Red Hammer 1994

Buck glanced at his watch. 4:40 p.m. Rendezvous would be in twenty-five minutes. His crew monitored instruments and referenced manuals, anything to divert their attention. He felt their pain.

Suddenly, another alarm flashed on the instrument console. Buck tightened. Joe slumped in his seat.

“I want a status report from all stations,” Buck ordered. An infusion of formality marked his tone.

On the bridge of USS Texas, the captain stewed in his chair, perched four feet off the green linoleum deck. He leaned back, his shoes resting on the bulkhead under the thick glass bridge windows. His chin was cradled by his thumb and forefinger. It was a fair day, with relatively calm seas for this high latitude, a stiff breeze blowing from the northwest. He had been up before daybreak to keep a close eye on the Russian frigate five nautical miles off the starboard beam. She had been shadowing Texas for over ten hours and had worn out her welcome.

Texas had been steaming in circles for the past three weeks. Her captain felt cramped, boxed in by Russian combatants on three sides, and constantly overflown by Bear and Backfire aircraft. They could unload on Texas with no warning, and he wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. So far they had behaved. His orders cautioned against pushing too hard, which suited him just fine.

Texas was ideally suited for this tough operation. Nuclear propulsion meant endurance—no need to gas up every few days. She could remain on station for weeks, months—if need be—only needing an occasional drop of groceries. She bristled with Harpoon and Tomahawk anti-ship missiles, complemented by Standard surface-to-air missiles, making her more than a match for the Russian ships nearby.

Enough, the captain thought. “Officer of the Deck,” he called, rising up in his chair, “Get rid of that frigate. All ahead flank.” They had done the same to a destroyer two days earlier, running a Russian skipper into the ground.

“Yes, sir,” responded the OOD. While orders flew, the communications officer burst through the back door to the Bridge, slamming it hard against the bulkhead.

“Captain,” he stammered, out of breath. “Flash message from CINCPACFLT.”

The captain looked puzzled, taking the message and holding it in one hand. All eyes were glued on the man in the chair, his face expressionless.

“I’m not sure what they mean, sir.”

The captain knew. “Boatswain,” shouted the captain, quickly jumping from his chair, “sound general quarters. OOD, cancel that flank bell. Ahead standard.”

The boatswain hesitated, his mouth hanging open. A stern look sent him flying to the 1MC with a prompt, “Aye, aye, sir.”

The general alarm brought the ship to life. The boatswain’s repeated call over the 1MC that it was not a drill ratcheted the sense of urgency. Sailors flew down ladders and sprinted down passageways to their assigned battle stations.

Chelson, working on message traffic in the wardroom, threw his pen on the table and tripped trying to get out of his chair. What the shit? he thought, grabbing his cap and heading out the door.

“What’s going on, sir?” yelled a first class machinist’s mate headed in the same direction.

“Don’t know.” Sprinting up two ladders, Chelson burst through the door into the combat information center. Total confusion reigned.

“What’s going on?” No immediate answer.

Chelson relieved the CIC watch officer on duty and motioned for the phone talker to bird-dog him around the space. “Tell me when you get manned and ready reports.”

“Yes, sir,” answered the young sailor excitedly.

The captain stepped out on bridge wing, studying the Russian frigate. So far she had not made a move. Within one minute, sailors and officers with general quarters stations on the bridge had arrived and were donning battle dress. The ship’s executive officer, the general quarters officer-of-the-deck, stepped toward the captain, buckling the strap on his helmet.

“What the hell is going on, Skipper?”

“Here, take a look at this,” answered the captain, handing the message to the XO.

“My God, execute the CINCPAC OPLAN? Are they serious?”

“No idea, but we’re not going to wait for clarification. I’ll be in CIC. I want to know the minute that frigate makes a change in course or speed or trains a gun mount. So far it looks like Ivan hasn’t got the word. Any questions?”

“No, sir.”

The captain strode through the door into the blackness of CIC, broken only by an occasional red light and the soft glow from radar repeaters and computer consoles. Instant transition from day to night forced him to stand there blinking. His sight would slowly be restored to capture the dim light. Near the large navy tactical data-system console he spied Chelson, the tactical action officer.

“I saw the message, Skipper,” said Chelson grimly. “What are your orders?”

“Where are the destroyer and the cruiser?” Chelson poked at the horizontal repeater. He touched two separate symbols, both diamonds, denoting hostiles, but there was no radar blip under them.