Red Hammer 1994

The captain tugged at the stubble on his chin. “Lock on the frigate with both guns and open fire,” said the captain, poking at the flat screen. “When we’ve put the frigate out of action, we’ll steam southeast at flank speed and let loose Harpoons on the two to the northwest. How good is our last position on those two?”

Chelson swallowed hard. The transition to combat had been too rapid. He finally answered his CO’s question. “It’s about half an hour old. They moved out of radar range, but we had a good course and speed on both of them. We could launch the helo for an update?”

“We don’t have time,” responded the captain. “We’ll just spread the shots over a sector based on a DR from their last position and hope we get a couple of hits.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

Chelson dutifully passed the orders over his headset.

“Weapons free track 5147,” he ordered crisply. Those down the chain of command at other consoles understood the words but twisted their torsos to visibly spot the TAO. Yes, he was serious.

The young officer at the gun fire control console pressed a square, plastic button and slewed the five-inch gun director to the azimuth of the frigate.

“Locked on target,” he reported in less than ten seconds. The Russian frigate’s electronic warfare suite would instantly detect the fire-control radar’s unique emissions. But it would be too late for anything but curses and prayers.

The sharp retort of the twin guns fore and aft jerked the bridge sailors as each projectile blasted from the slender gray barrels in sheets of flame and smoke. The first two rounds were short, benchmark water spouts mushrooming near the frigate. The next salvo was dead on target, erupting violently near the Russian frigate’s bridge and aft superstructure. The guns continued to pound away unmercifully.

“CIC, Bridge,” the executive officer reported excitedly, “multiple hits on the frigate. No topside activity, nothing.”

After more than fifteen hits on the Russian frigate, Chelson ordered cease-fire. By then she was dead in the water with a port list; topside fires roared the length of the hapless ship. Thick, black smoke billowed skyward, marking her grave in the icy waters of the North Pacific.

Texas swung briskly to port, changing course to unmask the Harpoon canisters. When steadied up, Chelson signaled to engage the other two hostiles. With only an estimated position, they would launch each Harpoon down a bearing line, leaving it up to the super-smart missile to figure out where the target lay.

“Ready to fire,” reported the officer at the Harpoon control panel.

“Fire,” was the order.

The first Harpoon burst out of its canister in a cloud of billowing smoke and flame. The roar was deafening. It was followed by two more. Texas changed course, firing another salvo from the quad canister on the opposite side.

“All birds away, Captain,” reported Chelson. “Three at the cruiser and two at the destroyer.”

“Very well,” answered the captain. “Set EMCON. Secure all radar and communications emissions. I’m going back to the bridge.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.” He stepped quickly through the oval doorway and barked an order at his number two. “Come right to one nine zero.”

The order was properly repeated back followed by an “aye, sir.”

“XO, come here.” The captain was leaning over the navigator’s chart, formulating a plan for rendezvousing with the battle group.

“What is it, Skipper?”

“We’ll steam southwest for a few hours to see if we can throw Ivan off our trail. They’ll expect us to head due east. Our biggest problem will be stumbling across a Russian submarine. Maintain twenty-six knots and commence zigzagging.”

“Aye, aye, Skipper.”

“I want a meeting of all department heads in my cabin in fifteen minutes. Get the navigator to relieve you. I’ll be down in radio.”

“Bridge, Radio, is the captain there?” said a voice over the 21MC. “We have additional flash traffic.”

“Radio, Bridge, the captain is on his way.”

CHAPTER 18

USS Michigan, the second Trident ballistic-missile submarine of the Ohio class, was securely berthed outboard of USS Georgia at Delta pier, Naval Submarine Base, Bangor, Washington. As big as a World War II cruiser, her seventeen thousand tons were masked by the graceful lines of her cigar-shaped albacore hull, especially when hidden beneath the blue-green water that lapped against the pier. Like a majestic black iceberg, one had to see a Trident perched naked on supporting wooden blocks in dry dock to truly appreciate her immenseness and her stark beauty.

Both PACFLT boats were in refit following rigorous seventy-five-day patrols in the Northern Pacific. Michigan had been recuperating for four hectic weeks. Georgia had docked only three days previously, fresh from sea. Her sailors had spilled onto the dock soon after the mooring lines had gone over, replaced by her second crew for the next patrol. And so it went in the Trident fleet. Two crews per boat, over fifty percent of the boats at sea, month after month, year after year.