Red Hammer 1994

As the Delta rose steadily to a much-shallower depth, San Francisco would have to follow or lose her through the acoustically opaque thermal layer. “We’re getting hung out to dry,” groused Sanchez. Maybe he should slide away, dive deep, drift, let the two Russian boats steam by, and wait for another opportunity. He chaffed at being thrown into a constant reactive mode. This two-boat squeeze was cramping his usually aggressive style.

“Is the Victor coming up?” asked Sanchez. That would be the clincher.

“No, sir,” came the answer, “maintaining depth.” The answer pleasantly surprised him.

“Diving Officer, fifteen degree up angle on the stern planes. Level out at three hundred and twenty feet.” He would leave the Victor behind and follow his prize. Better, he thought. Maybe the Russians weren’t acting together after all.

“Aye, aye, Skipper.” The young sailor carefully pulled back on the oval control wheel, pitching San Francisco gently upward. Sanchez wanted to quickly pop through the thermal layer, calculated to be at three hundred and fifty feet.

“Slow to five knots.” Sanchez’s eyes narrowed, and his mouth grew taut. “What’s the tube load out?” The question caught the ops officer off guard. Standard patrol procedure called for the six torpedo tubes to have at least four Mark 48 torpedoes loaded at all times. Harpoon or Tomahawk missiles complemented the weapons load out. Maybe one would be empty for maintenance or for holding an acoustic decoy.

“One through four with fish,” responded the ops officer nervously. Even the XO gave him an odd look.

“Very well.” He sensed the apprehension. “Just a precaution. Any objections?” he asked kiddingly. But he wasn’t kidding.

Sanchez turned inward. He was troubled and not sure why. Instincts developed by years of patrolling the Russians’ backyard, always in danger, always looking over his shoulder, signaled danger. Get the signature data, and get the hell away, he concluded.

“Delta’s leveling out.”

Sanchez grunted. The big boomer should have risen to periscope depth for a satellite dump. But instead she had stopped a hundred feet short. Maybe she would trail a VLF wire? The XO gave him a shrug. He was confused too.

“Captain, she’s opening doors,” said a panicked voice from sonar. The words ignited the control room.

A chorus of curses filled the cramped quarters. “We’ve been had,” snapped Sanchez. He had foolishly underestimated the Victor’s commanding officer. The man had him nailed and now was jerking his chain. The tube doors were Ivan’s subtle calling card—I’ve got you, you stupid, American asshole, and I could clean your clock if I chose to. He cursed and kicked himself for booting the ball like a rookie at second base.

Sanchez squeezed the rail surrounding the periscope platform with both hands, mentally calculating his escape. Mortified at being had, his mouth flexed and formed to let loose the necessary orders. He had been humiliated in front of his men, and it hurt.

“Captain, it’s the Delta; she’s opening her missile-tube doors!” The words from Sonar came slower this time and were a smack across his face. A sudden flash of fear tore at his brain. He fought to maintain calm. A muffled cry filled Control. Stiff, frozen faces marked the crew.

Sonar’s unbelievable message left Sanchez momentarily speechless. Two quick steps placed him at the 21MC. He depressed the small pot-metal lever. The words wouldn’t come. Sanchez broke through the resistance.

“What the hell are you talking about? You mean the Victor, don’t you? The Victor is opening her torpedo-tube doors.”

“No, sir,” bellowed the chief sonarman. “The fucker is opening missile-tube doors; the second one is moving now. I’ve heard it before. In the Bering Sea, during Russian missile tests.”

Sanchez straightened and closed his eyes. He couldn’t believe this was happening. His heart began to pound. He broke into a sweat. His eyes locked on the XO, everyone else’s locked on him. Someone had dealt San Francisco a dog-shit hand. Sanchez gritted his teeth. Was Ivan putting him through the ultimate wringer, laughing all the way to Moscow?

“I want a firing solution on the Delta, now,” he shouted.

“What the fuck?” replied the ops officer with a look of total disbelief. The man was disoriented. “We can’t unload on the Delta, Skipper. The Victor will nail us in the ass; we’re totally out of position.”

The executive officer stepped over. “Maybe we don’t have enough to go on,” he offered privately, not necessarily believing what he said but understanding his role. “Remember the rules of engagement.”

“Fuck the ROE,” said Sanchez. “If this Russian skipper is playing some fucking game, he just crossed the line.”

By now everyone in the control room was staring in disbelief, scared and confused. Terrified would be a better word. They were thinking, break off and get us out of here. We don’t want to die.