Red Hammer 1994 by Ratcliffe Robert

Author:Ratcliffe, Robert [Ratcliffe, Robert]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781630013738
Publisher: Ratcliffe Publications
Published: 2013-11-09T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 22

“Let’s get started,” Jackson stated curtly. A submarine wardroom, even on a larger boomer, resembles a mini-storage locker. Michigan’s was decorated with a few simple nautical pictures on freshly painted white bulkheads and the mandatory twenty-four-hour wall clock. A two-by-two opening with a stubby stainless-steel ledge provided access to the adjacent galley where mess cooks served four meals per day. The food itself was prepared down in the boat’s mess decks. Overhead were ventilation ducts, pipes of various diameters and colors, and the standard navy shipboard fluorescent lights with the red or white option.

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.

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