Red Hammer 1994

It was over ten tortuous miles to the entrance of Puget Sound and another twenty-five to the relative safety of the Strait of Juan de Fuca. There Michigan would have some badly needed maneuvering room. The Hood Canal was over a mile wide and roughly 250 to 350 feet deep along its entire length. Theoretically, Michigan could operate submerged in less than 300 feet of water, but they would be bouncing off the bottom, kicking up muck, and possibly ruining the prop. But time was running out. He knew he was pressing his luck.

Ten minutes down the chute, Jackson lined up Michigan on the channel centerline and ceased rudder orders. They were well over two miles from Bangor, hopefully safe from all but a direct hit.

“All ahead one-third,” he said. “Prepare to submerge.”

“What’s the depth, Navigator?” Jackson asked on the 21MC.

“About three hundred twenty-five feet, Captain.”

Jackson took one last long look before climbing down. He sucked in a deep breath of the cool sea air, closed his eyes, and said a short prayer for his family and his country—an awkward act for him. He wasn’t a religious man; not because he was a disbeliever, he just never seemed to have the time. His wife had always assumed that role. But he prayed that God would be watching over the United States of America.

In Control, the air was thick with depression and pain. The men had gone through instant hell. Many had been crying, others still clung to rails, their heads burrowed in their arms. Over thirty-five minutes had passed since the alert, yet no attack. Had both sides pulled back from the brink? If only he had some goddamn information.

“All stop,” he ordered, “put her on the bottom, XO.”

He was interrupted by the chief radioman, a person certain to have only bad news. “Skipper, could you please come to Radio?”

“What is it?” he snapped.

“EAM,” whispered the chief.

Jackson was crestfallen. The air filling his lungs exited with a sudden grunt. No doubt now about a Russian attack. It was all-out war, and they were smack-dab in the middle.

Inside Radio, Jackson was met by the weapons officer and the communications officer, standing side by side, holding the message and an authenticator. They had just played out a well-rehearsed scenario that had always been an exercise—until now. “EAM, Skipper,” said the comm officer, handing him the message, his hand shaking as much as his voice. “It’s been authenticated, sir.” The young officer was ready to cry.

“We’ve got to get to our assigned patrol area,” Jackson said. “And we need to get word to STRATCOM that we’re still alive.” He looked up at the weapons officer. “We’re gonna have to review the target list once we get clear. I’ll bet the coordinates loaded in our birds aren’t right. We’re not one of the alert boats.” Jackson handed the message back to the pair. He wanted to say something, but struggled for the right words. He gave up and left.

Halfway back to Control Jackson was knocked hard against the bulkhead when Michigan impacted the bottom, sliding to rest with a tolerable ten-degree starboard list.

Back in the control room, the XO reported they had settled at 275 feet. Jackson stepped to the 1MC, intending to communicate his own personal anguish to the crew and start the slow process of building their spirits and resolve for the difficult mission ahead. Before he could depress the pot-metal level, Michigan was hit by a shock wave that knocked him off his feet. Bodies flew in all directions, crashing into equipment. It was big, and it was close.

“Shit,” exclaimed the XO, trying to regain his feet. “What the hell was that?” he asked instinctively. Jackson knew what it was, and so did the executive officer. He immediately called to Maneuvering.

“Damage report, Chief Engineer.”

“Don’t know yet, Skipper,” came a confused reply. “Some seawater leaks and one busted steam line outside Maneuvering. We’re securing the valves now. A turbine generator tripped off-line, but we got to it before the breaker tripped. We’ll have a full damage report in a few minutes.”

“Keep me informed.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

The brutal concussion from the thermonuclear weapon exploding directly over the submarine base had rocked Michigan underwater, even at two miles. The crew’s reaction was universal. The emotional devastation and trauma of the last half an hour was replaced by a mix of anger and resolve. Sailors started to converse again. The detonation had wiped away any pretenses of hope and severed the remaining ties to home and family. They were now clearly alone, stuck on the bottom, and the crew was primed for a swift and sure retaliation.