Red Hammer 1994

“Sir, this is the comm officer. Could you please come to Radio? I’m not sure I understand this message.” Jackson shook his head. Three freshly minted nuke officers had joined the wardroom during the stand down; the comm officer was one. He swore the quality was slipping from when he went through the program over twenty years earlier. Maybe he was getting too set in his ways.

“How come we old-timers always think we were better in our day than the current JOs joining the fleet?” he chuckled to himself.

“What is it?” Jackson finally asked.

“I think you had better see for yourself, sir.”

“Very well, I’ll be right down,” he replied, annoyed the young man had screwed up his afternoon daydreaming.

Jackson slipped through the thick steel hatch at his feet and into the dark, confined trunk leading to Michigan’s pressure hull. At the bottom of the ladder, he descended through the main hatch into the upper reaches of the boat. Radio was on the first level just aft of the control room, behind an aluminum cipher-locked door. He was greeted by the comm officer and the chief radioman, both worried. The chief’s look bothered him.

The nervous young comm officer stammered while the captain scanned the short message. “I don’t understand this, Skipper; it’s an emergency dispersal order. Looks like the real thing. But it’s got to be a mistake. This sure isn’t funny right before Labor Day.”

The lines on Jackson’s forehead deepened. He rubbed his chin and raised his eyebrows.

“It’s authentic,” he observed in guarded tones. It took a few seconds for the impact to hit. Shit, he thought, I don’t believe this. Then his heart began to race as he catalogued the implications. Why would CINCPACFLT order an emergency dispersal? And there wasn’t a clue as to a time limit. Immediately, twenty-four hours, or what? He had forgotten the different response codes in the applicable OPNAV instruction stuffed in some out-of-the-way safe. He would have the duty officer retrieve it.

“Chief, let me use the 21MC.” The veteran sailor stepped aside, skirting the racks of radio gear to give the captain breathing room. Before Jackson could depress the lever, the chief radioman interrupted.

“Skipper,” he said, staring at the clattering teletype, “another message. Probably a cancellation, sir. I’ll bet they realized the screwup. Boy is somebody’s tit going to be in the wringer over this one.”

When the chief ripped the yellow printout from the teletype, his jaw dropped. Beads of sweat in pooled on his brow. Speechless, he passed it to Jackson like a sacred parchment. A quick look for Jackson sufficed.

“Oh, my God,” Jackson muttered under his breath. It was a defense condition (DEFCON) change from five to one, moving them from peacetime to war in one quick stroke. An attack was imminent. He leaned against an equipment rack; his eyes pointed skyward. Something was wrong, terribly wrong, but he had zero information and precious little time to act.

“What the hell?” he reflected silently. His head was spinning. “Get a grip,” he told himself. He sucked in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “How much time do I have?” he thought. He turned and faced the frozen lieutenant.

“Mr. Campbell,” he ordered sternly, “run forward and sound general quarters.”

“What?” Lieutenant Campbell stammered. His face scrunched in building panic.

“You heard me, get moving.” Jackson’s scowl sent the officer scurrying on his way. “Chief, find the XO.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“I’ll be in Control.”

Jackson covered the short distance to Control, bumping sailors flying to GQ stations. The first face he encountered in Control was the chief of the boat, Master Chief Wosinski. The chief’s grizzled appearance concealed his playful sense of humor and an uncompromising concern for his young charges. A twenty-nine-year veteran, the master chief had seen just about everything, but stood bewildered like the others, his hands resting impatiently on his hips. A frown spread underneath his ample mustache, and a cigarette hung from his lower lip. The master chief had a bad habit of smoking during GQ drills, but Jackson overlooked it.

“Skipper, what the hell is going on?” he exclaimed, flicking half an inch of gray ash into an adjacent butt kit. The cigarette immediately went back into his mouth for a quick drag. Twenty pairs of eyes were on the master chief, who now served as their mouthpiece.

Jackson leaned forward, wanting some semblance of privacy. “I don’t have time to explain. Go aft to the small-arms locker. Post guards at the hatches. No one leaves the boat except any stray yardbirds, understand? We’ll secure the hatches in fifteen minutes. Get shore power disconnected and the cables out of the engine room. I’ll tell the Engineering watch.”

The master chief was dumfounded.

“Master Chief, did you hear me? We don’t have time to screw around.”