Red Hammer 1994

“Get word back to shore immediately,” said Sanchez. “We can’t wait. If we’re wrong, we’ll take our lumps. ID it as a probable Delta III or IV.”

“Aye, aye, Skipper.”

Sanchez leaned heavily against the stainless-steel rail surrounding the island and the thick stumps of the periscopes. The game’s just beginning, he thought. Problem is, we don’t know the rules on this one. The burning lump in his stomach that had plagued him for the last six months had returned.

CHAPTER 10

Thomas and Alexander sweltered in the August blast furnace that passed as a Washington DC summer. The ancient air conditioning in the Pentagon E-Ring had broken down the day before, and relief hinged on a promise to repair it over the long Labor Day holiday weekend. Both had sweat stripes down their shirts and had long ago shed their ties. The two were digesting reams of fanfold computer printouts spread out on an oval conference table, wrestling with the upcoming fiscal-year budget battle. A slight breeze, captured by cranked-open windows, brought a temporary respite from the midmorning heat.

“Did you get those final F-22 numbers from the air force?” grunted Alexander. His formerly white cuff was stained from repeated passes over his damp forehead.

“Right here, sir. But they still aren’t right,” Thomas answered. He had rivulets of sweat on his temples that trickled down his cheeks. “General Patrick’s adamant about leaving out the additional RDT&E funds for calculating unit flyaway cost. They want a separate line item for the RDT&E overruns. The party line is that Congress stretched out the program and cut the numbers so the air force shouldn’t take the heat for the ballooning unit costs. The secretary of the air force agrees.”

Alexander frowned. It was a full-faced frown and lately was becoming permanent. “I’ll talk to the secretary of the air force.” He threw down his pencil, letting it roll across hundreds of millions of dollars. “Let’s take a break. I can only take so much of this.” He squawked at his assistant for two cold cans of soda.

“You still planning to leave this afternoon?”

“Yes, sir. Car’s packed, and as soon as we wrap this up, I’m gone. Five days in the North Carolina Mountains.” A genuine grin was accompanied by a sparkle in his ice-blue eyes.

An aide brought the soft drinks. Alexander accepted the gift and moved to his desk where he sat on a free corner and took a long swig. “Damn, it’s hot.” He took another chug that almost drained the can. “Just you and Sally?”

“Our son’s going to meet us. He’s been working in New York this summer.”

“What year is he now?”

“A senior, and his sister will be in her last year of law school. I don’t know where the time goes. Or the money,” he said grinning. Alexander nodded knowingly.

The two enjoyed a few minutes of light chatter even after the cans had been drained and tossed in the trash. Both finally acknowledged it was time to return to the salt mine.

“Mr. Secretary, I’m sorry to disturb you,” said a voice over the intercom, “but Admiral Fitzgerald is on the phone. He says it’s very urgent.” Admiral Fitzgerald was the Chief of Naval Operations.

“Thank you,” replied Alexander. He wheeled around his desk and grabbed the receiver of his secure red phone. Thomas thought nothing of it and dove back into the figures.

“Good afternoon, Admiral.” The secretary listened intently.

“God damn, are we asleep or what?” Alexander’s face flushed. “Why did I get this from you instead of the NMCC watch officer?” A long pause and then, “I see. What’s the Chairman say? Very well. Keep me updated, Admiral.”

Alexander replaced the handset and looked at his aide. Thomas had wandered toward Alexander’s desk. The secretary looked white as a sheet. “We just picked up two Russian submarines off the Mexican coast. One’s a boomer, probably a Delta.” Alexander collapsed into his chair and crossed his arms on his chest. “What do you think?”

Thomas drew a blank and admitted so. “No idea. Are they sure?”

“Positive.” Alexander set his hand on the other red phone. “This should be interesting,” he said, lifting the receiver and triggering an automatic connection to the Situation Room in the White House.

Within the confines of the beltway, the report triggered near panic. News of the Victor had been bad enough, but now there was the Delta. The navy took the heat, berated for letting the Russian boats slip through their sophisticated antisubmarine-warfare (ASW) net undetected. Commander-in-Chief, Strategic Command lobbied for a dispersal order for his bombers and tankers—something that was unheard of these days. The intelligence community scrambled to rationalize the bizarre Russian behavior.

Shortly after noon, Alexander burst into Thomas’s wood-paneled office. Thomas was tidying up loose ends before departing for his well-earned holiday. Thomas’s head popped up from his stack of papers.