Red Hammer 1994

Michigan lurched forward, a detectable hum transmitted through the deck plates. To Jackson’s left, the operations officer made final preparations at the attack center. His men clustered around their chief, ready for action. Aft in the missile-launch control room, Brandice and his crew spun up the gyros in the chosen Trident missiles and input the fresh target-data bit streams into the guidance computers. Throughout the boat, sailors exercised well-rehearsed procedures for securing unnecessary gear to minimize radiated noise. The engineers braced for seawater leaks and battle damage.

“All stations report manned and ready,” said the young phone talker bird-dogging Jackson.

“Right standard rudder,” he ordered as they entered the first leg through the shallows.

“Right standard rudder, aye, sir.” Michigan heeled gently to starboard; the crew shifted instinctively to port. Minutes later, the maneuver was adeptly reversed. Halfway through the port turn, Michigan jerked violently, and a loud grating noise filled the hull. Sailors grabbed the nearest handhold to steady themselves.

“Shit,” Jackson shouted angrily, nearly toppled from the platform himself. “Up ten degrees on the planes. Maintain speed.” The navigator’s face blanched.

“Skipper, nothing should be here. Nothing.” Jackson couldn’t blame the lad, only himself. The scraping ceased, and then a loud bang announced that the Michigan’s stern had bounced off the sandbar.

“We’re going to broach, Skipper.” Michigan’s huge black sail broke through the surface in an explosion of white frothy foam visible for miles. Panic crossed all the faces in Control. Any idiot would be able to pinpoint their location.

Jackson grappled to regain control, and his heart began to race. “Up scope. Slow to five knots. Get her back down, Chief.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Jackson hugged the stainless-steel scope as it rose. The navigator had been correct. The shoreline lay far to starboard. “How far to deep water?”

“Three minutes at this speed. Then recommend course 260,” the answer shot back.

The deceleration eased the turbulence around the protruding sail stub, reducing the boat’s signature substantially. They struggled to coax the bulky submarine back beneath the strait. She finally agreed and once again settled out at periscope depth. The chief’s team was drained—it had been like breaking a wild horse.

“We should be over the edge, Skipper.” The navigator referred to a sudden steep falloff of the bottom. That was freedom but also danger. It was the gateway to a deep-water haven, yet a portal to an unseen enemy.

“Take her down to three hundred fifty feet. Make turns for eight knots.” Michigan slid gracefully toward the ordered depth. The only sound in control was heavy breathing broken by an occasional cough. The entire crew was on a razor’s edge, keenly aware of the danger that loomed ahead.

“Ten minutes to reach the launch point.” The navigator’s not-so-gentle reminder raised the anxiety level another notch.

“Contact, bearing 262,” shouted the 21MC. Heads jerked in unison.

Jackson felt a surge of adrenaline kick in. Ivan was waiting, all right. The alarm was followed by silence. He leaned over and hailed sonar.

“What’s going on up there? What’s the estimated range? Talk to me.”

“He’s gone, Skipper,” reported the XO. “We barely got any signature data. Maybe it was an anomaly.”

“Bullshit, it’s got to be real. So you can’t ID it as a Russian boat?”

“It was single screw and had up Doppler.”

“That’s it?” Jackson could feel the pressure building behind his temples.

“We only had him for a second, Captain. He just disappeared.”

Jackson straightened, a frown spreading across his face. “What do you think, Ops?”

“We’ve got to launch,” reminded the bald operations officer. “In sixteen minutes.”

No, shit, Jackson thought. His thrust his hands on his hips with a huff. “Who is that guy?” Maybe it wasn’t the Akula?

“Up Doppler means inbound. No tanker would be inbound. And our ships are double screwed.”

“Except the frigates.”

“None in the area.”

“How do we flush this guy?”

“Use a decoy?” the ops officer grimaced. He wished he could reel in his stupid advice.

Jackson pounced. “Great, he’ll pop a nuke our way and still get us, despite the racket. We’re so confined, he doesn’t have to aim. Our only chance is to blow him clean out of the water before he can get a single shot off.” Jackson arched his back to release the tension. “Well, do you think he picked up us hitting the sandbar?”

The ops officer became agitated. He didn’t have any answers, unusual for him. “No way to know.”

Jackson stepped defiantly back up on the platform. He would not give up that easily. “Come right to course 330. Bring her up to two hundred feet. Let’s see if we can draw this turkey out.”

The ops officer formed a quick mental snapshot of the orders. “We could be trapped against the shore.”

Jackson didn’t answer for a moment. “Doesn’t matter,” he finally said. He drummed his fingers on the rail. “Come on Sonar.”