Red Hammer 1994

Sanchez turned and glared. The crew tensed as their leader stared them down. “Listen up,” he said in a low voice. “This is no bullshit peacetime game. We’re going to blow the motherfucker out of the water. Do I make myself clear? If I’m wrong, the Victor will be caught off guard, and we’ll nail him too.” He didn’t elaborate on if he was right.

No one in Control said a word. The ops officer slowly turned to his panel, his face as white as a sheet, and began preparations for torpedo firing. The others resumed their duties, shaken.

“All tubes flooded and ready for firing, Skipper,” reported the ops officer, his voice cracking with the strain.

“Open outer doors.”

“Opening outer doors.” The creaking of the Delta’s massive missile-tube doors would mask the slight rumbling as San Francisco’s torpedo-tube doors were retracted and locked.

“Doors open.”

“Any change in the Victor?”

“No, sir.” San Francisco might have a chance to break away at flank speed and elude any retaliatory torpedoes, maybe even to get in firing position for a shot. It was a big maybe.

With four missile-tube doors open, the Delta was well into the firing sequence for the first salvo of the SS-N-23 SLBMs resting in her tubes. Each massive door slamming against its stop vindicated Sanchez’ order. Even the XO was now resigned, his normally unshakable mask starting to crack. He couldn’t believe it was happening—a submariner’s fantasy turned nightmare.

“Fire one through four,” ordered Sanchez hoarsely. He took a deep breath. “Standby for a flank bell, maximum down angle on the planes. Hard turn to port.”

The ops officer hesitated, his finger resting on the plastic button on the attack console. He swallowed hard and then pushed the glowing buttons in sequence. They changed color when depressed. “One away, two away, three away, four away,” he reported in cadence.

As each Mark 48 torpedo was ejected from San Francisco in a rush of pressurized air, she shuddered. The sailors in Control flinched in response to each impulse transmitted through the hull, as if a lethal jolt of electricity had just surged through their bodies. When number four cleared, the pressure hull was pummeled by the harsh, ringing ping of the Victor’s active sonar. It was certain death knocking on their steel door.

Sanchez barked orders, sending San Francisco into a radical, steep dive, her single propeller spinning to maximum RPM, the whine reverberating throughout the boat.

“Left five degrees rudder,” he ordered. Sailors struggled to maintain their balance amid flying gear.

Suddenly, San Francisco’s sonar picked up a spread of enemy torpedoes launched from the Victor. They immediately went active, their miniature sonars easily acquiring the Americans at such short range. But Sonar also picked up the deafening underwater roar as San Francisco’s Mark 48 torpedoes tore into the Delta, ripping her hull to shreds, aided by tons of detonating solid-rocket propellant.

Desperately turning and twisting through the ocean depths, San Francisco tried to shake the Russian torpedoes that dogged her like hungry sharks drawn to blood. At fifty-five knots, the torpedoes advanced indomitably, rapidly decreasing the range. Sanchez said a silent prayer as he gazed at his magnificent crew. He loved them like family. But he knew there was no escape. In seconds, death’s cold hand would reach out and plunge his brave men to an icy end.

CHAPTER 16

A creation of 1950s Cold War hysteria, the American/Canadian North American Aerospace Defense Command was buried deep within the bowels of Cheyenne Mountain, west of Colorado Springs. NORAD, as it was called, stood watch over the vast air and space frontiers of the North American land mass. Despite the end of the Cold War, the primary threat axis was still due north—the shortest distance for missiles and bombers from Russia. That rump superpower was still the only sovereign nation on the planet that could annihilate the United States in an afternoon.

Constructed to withstand a determined nuclear onslaught, Cheyenne Mountain’s survivability was suspect in the modern age. The intricate design of fifteen huge steel boxes suspended on massive steel springs in a cavern carved from solid granite boggled the mind. Twenty-five-ton blast doors sealed the drive-through entrance, and when those steel monstrosities loudly locked into place, it sent shivers up your spine. Redundant emergency power systems and ample supplies of food and water reinforced the determination to survive any attack. Its longevity was classified, but leaked reports put it at well over one year. Cynics snickered, as if any rational human being could tolerate being locked in a tomb for that duration with the outside world in flames.