The Shield Beneath the Sea: Mare Island and the Nuclear Standoff
Prologue: A New Kind of War
The bombs that ended World War II also began another — one measured not in battles fought but in weapons built, missiles aimed, and the terrible mathematics of mutual destruction. From the moment the Soviet Union detonated its first nuclear device in August 1949, four years ahead of American predictions, the United States faced a strategic reality unlike anything in its history: an adversary capable of destroying our cities, and committed to destroying our nation that, in the words of Abraham Lincoln, was "...conceived in Liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal..."
But the threat Americans were living with was not merely military. It was a contest between two fundamentally different ideas about how human beings should be governed — and the Soviets were making their position plain. The Union of Soviet Socialist Republics had existed since 1922, a government not yet thirty years old when the Cold War began, built on the ruins of a revolution that had abolished individual rights, private property, and free elections in the name of a theory. Yet its leaders declared, with remarkable presumption, that this system — younger than most of the men running it — was not only superior to the American constitutional order that had been functioning since 1776, but that it represented the inevitable future of all humanity. Lenin had framed capitalism and socialism as irreconcilable: one would bury the other. A form of government that had not yet celebrated its fortieth birthday was pronouncing the death sentence of one that had already survived a revolution, a civil war, the nationwide collapse of industry, banking and agriculture, two world wars, and more than 150 years of continuous self-governance under the same constitutional framework.
The Soviet record did nothing to support the boast. Stalin had not just theorized about the superiority of his system — he had demonstrated what it looked like in practice. In the years following World War II, Soviet forces imposed communist governments by force across Poland, Czechoslovakia, Hungary, Romania, Bulgaria, and East Germany, installing puppet regimes, purging non-communist parties, and sealing their populations behind what Churchill named, with precise accuracy, an Iron Curtain. In East Germany, the border was eventually walled shut in 1961 because the regime could not otherwise stop its own citizens from fleeing to the West — an act of such candor about the relative appeal of the two systems that the Wall became the Cold War's most eloquent argument. In Hungary in 1956, when citizens rose against Soviet control, Red Army tanks rolled into Budapest and crushed the uprising in eleven days, killing approximately 2,500 Hungarians and wounding 20,000 more — roughly half of them under the age of thirty. Two hundred thousand Hungarians fled the country, most of them on foot across the Austrian border. In the aftermath, 22,000 were convicted by the Soviet-installed regime, and at least 200 were executed, including Prime Minister Imre Nagy, who had tried to negotiate a Soviet withdrawal and was hanged in secret and buried in an unmarked grave. Soviet citizens themselves lived under a system of pervasive surveillance, internal passports that prevented free movement within their own country, and a labor camp network that had consumed millions. The fear that Moscow intended to spread this system worldwide was not paranoia. It was a reasonable reading of both what Soviet leaders were saying and what they were already doing wherever their power reached.
Khrushchev, who succeeded Stalin, offered no comfort. Standing before Western diplomats in Moscow in November 1956 — the same month Soviet tanks were crushing Budapest — he delivered the words that would define American anxiety for a decade: "Whether you like it or not, history is on our side. We will bury you." The phrase landed in American newspapers as a declaration of annihilation. The nuance that he likely meant "outlast" rather than "destroy" was irrelevant to a public already building fallout shelters and practicing duck-and-cover drills with their children. What Americans heard was the leader of a forty-year-old state — one that had to shoot its own citizens to keep them from leaving — telling the oldest constitutional democracy on earth that its time was up. The presumption was staggering: that a state not yet half a century old, one that had clawed its way to nuclear superpower status within a single human lifetime, now felt entitled to pronounce the death sentence of a constitutional order that had been functioning since before its founders were born. And when the Soviet Union dissolved in December 1991 — not conquered, not bombed into submission, but collapsed from within, exactly as Marx had predicted capitalism would — it took with it every nation it had absorbed by force and not one it had persuaded by example. History rendered its verdict. It was not the one Khrushchev expected.
What led up to that collapse were multiple factors one of the most important of which was the most consequential arms race in human history. And at the heart of America's answer to that arms race — hidden beneath the cold waters of the Pacific — were the submarines built on a former tidal flat north of San Francisco Bay, at a place called Mare Island.
Part I: The Arithmetic of Annihilation
The early Cold War nuclear balance was brutally simple: whoever could deliver more weapons more reliably would hold the strategic advantage. Both sides understood this and raced accordingly.
