Red Hammer 1994

Michigan’s officers and chiefs were crowded around the small Formica-topped metal table. Others squeezed behind, pancaked against the bulkheads. The boat’s navigator, cradling a roll of nautical charts tucked under his arm, forced the aluminum door open against the mass of humanity. He pushed past the straphangers and laid the key chart directly in front of Jackson and the executive officer. The noisy exhaust blower labored to remove the heat buildup from the sweaty bodies. The only other sound was the breathing of emotionally exhausted men. Perspiration stains marked their dark blue overalls, while those with hair had it matted across their foreheads from the buildup of dried sweat and grease. In all, they looked like shit, sapped by a mixture of anxiety, fatigue, and grief. Eyes were glued on their captain. Jackson knew there weren’t any miracles on the horizon. Not from him anyway.

Their CO carefully read the faces one at a time, formulating a subjective assessment of each man’s condition. He made a couple of mental notes to discuss later with the doctor. Then his thoughts turned inward, struggling to dig deep and tap whatever energy reserves remained, to do the expected. After all, he was the captain, their captain, the one expected to shoulder the crew’s burden with superhuman strength. What a bunch of crap, he groused. The world’s in the shitter, and I’m supposed to pull a miracle out of my ass. A glance from the XO told him it was time to get the show on the road. His number two appeared to be holding up heroically.

Jackson reached out and smoothed the curled edges of the nautical chart, folding it over the table’s edge. Their future, or the next piece that truly mattered, lay before them on the tabletop. It depicted the navigator’s pencil-drawn track all the way from Bangor to the Strait of Juan de Fuca, and on to the Pacific. The transit distance appeared overwhelming for a submarine with a bounty on its head. He pressed his finger lightly against the chart and methodically traced the transcribed route, one that he had memorized from numerous transits. His lips moved in silence as he incremented the miles and did time-distance calculations on the fly. Without prompting, the navigator broke into a recitation. He was young, like all the officers aboard, and scared. His voice showed it as he stumbled over the first few words.

“We’re here, Skipper,” the young man said, wiping his brow with his sleeve. “We’ve got fifteen miles to the sound. The depth is anywhere from two hundred to three hundred and fifty feet. The Defense Mapping Agency has told us the soundings may be no good. They say the bottom is cluttered with sunken logs and tree stumps. Plus unchartered sandbars. An attack boat struck one two years ago, right here.”

The lieutenant’s fingers moved northward on the chart. It took him a second to catch his breath. “It’s better once we get by Foulweather Bluff and into the sound. But then it’s twenty miles ’til the strait.” Jackson knew all this but let the navigator go on. It was an essential part of rebuilding his wardroom’s shattered confidence.

“I calculated that at five knots we could easily be here by morning,” he said, pointing at a location five miles beyond Foulweather Bluff. “That’s if we started after dark, 2130 to be safe.”

Jackson frowned and rubbed his chin, now covered with rough stubble. He closed his eyes momentarily to clear his thoughts, to get balanced. He was searching beyond the highlighted pencil dot on the chart. The strait, that shallow, broad inland sea that led to the vast Pacific Ocean, that’s where his eyes were now transfixed. What lay out there? Who might be lurking?

Russian visitors had never dared venture into the landlocked Strait. They were satisfied to loiter off Cape Flattery in deeper water, hoping to tag a careless Trident departing for patrol. The executive officer, squinting to study the chart from the side, interrupted. He looked puzzled, which was unusual for him.

“How the hell are we going to make it to the sound, Skipper, let alone the strait?” Jackson didn’t immediately answer. His mind still focused on Cape Flattery. “I know you’re there, Ivan,” he said under his breath.

“What was the last position on that Akula out of Petro?” he asked the group, his head screwing left and right. Jackson referred to the latest and greatest Russian attack submarine that rivaled American boats in quietness, sensor performance, and weapons, and vastly outperformed them in raw speed and operating depth. One had been lurking a few hundred miles from the West Coast for two weeks. In a few short years, the Akulas had become the bane of American submarine skippers long accustomed to technological superiority and a very comfortable acoustical advantage. An ensign standing next to the master chief answered first.

“Ninety miles southwest of the Cape, Skipper.”

“That’s six hours to the entrance at fifteen knots,” grunted the completely bald operations officer.