Red Hammer 1994

The eighteen Trident ballistic-missile submarines of the United States Navy proudly carried the torch first lit with the commissioning of USS George Washington in the early 60s. The old boats were long since scrapped, but the new Tridents, with their C-4 and D-5 MIRVed nuclear-tipped missiles, kept the faith. Just like thirty years earlier, the navy’s stealthy missile boats secured the peace. Despite the evaporation of the Cold War and the disintegration of the Soviet Empire, the top-secret target grid coordinates for the missile warheads still lay in Russia. The C-4s, or Trident 1s, less accurate and carrying a smaller punch, were assigned the urban-industrial target base, while the super-accurate D-5s or Trident 2s threatened nuclear delivery systems and command and control. The Tridents continued to generate more heartburn in the Kremlin than any missile since the ancient Atlas E ICBMs in the early sixties.

Michigan’s Blue Crew was commanded by Captain Stephen Jackson. Jackson, lean and trim for his forty-five years and a top Naval Academy graduate, was a veteran of twelve SSBN patrols, mostly in the older Poseidon submarines now decommissioned and resting in the boneyard. This command tour was his first in an SSBN and the culmination of twenty-four arduous years assigned to the boats. It had been backbreaking, yet immensely rewarding. He rankled having to share Michigan with the commanding officer of the Gold Crew. Captain Hallowell was a fine naval officer and a close personal friend, but there is a strong emotional bond between a captain and his ship. Reporting on board for turnover was always discomforting. It took weeks before he truly felt she was once again his.

The Friday before Labor Day was hot and clear, with a refreshing, light breeze blowing from the west, rippling the calm Hood Canal. The crew eagerly awaited the long holiday weekend, their last respite before another grueling patrol. Jackson relaxed in the Conning station atop the massive black sail jutting skyward from Michigan’s hull. The fairwater planes attached to the sail made him feel like he was soaring in the cockpit of one of those stealth bombers the air force raved about. But he personally commanded more destructive power than they could ever imagine. His twenty-four D-5 missiles carried enough brute power to dismantle a century of civilization in half the world. It was a sobering proposition, but one that all SSBN skippers lived with and learned to accept. Directly behind him, the multipurpose and attack periscopes towered overhead like pine trees, their mottled camouflage paint scheme contrasting with the flat black of the sail.

The scenery surrounding Bangor was breathtaking. Sunlight danced and shimmered off the azure water of the Hood Canal, framed by stands of tall pines as far as the eye could see. It looked like a scene from a glossy travel brochure. Jackson ran his fingers through the remnants of his sandy brown hair. Touches of gray had only recently sprouted around his ears, but he had lost the majority of his crop on top. Deep lines, fed by years of constant worry and lack of sleep, ran under his intense brown eyes and down to the corners of his mouth. His wife teased him that he was far too serious. But his toughness was born of a crushing accountability that burned out most nuclear navy men long before thirty-five, sending them packing to the civilian world with ulcers and broken marriages. The unforgiving standards of the navy’s nuclear-power program stressed the twin tenants of a near-religious attention to detail and adherence to written procedures. Those who failed their masters at Naval Reactors were summarily cashiered. A handful like Jackson thrived, the lure of command at sea outweighing any short-term discomfort. He was a different breed, and he knew it. The obnoxious growl of an old-fashioned-looking sound-powered phone snapped him back to reality. “Captain.”

“Sir,” reported the chief engineer from down in the bowels of the boat, “we’ve finished the reactor instrumentation tests. We’ll clean things up and then conduct a few casualty drills with the duty section. We should have everything wrapped in two or three hours. Still want to steam the plant over the weekend?”

“Yeah,” Jackson replied. “Public Works called after lunch, and they’re still having problems with the shore power. I don’t want any problems this weekend. The last thing I want is some late-night phone call.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” the chief engineer answered, “I’ll let you know when we’re done.”

“I may not be here,” Jackson said, “I’ve got a party tonight, so I’ll be going ashore early. Tell the command duty officer.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jackson savored one final sweep of the horizon before descending. Then the phone growled again.

“Captain,” he answered once more.