Red Hammer 1994

“XO, take charge, I’m going topside. I’ll handle the Conn myself.”

“Yes, sir.” He reached out and touched Jackson’s arm as he started up the ladder.

“Skipper, shouldn’t we think about buttoning up and settling on the bottom next to the pier? It may be our only chance.”

“No way. We’re sitting on ground zero. A few feet of water over our heads won’t do any good.”

Jackson hauled himself through the hatch and into sail trunk. He moved up the ladder, hand over hand, until he popped through to the warm sunshine. The striking inactivity pier side floored him. His world below had just disintegrated, yet around the wharf groups of workers puttered near electrical junction boxes and steam connections, and traffic flowed normally by the row of drab buildings facing the waterfront. His brain struggled to reconcile the incongruities.

“On board, Michigan,” the Georgia’s captain yelled. “What are your plans?” The question had a sharp edge.

Jackson leaned forward over the sail, cupping his hands next to his mouth to overcome the rattle of machinery and pumps discharging water overboard. “Getting underway,” he shouted.

The Georgia’s captain replied with a nod. “What can we do to help? I’ve only got a skeleton crew aboard.”

“Help us haul out the shore power cables and cast off. We got to secure the worker’s hatch shacks and the brow. We aren’t going to have a crane.”

The CO of Georgia gave a thumbs-up. His boat was helpless, and he knew it.

A new thought entered Jackson’s head. He caught the Georgia CO’s attention. “I can take some of your crew. Maybe thirty or so. I can’t take everyone.” The Georgia’s CO nodded in the affirmative. “I’ll get my XO over there to work it out.” It would be a two-minute life-or-death drill as they screened for critical missing skills.

Just then the huge, seven-bladed propeller protruding from the water’s surface turned. Jackson quickly growled Maneuvering. The watch officer answered, panting.

“Take it easy; we still have lines over.”

“Yes, sir,” the watch officer replied. “We’ve got steam in, Captain, but God, what a mess! We’ve got water everywhere. It will be a miracle if we haven’t ruined the main steam lines and the turbines.”

“Good work,” he replied, satisfaction in his voice.

The last of the mooring lines went over, draped over Georgia like spaghetti. Sailors pulled the shore power cables from the deck of Michigan, and others tugged on the steel brow, dragging it across until it teetered precariously on Georgia’s back. The makeshift wooden shacks, which covered the six-foot maintenance hatches, were pushed overboard, floating down the port side.

“Get below,” Jackson bellowed to the few remaining men on deck.

“Maneuvering, Conn, stand by to answer bells.”

Jackson peered down the side, swearing. “Damn, why couldn’t we at least have one tug?” He would have to gently swing out from Georgia, but not get crossways in the channel and run aground.

Michigan’s bronze propeller slapped the water, inching the massive boat forward. Reversing the prop swung the bow gently out from Georgia. After four such cycles Michigan was fifteen feet from Georgia, with a thirty-degree outward angle on her bow. Jackson glanced at his watch. The precious minutes were melting away.

“Ahead one-third,” Jackson ordered. The giant propeller turned more rapidly, churning the oily water near the pier. A swirl of light brown mud kicked up from the bottom clung stubbornly to her stern. As Michigan slid slowly away, Jackson glanced instinctively at Georgia’s sail. There stood her captain, grim faced, braced at attention, saluting. On Georgia’s deck and pier side, sailors did likewise. Jackson smartly returned the farewell, choked with emotion, tears welling in his eyes.

Michigan had gotten underway in less than twenty-five minutes, an astonishing feat given she was a nuclear power plant in hot standby. Jackson turned his attention down the channel and for the first time, thought of his family in east Bremerton. His wife was most likely starting to get ready for the dinner party they were scheduled to attend. His kids were outside enjoying the weather, looking forward to the long weekend. He tried to fight the rush of emotion, but couldn’t. He wiped away small tears as Michigan slipped through the still waters of the Hood Canal, gathering speed. They’ll make it, he told himself, they have to. He shook his head in anger. It was useless to dwell on possibilities. They were in God’s hands.

“Full speed ahead,” he barked into the handset resting in his palm. As Michigan accelerated, the seawater poured over the rounded bow and back around the sail. Only the raised missile deck aft was still dry.