The United States entered the 1950s with a commanding lead. Its B-29 and B-36 bombers, and later the sleek B-52 Stratofortress, could carry nuclear weapons deep into Soviet territory. Strategic Air Command (SAC), under the aggressive leadership of General Curtis LeMay, built a globe-spanning network of bases and kept aircraft aloft around the clock. By the mid-1950s, the U.S. nuclear stockpile numbered in the thousands.
But the Soviet Union was not standing still. In 1953, it tested a hydrogen bomb — a weapon orders of magnitude more powerful than the fission bombs dropped on Japan. By 1957, Soviet engineers achieved something that sent shockwaves through Washington: they launched Sputnik. That small, beeping satellite proved the USSR had rockets powerful enough to hurl a nuclear warhead across continents. The intercontinental ballistic missile had arrived.
The effect on the American public was immediate and profound. Ham radio operators up and down the East Coast tuned to lower frequencies and listened in stunned silence as Sputnik's mechanical beep passed overhead — a sound that seemed to confirm America's worst fears about Soviet technological ambition. Newspaper front pages screamed about the satellite's implications. Schools began emergency reviews of their science curricula. Civil defense pamphlets multiplied. For the first time since the atomic bomb itself, ordinary Americans felt genuinely, personally vulnerable — not to some distant theoretical threat, but to a weapon that might already be arcing toward them from space. The anxiety deepened a month later when the Soviets launched Sputnik II, carrying a dog named Laika, and then reached a humiliating low in December 1957 when America's own Vanguard rocket collapsed on its launchpad in a ball of fire before a watching world press, its tiny satellite rolling into the palmetto scrub.
Senate Majority Leader Lyndon B. Johnson, who first heard the news of Sputnik at a barbecue on his Texas ranch, captured the mood of the nation when he reflected: "Now, somehow, in some new way, the sky seemed almost alien. I also remember the profound shock of realizing that it might be possible for another nation to achieve technological superiority over this great country of ours." Johnson moved quickly, convening Senate hearings on the full spectrum of American defense programs and warning that the Soviets had initiated a race for "control of space" — and by extension, control of the world.
One month before Sputnik, Soviet Premier Nikita Khrushchev had addressed a gathering of Western diplomats at the Polish Embassy in Moscow and delivered the words that would define the next decade of American anxiety. "Whether you like it or not," he told the room, "history is on our side. We will bury you." Several NATO ambassadors walked out in protest. The phrase — translated literally from a Russian idiom that meant something closer to "we will outlast you" — landed in American newspapers as a declaration of annihilation. The nuance of Soviet idiom was irrelevant to a public that was already building fallout shelters in their backyards and practicing duck-and-cover drills with their children. Headlines did not pause to debate translation. The public mood was already stretched thin, and that one flawed translation fed directly into the anxiety that people were already carrying. When Khrushchev visited the United States in 1959, the Mayor of Los Angeles met him with barely concealed fury: "You shall not bury us," Norris Poulson told him publicly, "and we shall not bury you. But if challenged, we shall fight to the death to preserve it." The exchange captured something true about the American mood: not resignation, but a resolve sharpened by genuine dread.
Khrushchev was also explicit that the ideological struggle would never stop even as he preached "peaceful coexistence." In an October 1959 Foreign Affairs article timed to coincide with his American visit, he reaffirmed his faith in the "inevitable" victory of communism even while calling for the renunciation of war. Americans who read carefully understood the message: the Soviets were not threatening to invade — they were promising to win. That distinction made the submarine deterrent not just a military necessity but a statement about who would still be standing when history rendered its verdict.
The strategic calculus shifted overnight. Bombers needed hours to reach their targets; ICBMs needed minutes. Bombers could be intercepted; early missiles could not.
The Soviet R-7 Semyorka — the same rocket that launched Sputnik — became the world's first operational ICBM in 1958–59, though it was slow to fuel and vulnerable. The Americans answered with the Atlas D in 1959, and later the more reliable Minuteman. Both superpowers were now capable of incinerating the other's cities with less than thirty minutes' warning.
The nuclear arsenals grew with terrifying speed. By 1960, the United States had roughly 18,000 nuclear warheads. The Soviets, though fewer in number, were building rapidly. The logic of deterrence — the doctrine that became known as Mutually Assured Destruction, or MAD — held that neither side would launch if doing so guaranteed its own annihilation in return. But deterrence only works if your retaliatory capability survives a first strike. That was the problem that drove the next revolution in nuclear strategy.
