Red Hammer 1994

“He can go faster,” reminded the XO. “None of our attack boats are near.” With ample warning, US attack submarines would have scrambled from San Diego or Pearl and sanitized or “deloused” the narrow approaches to the Trident transit lanes. But this Akula had no such worry. The nearest US attack boat was a thousand miles away. “He could make it in four,” the XO added as an afterthought.

“Maybe to the mouth, but he’d be crazy to steam down into the strait, Skipper,” offered operations officer.

The executive officer had astutely picked up on the captain’s mental restlessness. “He knows we can launch in the strait. That bastard could be sitting at the edge of our launch depth, just waiting for us to make a stupid move.”

The executive officer plucked the navigator’s dividers from his hand and marked off the distance from the entrance eastward. End over end they went, the sharp points digging into the chart. “If he made the entrance in four hours, he’d need another four to get in position. Even if he slowed to ten knots, he could reach here, well past the six hundred-foot contour.” All faces leaned forward in unison to see the spot under the XO’s forefinger. It was sobering.

The ops officer scrunched his face. He was habitually throwing cold water on other people’s ideas, but he knew his job inside and out. A more gregarious man than the stiff executive officer, he was the perfect complement. The sometimes feuding pair brought a balance to tactical discussions.

“Ivan wouldn’t go that shallow; he’d lose his tactical advantage, his maneuverability. He’d hang around in seven hundred or eight hundred feet of water to maximize sensor performance. He’d let us come to him. In four hundred or five hundred feet of water with this mucky bottom he wouldn’t be able to hear shit. Acoustical torpedoes wouldn’t work worth a damn either. I’ll bet he’s counting on us to make a run for the ocean.” A chorus of nods validated the ops officer’s sensible observation.

“I don’t know,” Jackson said softly, circling his finger around the disputed location. “If I knew a Trident was alive, I’d steam up to the pier at Bangor if I had to.”

Jackson looked over at Ops. “You’ve got a point, though. There’s a limit to how far he would go. Looks like 123-30 degrees to me. After that it would be dicey. Farther east and he could get in deep shit with the bottom. You’re right.” He nodded grudgingly. “He’d be too unfamiliar with the waters to screw around.” Jackson stretched his arms out in front, resting his sticky palms on the table. He let out a relieved sigh.

“So where does that leave us?” He started to think out loud, chewing on the options—something his officers always appreciated. “We’d have to go to 123-30 degrees ourselves in order to launch, which we’re not ordered to do yet. The EAM was only an alert. No one knows for sure we’re alive. If the order comes, we could launch in the strait, but it would be a lousy choice. Someone would surely see the missiles broach, and I’d wager we’d be dead in less than an hour. Or the Akula could surprise us and slip farther east than we think and nail our ass. No, we have to keep moving and go for the Pacific. But we’ll take our time and try to draw him out.” Jackson seemed satisfied. So did the others.

“Any questions?”

The master chief spoke up. “Skipper, do you really think a Russian boat would do that? Come down the strait, I mean.” He had twice the sea time as Jackson and easily as much common sense. “It just don’t figure.”

“I’d do it,” replied Jackson, pinching the ridge of his nose to relieve the pressure. “This is war. We’ll survive by doing things the enemy doesn’t expect. He’ll be thinking the same.” The word “war” had an unsettling effect. It made the cramped room squirm.

“Could we transit faster, sir?” asked a lieutenant. “Get to deep water sooner and be in better position to detect a sub?”

“Good thought, but we can’t risk being on the surface, even at night. We know there are always agents monitoring traffic on the Canal. I’ve got to believe they’re still there. If we’re spotted, they won’t need an attack boat, they could finish us with a ballistic missile. It only takes thirty minutes, and we’d have moved along a known path.”

“You think they’d spot us at night, Skipper?”

“We can’t take that chance. We shouldn’t even have our scope exposed for any length of time, at least not until we reach the sound.” That meant a submerged transit at night. The executive officer cringed. That’s what he was afraid the skipper had meant.

“But no one’s ever done that. Any dickhead on the Russian payroll is long gone. We could make ten to fifteen knots on the surface, even at night.”