunter-killer pairs. It was a blatant admission of inferiority to overcome US superiority in quietness and sonar technology. And a tactic that gave American skippers fits. The Russians still had numerical superiority on their side and were also not hesitant to use active sonar to target prey at close range if forced. It was the Americans who worshiped passive detection, even when going head to head.

Sanchez was strategizing out loud. “We’ll make a high-speed run to the northwest to force target separation. Officer Of The Deck, take her down to eight hundred feet, increase speed to eighteen knots, come left to new course 330.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” responded the OOD, crisply repeating the orders to the watch standers, who in turn repeated them back to the OOD. The discovery of a second Russian boat had spooked the Control Room sailors. The normal chatter and joking had ceased.

Thirty minutes later San Francisco slowed dramatically, rising to a depth calculated for the best-possible sonar performance. The experienced OOD changed course to put the contacts on the beam. Everyone in the Control Room had their ears glued to the 21MC. The wait was draining. Come on Sonar. Then it came.

“Control, Sonar, second contact’s clearer now. Seems to be doing about three or four knots, plus it’s deeper. It’s definitely not one of the newer attack boats, but maybe an Oscar.” Johnson sounded confused. Then there was a loud commotion in the background. Swear words spewed out of the squawk box. It was the sonar chief’s gruff voice that won out.

“Damn it, Skipper, it’s a Delta. I tracked those bastards for eight months in the Barents. Johnson’s full of shit.”

Sanchez, the XO, and the Ops Officer were all frozen, looking like three cigar-store wooden Indians. Sanchez popped out of the trance first. He grabbed the Ops Officer’s arm. The XO scrambled over to the plot.