Part II: The Vulnerability Problem
A missile in a silo, however hardened, sits in a fixed, known location. Given enough warheads and accurate enough guidance systems, an adversary could theoretically destroy an entire land-based missile force before it could be launched. This was the nightmare scenario that consumed American strategic planners in the late 1950s: It was a scenario made more urgent by the knowledge that the adversary planning it had publicly declared capitalism's days were numbered — and that an America unable to retaliate would be an America unable to argue otherwise. A Soviet first strike that eliminated the ability to retaliate, leaving the United States defenseless or forced into a choice between surrender and striking back with whatever remained.
The answer came from the sea.
A nuclear-powered submarine carrying ballistic missiles could patrol silently beneath the ocean for weeks or months, its position unknown to any adversary. It required no fixed base to defend. It could not be targeted in a first strike because it could not be found. As long as even one submarine survived, the promise of retaliation survived. Deterrence held.
This insight transformed American defense strategy. The submarine-launched ballistic missile — the SLBM — became the most survivable leg of what strategists called the nuclear triad: land-based missiles, strategic bombers, and submarine-launched missiles. Of the three, the submarine leg was considered the most secure, the most reliable guarantee that no first strike could ever truly succeed.
President Eisenhower himself recognized what the program represented. In private meetings with his defense secretary, he made his strategic conviction plain: "As far as I can tell, we have a nearly invulnerable base in our Polaris submarines." It was an extraordinary statement from a former Supreme Allied Commander — an acknowledgment that the most secure foundation of American security no longer rested on armies, airfields, or missile silos, but on the silence of the deep ocean.
To build this deterrent force, the Navy needed submarines. Many submarines. And it needed them built quickly, built well, and built by people who understood both the extraordinary engineering demands of nuclear propulsion and the crushing weight of what they were building.
Part III: The National Building Effort
The American nuclear submarine program that unfolded between the late 1950s and the early 1970s was one of the most concentrated feats of precision industrial production in history. USS Nautilus, the world's first nuclear submarine, commissioned in 1955. From that single prototype, the Navy launched an accelerating cascade of new classes, each more capable than the last.
During the roughly fourteen years spanning October 1958 — when USS Sargo became the first nuclear submarine commissioned at Mare Island — through the spring of 1972, the United States Navy commissioned approximately 84 nuclear-powered submarines. The pace was relentless: at the peak of the Polaris ballistic missile program in the early 1960s, the Navy was averaging more than one new nuclear submarine per month.
The building was concentrated among a small number of shipyards trusted with the extraordinary technical demands of nuclear construction. General Dynamics Electric Boat in Groton, Connecticut — the nation's oldest submarine yard, builder of USS Nautilus — dominated the program, responsible for the majority of both attack submarines and ballistic missile boats. Newport News Shipbuilding in Virginia handled a significant share of the ballistic missile fleet. Portsmouth Naval Shipyard in Kittery, Maine contributed to both categories. Ingalls Shipbuilding in Pascagoula, Mississippi, and New York Shipbuilding in Camden, New Jersey built portions of the attack submarine fleet.
And then there was Mare Island.
The only nuclear submarine builder on the Pacific Coast — the only naval shipyard west of the Mississippi entrusted with this mission — Mare Island commissioned 17 nuclear submarines during this same period. In a national program that produced roughly 87 nuclear boats through the end of 1972, that figure represents nearly one in five of every nuclear submarine the United States commissioned during the era in which Mare Island was building them.
That share is all the more remarkable given the competition. Electric Boat had been building submarines since 1900 and had constructed USS Nautilus itself. Newport News commanded enormous resources and a large private workforce. These were the Navy's preferred, most experienced nuclear builders. For a Pacific Coast naval shipyard to account for roughly 20 percent of the nation's nuclear submarine commissioning during this critical window — while simultaneously handling a significant percentage of the overhaul, maintenance, and repair of the Pacific Fleet — was an achievement that deserves to stand alongside anything the more celebrated East Coast yards produced.
Part IV: Mare Island's Fleet — Boat by Boat
The seventeen submarines built at Mare Island represented the full range of the nuclear mission, from fast-attack hunters to city-killing ballistic missile boats — and one vessel that bridged the gap between the two eras.
