Red Hammer 1994

Jackson checked his watch as he always did before peering out the scope. 0552. Pressing his face flush against the large rubber eyepieces, he saw a brightening summer-morning sky. The serene picture was masked by thin wisps of fog just beginning to melt. The deep blue waters displayed their usual chop. Tiny whitecaps formed then disappeared, like so many seabirds darting about the undulating surface. To port, the fog thickened near the shore, making any view of Port Townsend impossible. Slowly turning the periscope head to starboard, the white curtain thinned. A sick feeling gripped his stomach as a grotesque image formed through the haze. Where Whidbey used to be was now blackened, charred shoreline. Trees were splintered like matchsticks or chopped off clean at the ground, and small fires smoldered amid the carnage. Buildings weren’t visible from his vantage point a few feet above the water’s surface, but he could imagine their fate. He flashed back to an image of Bangor then to the twin concussions that had rocked the boat. The destruction before his eyes rekindled the hate that had subsided. Any naive hopes about Bangor’s survival were instantly dashed, crushed by the imagery before his eyes. He could only shake his head and focus his energy down the channel. He spared his weary crew more bad news.

Jackson hung limply on the folding scope handles for the next fifteen miles, shooting bearings when appropriate and scanning the horizon for any telltale sign of a vessel steaming for the open sea. They might just get lucky and pick up a noisy bulk carrier whose ample baffles would provide a safe haven. The unsuspecting ship would run interference westward through the straits. But so far, no luck.

By now the morning sun cast a soft golden tint over the sound, kicking up a blinding glare that danced across the water. Jackson squinted into the eyepiece, occasionally retracting his unshaven face and pinching the crown of his nose to relieve the strain. Steering a base course of 290, Michigan zigzagged across the channel centerline, seeking the deepest water possible. Bottom soundings were notoriously apocryphal, but so far they had been lucky. A true test of their seamanship lay dead ahead—an irregular bottom—the worst part of the transit. He seriously considered a short sprint on the surface.

“Control, Radio, flash traffic.” The executive officer was sprinting forward toward radio before the last word faded into the air. He returned, dragging the comm and weapons officers and waving the yellow sheet. He thrust it in the captain’s hand while the others crowded around the platform handrails, their faces a mixture of anxiety and fatalism.

“This is it,” said Jackson, not surprised, “look at the time.” The message ordered Michigan to launch eight of her twenty-four missiles at 0845 local, a scant forty-one minutes away. Strict procedures allowed a permissible launch window of only plus or minus two minutes. Missing the ordered attack time would jeopardize a well-coordinated attack. Second-wave bombers counting on Michigan’s warheads to blast corridors through surviving air defenses would be sitting ducks. Any mobile targets would have ample warning to scurry to safety. All the hard work poured into developing targeting data gleaned from bomb damage assessments would be wasted.

Forty minutes was barely time to reach the desired 550 feet of water for a successful launch.

“Get the EAM authenticated and report back immediately,” he ordered the two lieutenants. Jackson collared the XO and dragged him close.

“Get the torpedo tubes loaded and open the outer doors.” The XO’s dark brown eyes widened as his brow furrowed.

“You’re chancing a hell of a lot of flow-induced noise from those open tubes, Skipper.”

Jackson cast him loose and moved to the scope. “We’ve got to take the chance. If Ivan pops up, all we’ll get is a snap shot.” The executive officer nodded and marched off.

“Come left to course 277. Navigator, aim for a point 123-15 west, 48-15 north by 0835. Plot it.” Jackson sharply slapped the twin periscope handles upward. “Down scope.”

The navigation team immediately went to work, carefully laying out a multi-legged track that placed them on the mandatory spot at the precise time. The navigator stood behind, nodding like an approving teacher.

“Skipper, recommend we take the northern path through the shallows. It’s the quickest, and we’ll exit in about four hundred and twenty feet of water. From there, it’s a straight shot to the launch point.”

“Very well, the north it is.”

Michigan steamed on. Shoal water lay off both beams and dead ahead. A tricky maneuver would be required in order to avoid high centering on a sandbar.

“Make turns for twelve knots.” They needed more speed despite the probable onset of cavitation from the tips of the propeller.