Michigan’s Blue Crew was commanded by Captain Stephen Jackson. Jackson, lean and trim for his forty-five years and a top Naval Academy graduate, was a veteran of twelve SSBN patrols, mostly in the older Poseidon submarines now decommissioned and resting in the boneyard. This command tour was his first in an SSBN and the culmination of twenty-four arduous years assigned to the boats. It had been backbreaking, yet immensely rewarding. He rankled having to share Michigan with the commanding officer of the Gold Crew. Captain Hallowell was a fine naval officer and a close personal friend, but there is a strong emotional bond between a captain and his ship. Reporting on board for turnover was always discomforting. It took weeks before he truly felt she was once again his.
The Friday before Labor Day was hot and clear, with a refreshing, light breeze blowing from the west, rippling the calm Hood Canal. The crew eagerly awaited the long holiday weekend, their last respite before another grueling patrol. Jackson relaxed in the Conning station atop the massive black sail jutting skyward from Michigan’s hull. The fairwater planes attached to the sail made him feel like he was soaring in the cockpit of one of those stealth bombers the air force raved about. But he personally commanded more destructive power than they could ever imagine. His twenty-four D-5 missiles carried enough brute power to dismantle a century of civilization in half the world. It was a sobering proposition, but one that all SSBN skippers lived with and learned to accept. Directly behind him, the multipurpose and attack periscopes towered overhead like pine trees, their mottled camouflage paint scheme contrasting with the flat black of the sail.
The scenery surrounding Bangor was breathtaking. Sunlight danced and shimmered off the azure water of the Hood Canal, framed by stands of tall pines as far as the eye could see. It looked like a scene from a glossy travel brochure. Jackson ran his fingers through the remnants of his sandy brown hair. Touches of gray had only recently sprouted around his ears, but he had lost the majority of his crop on top. Deep lines, fed by years of constant worry and lack of sleep, ran under his intense brown eyes and down to the corners of his mouth. His wife teased him that he was far too serious. But his toughness was born of a crushing accountability that burned out most nuclear navy men long before thirty-five, sending them packing to the civilian world with ulcers and broken marriages. The unforgiving standards of the navy’s nuclear-power program stressed the twin tenants of a near-religious attention to detail and adherence to written procedures. Those who failed their masters at Naval Reactors were summarily cashiered. A handful like Jackson thrived, the lure of command at sea outweighing any short-term discomfort. He was a different breed, and he knew it. The obnoxious growl of an old-fashioned-looking sound-powered phone snapped him back to reality. “Captain.”
“Sir,” reported the chief engineer from down in the bowels of the boat, “we’ve finished the reactor instrumentation tests. We’ll clean things up and then conduct a few casualty drills with the duty section. We should have everything wrapped in two or three hours. Still want to steam the plant over the weekend?”
“Yeah,” Jackson replied. “Public Works called after lunch, and they’re still having problems with the shore power. I don’t want any problems this weekend. The last thing I want is some late-night phone call.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” the chief engineer answered, “I’ll let you know when we’re done.”
“I may not be here,” Jackson said, “I’ve got a party tonight, so I’ll be going ashore early. Tell the command duty officer.”
“Yes, sir.”
Jackson savored one final sweep of the horizon before descending. Then the phone growled again.
“Captain,” he answered once more.
“Sir, this is the comm officer. Could you please come to Radio? I’m not sure I understand this message.” Jackson shook his head. Three freshly minted nuke officers had joined the wardroom during the stand down; the comm officer was one. He swore the quality was slipping from when he went through the program over twenty years earlier. Maybe he was getting too set in his ways.
“How come we old-timers always think we were better in our day than the current JOs joining the fleet?” he chuckled to himself.
“What is it?” Jackson finally asked.
“I think you had better see for yourself, sir.”
“Very well, I’ll be right down,” he replied, annoyed the young man had screwed up his afternoon daydreaming.
Jackson slipped through the thick steel hatch at his feet and into the dark, confined trunk leading to Michigan’s pressure hull. At the bottom of the ladder, he descended through the main hatch into the upper reaches of the boat. Radio was on the first level just aft of the control room, behind an aluminum cipher-locked door. He was greeted by the comm officer and the chief radioman, both worried. The chief’s look bothered him.
The nervous young comm officer stammered while the captain scanned the short message. “I don’t understand this, Skipper; it’s an emergency dispersal order. Looks like the real thing. But it’s got to be a mistake. This sure isn’t funny right before Labor Day.”
The lines on Jackson’s forehead deepened. He rubbed his chin and raised his eyebrows.
“It’s authentic,” he observed in guarded tones. It took a few seconds for the impact to hit. Shit, he thought, I don’t believe this. Then his heart began to race as he catalogued the implications. Why would CINCPACFLT order an emergency dispersal? And there wasn’t a clue as to a time limit. Immediately, twenty-four hours, or what? He had forgotten the different response codes in the applicable OPNAV instruction stuffed in some out-of-the-way safe. He would have the duty officer retrieve it.
“Chief, let me use the 21MC.” The veteran sailor stepped aside, skirting the racks of radio gear to give the captain breathing room. Before Jackson could depress the lever, the chief radioman interrupted.
“Skipper,” he said, staring at the clattering teletype, “another message. Probably a cancellation, sir. I’ll bet they realized the screwup. Boy is somebody’s tit going to be in the wringer over this one.”
When the chief ripped the yellow printout from the teletype, his jaw dropped. Beads of sweat in pooled on his brow. Speechless, he passed it to Jackson like a sacred parchment. A quick look for Jackson sufficed.
“Oh, my God,” Jackson muttered under his breath. It was a defense condition (DEFCON) change from five to one, moving them from peacetime to war in one quick stroke. An attack was imminent. He leaned against an equipment rack; his eyes pointed skyward. Something was wrong, terribly wrong, but he had zero information and precious little time to act.
“What the hell?” he reflected silently. His head was spinning. “Get a grip,” he told himself. He sucked in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “How much time do I have?” he thought. He turned and faced the frozen lieutenant.
“Mr. Campbell,” he ordered sternly, “run forward and sound general quarters.”
“What?” Lieutenant Campbell stammered. His face scrunched in building panic.
“You heard me, get moving.” Jackson’s scowl sent the officer scurrying on his way. “Chief, find the XO.”