Red Hammer 1994

“Captain, depth under the keel two hundred fifty-five feet.” That was close enough.

“Very well, come left to course 270, make turns for three knots.”

Michigan dangerously skirted the two-hundred-and-fifty-foot contour, tempting providence. A minor slip, either broaching or scrapping the bottom, would be the end.

“Depth under the keel two hundred thirty-five feet. Now two hundred twenty-five feet. Skipper, we’ve got to get out of here!” The navigator was shaking.

“Left five degrees rudder,” Jackson ordered sternly.

“Two hundred fifteen feet.” There was a collective gasp. Sailors grimaced and slumped in their chairs.

“Increase your rudder to left fifteen degrees.” Jackson was struck with a sinking feeling that he had overplayed a bad hand and fate was about to bite him on the ass. “Standby to launch torpedoes. Disable the arming delay. Tubes one through three.”

“I’ve got to have something to shoot at, Skipper,” protested the ops officer.

“Pick a point mid-channel, enable active search.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” The ops officer’s sudden formality registered his protest. He didn’t say it, but he had long ago voted in favor of backing off and skipping the launch window. Other opportunities would arise. But then, he wasn’t the captain.

“Passing 260 degrees.”

“Two hundred and thirty feet beneath the keel.”

Jackson exhaled with the others, “Rudder amidships, steady on course 255.”

“Course 255, aye, sir.”

“Contact bearing 195!” Jackson leapt to the 21MC, almost hugging it. “Stronger now, seven-bladed screw. Turns for five knots. Estimated course, 180. Estimated range, three thousand yards. It’s an Akula!”

Jackson slapped his leg. “Left standard rudder, steady on course 180.”

Without being prompted, the ops officer worked the attack console furiously. A firing solution quickly popped up on the computer screen in front of his face. Now he had something to shoot at.

“Range, two thousand five hundred yards.”

“Come on Ivan, keep showing us your ass.”

“She’s turning to port, Skipper. We’re coming out of the Akula’s baffles.” He needed a much shorter range.

“Two thousand yards.” Still too far. It would take their torpedoes a good minute to cover the distance. Ivan could slap them back in that short time. “Fifteen hundred yards. She’s nearly got a beam aspect now, continuing to port.” If the Russian skipper swung bow on, he would drastically reduce Michigan’s crack at a first shot kill. It had to be now.

“Fire!” The energy behind the single word jerked the ops officer’s finger down on the red plastic button. The first Mark 48 torpedo burst out of the port-side tube in a fierce blast of compressed air. Its tiny active sonar broadcast acoustical energy ten feet from Michigan’s hull. The 48 armed immediately and accelerated hard to maximum speed. It was immediately joined by two companions fired from the starboard tubes. The faint return from the Akula’s rubber-coated hull was followed by a blast from her own powerful active sonar. She would be fighting mad now. Michigan’s passive sonar instantly detected the rumblings of the Akula’s torpedo-tube doors amid the cacophony of acoustical energy engulfing both boats.

“First torpedo has acquired,” cried the ops officer. “Time to impact twenty-eight seconds.” Twenty-eight seconds was still too long. The Akula could get a shot off even in her death throes.

“All head flank!” screamed Jackson. Michigan lurched forward, accelerating toward her own torpedoes hunting the Akula. Their only prayer was to close the gap between themselves and the Russian boat as fast as possible.

“Two torpedoes from the Akula,” shouted the executive officer in a hoarse voice. “Coming down our throat. Range to the Akula, nine hundred yards.”

In a massive underwater fireball, the 48s from Michigan eviscerated the Akula with over a ton of high explosive. The shockwave caught Michigan head-on at five hundred yards. She jerked and bucked in the roiling turbulence as she passed directly overhead the stricken boat sinking rapidly toward the bottom. The Akula’s counterpunch passed harmlessly down Michigan’s starboard side, failing to arm.

Jackson held his breath and focused on the digital clock, which hung near the scope. He estimated twenty seconds before they were dead. Braced for the expected nuclear detonation that would split them in two like a ripe melon, the faint pinging of acoustical torpedoes chasing a phantom triggered a rush of emotion that made him gasp.

The ops officer panted shallowly, sweat ran down his flushed face. “He didn’t fire nukes,” he croaked. “Why didn’t he fire nukes?”

Jackson closed his eyes to regain his composure. “All ahead one-third, come right to course 270. Ops, take the conn.” He turned to the 21MC, depressed the level and said simply, “XO.” The Ops Officer stumbled into Control. Both Jackson and the executive officer cornered the navigator for a conference. He would trim Michigan for her ordered launch. Then the pair moved out.