The CO of Georgia gave a thumbs-up. His boat was helpless, and he knew it.
A new thought entered Jackson’s head. He caught the Georgia CO’s attention. “I can take some of your crew. Maybe thirty or so. I can’t take everyone.” The Georgia’s CO nodded in the affirmative. “I’ll get my XO over there to work it out.” It would be a two-minute life-or-death drill as they screened for critical missing skills.
Just then the huge, seven-bladed propeller protruding from the water’s surface turned. Jackson quickly growled Maneuvering. The watch officer answered, panting.
“Take it easy; we still have lines over.”
“Yes, sir,” the watch officer replied. “We’ve got steam in, Captain, but God, what a mess! We’ve got water everywhere. It will be a miracle if we haven’t ruined the main steam lines and the turbines.”
“Good work,” he replied, satisfaction in his voice.
The last of the mooring lines went over, draped over Georgia like spaghetti. Sailors pulled the shore power cables from the deck of Michigan, and others tugged on the steel brow, dragging it across until it teetered precariously on Georgia’s back. The makeshift wooden shacks, which covered the six-foot maintenance hatches, were pushed overboard, floating down the port side.
“Get below,” Jackson bellowed to the few remaining men on deck.
“Maneuvering, Conn, stand by to answer bells.”
Jackson peered down the side, swearing. “Damn, why couldn’t we at least have one tug?” He would have to gently swing out from Georgia, but not get crossways in the channel and run aground.
Michigan’s bronze propeller slapped the water, inching the massive boat forward. Reversing the prop swung the bow gently out from Georgia. After four such cycles Michigan was fifteen feet from Georgia, with a thirty-degree outward angle on her bow. Jackson glanced at his watch. The precious minutes were melting away.
“Ahead one-third,” Jackson ordered. The giant propeller turned more rapidly, churning the oily water near the pier. A swirl of light brown mud kicked up from the bottom clung stubbornly to her stern. As Michigan slid slowly away, Jackson glanced instinctively at Georgia’s sail. There stood her captain, grim faced, braced at attention, saluting. On Georgia’s deck and pier side, sailors did likewise. Jackson smartly returned the farewell, choked with emotion, tears welling in his eyes.
Michigan had gotten underway in less than twenty-five minutes, an astonishing feat given she was a nuclear power plant in hot standby. Jackson turned his attention down the channel and for the first time, thought of his family in east Bremerton. His wife was most likely starting to get ready for the dinner party they were scheduled to attend. His kids were outside enjoying the weather, looking forward to the long weekend. He tried to fight the rush of emotion, but couldn’t. He wiped away small tears as Michigan slipped through the still waters of the Hood Canal, gathering speed. They’ll make it, he told himself, they have to. He shook his head in anger. It was useless to dwell on possibilities. They were in God’s hands.
“Full speed ahead,” he barked into the handset resting in his palm. As Michigan accelerated, the seawater poured over the rounded bow and back around the sail. Only the raised missile deck aft was still dry.
It was over ten tortuous miles to the entrance of Puget Sound and another twenty-five to the relative safety of the Strait of Juan de Fuca. There Michigan would have some badly needed maneuvering room. The Hood Canal was over a mile wide and roughly 250 to 350 feet deep along its entire length. Theoretically, Michigan could operate submerged in less than 300 feet of water, but they would be bouncing off the bottom, kicking up muck, and possibly ruining the prop. But time was running out. He knew he was pressing his luck.
Ten minutes down the chute, Jackson lined up Michigan on the channel centerline and ceased rudder orders. They were well over two miles from Bangor, hopefully safe from all but a direct hit.
“All ahead one-third,” he said. “Prepare to submerge.”
“What’s the depth, Navigator?” Jackson asked on the 21MC.
“About three hundred twenty-five feet, Captain.”
Jackson took one last long look before climbing down. He sucked in a deep breath of the cool sea air, closed his eyes, and said a short prayer for his family and his country — an awkward act for him. He wasn’t a religious man; not because he was a disbeliever, he just never seemed to have the time. His wife had always assumed that role. But he prayed that God would be watching over the United States of America.
In Control, the air was thick with depression and pain. The men had gone through instant hell. Many had been crying, others still clung to rails, their heads burrowed in their arms. Over thirty-five minutes had passed since the alert, yet no attack. Had both sides pulled back from the brink? If only he had some goddamn information.
“All stop,” he ordered, “put her on the bottom, XO.”
He was interrupted by the chief radioman, a person certain to have only bad news. “Skipper, could you please come to Radio?”
“What is it?” he snapped.
“EAM,” whispered the chief.
Jackson was crestfallen. The air filling his lungs exited with a sudden grunt. No doubt now about a Russian attack. It was all-out war, and they were smack-dab in the middle.
Inside Radio, Jackson was met by the weapons officer and the communications officer, standing side by side, holding the message and an authenticator. They had just played out a well-rehearsed scenario that had always been an exercise — until now. “EAM, Skipper,” said the comm officer, handing him the message, his hand shaking as much as his voice. “It’s been authenticated, sir.” The young officer was ready to cry.
“We’ve got to get to our assigned patrol area,” Jackson said. “And we need to get word to STRATCOM that we’re still alive.” He looked up at the weapons officer. “We’re gonna have to review the target list once we get clear. I’ll bet the coordinates loaded in our birds aren’t right. We’re not one of the alert boats.” Jackson handed the message back to the pair. He wanted to say something, but struggled for the right words. He gave up and left.
Halfway back to Control Jackson was knocked hard against the bulkhead when Michigan impacted the bottom, sliding to rest with a tolerable ten-degree starboard list.
Back in the control room, the XO reported they had settled at 275 feet. Jackson stepped to the 1MC, intending to communicate his own personal anguish to the crew and start the slow process of building their spirits and resolve for the difficult mission ahead. Before he could depress the pot-metal level, Michigan was hit by a shock wave that knocked him off his feet. Bodies flew in all directions, crashing into equipment. It was big, and it was close.
“Shit,” exclaimed the XO, trying to regain his feet. “What the hell was that?” he asked instinctively. Jackson knew what it was, and so did the executive officer. He immediately called to Maneuvering.
“Damage report, Chief Engineer.”
“Don’t know yet, Skipper,” came a confused reply. “Some seawater leaks and one busted steam line outside Maneuvering. We’re securing the valves now. A turbine generator tripped off-line, but we got to it before the breaker tripped. We’ll have a full damage report in a few minutes.”