USS Sargo (SSN-583) was the first, her keel laid February 21, 1956, and her commissioning on October 1, 1958 making her the inaugural nuclear submarine delivered on the West Coast. She was proof that Mare Island could master the technology. She served 10,740 days — nearly thirty years — before decommissioning in 1988.
USS Halibut (SSGN-587) was in a class by herself, both literally and figuratively. Designed to carry the Regulus nuclear cruise missile — which required surfacing to launch — she represented the Navy's first attempt to give a nuclear-powered submarine a strategic nuclear strike capability. Commissioned January 4, 1960, she later underwent classified conversion for intelligence-gathering operations so sensitive that the full record remained secret for decades. Her 6,022 days of service, much of it in the shadows, encompassed some of the most consequential underwater espionage of the Cold War.
USS Scamp (SSN-588) brought a revolution in submarine design to the Pacific Fleet. A Skipjack-class boat, she embodied the teardrop hull form that transformed underwater performance — the same hydrodynamic breakthrough that allowed nuclear submarines to routinely exceed 30 knots submerged, leaving any surface warship far behind. Commissioned June 5, 1961 after an 864-day build, she served 9,824 days.
USS Theodore Roosevelt (SSBN-600) was Mare Island's first ballistic missile submarine — and the yard's most direct contribution to the nuclear deterrent. Part of the George Washington class, the original "41 for Freedom" group whose collective patrol schedule guaranteed that Soviet strategic planners could never be confident a first strike had disarmed America, she carried sixteen Polaris missiles. Commissioned February 13, 1961, she served 7,961 days.
USS Permit (SSN-594) became something of a public emblem for the program. Her July 1, 1961 launch generated a cachet sponsored by Mare Island Local 16 of the National Association of Supervisors that drew requests from 30 states and 10 foreign nations — 66,050 covers canceled at the Vallejo Post Office on launch day. The worldwide interest reflected how well the public understood what these submarines meant.
But what the public could not know — what was classified for years — was the new dimension of lethality that Permit carried. She was the lead boat of a class designed from the keel up around an entirely new weapons system: the UUM-44 SUBROC, or Submarine Rocket. On March 28, 1963, Permit became the first submarine in the world to successfully fire one, and in 1964 she achieved Initial Operating Capability with the weapon — the first boat in the fleet so qualified.
SUBROC was unlike anything that had come before it. Launched from a standard 21-inch torpedo tube while the submarine remained submerged, the rocket ignited once clear of the water, arced through the air on a ballistic trajectory, and then plunged back into the ocean at a pre-calculated point — where it released a W55 nuclear depth bomb. The warhead yield was approximately 25 kilotons, nearly twice the power of the bomb dropped on Hiroshima. Its operational range extended to roughly 35 miles. A Soviet submarine detected by Permit's powerful new BQQ-1 bow sonar sphere — which could pick up contacts at distances that far exceeded the range of conventional torpedoes — now faced destruction from a weapon it might never hear coming, fired by a submarine it might never detect. The admiral overseeing Navy weapons procurement did not overstate the case when he declared that SUBROC was "a more difficult technical problem than Polaris."
The strategic implications were profound. Before SUBROC, a submarine hunting another submarine was constrained by torpedo range — a few thousand yards at most, requiring a dangerous close-in approach that risked counter-detection. SUBROC shattered that constraint. An American attack submarine could now detect a Soviet boat at long range, staying well outside torpedo range itself, and deliver a nuclear weapon with near-certainty of a kill. The deep ocean, which the Soviets had hoped might shelter their ballistic missile submarines from American hunters, had become a far more dangerous place. Every Soviet SSBN commander now had to contend with the possibility that an American attack submarine — quiet, patient, and armed with a nuclear standoff weapon — was already trailing him. Permit served 10,646 days, decommissioning in July 1991, months before the Soviet Union itself dissolved.
USS Plunger (SSN-595), a Permit-class sister ship, commissioned November 21, 1962, and served 9,905 days as a Pacific Fleet attack boat.
The ballistic missile boats that followed — Andrew Jackson, Woodrow Wilson, Daniel Boone, Stonewall Jackson, Kamehameha, and Mariano G. Vallejo — formed the core of Mare Island's deterrent contribution. They bore the names of presidents, founders, a Hawaiian king, and a California pioneer, but their strategic significance was mathematical: each carried sixteen missiles, each on continuous patrol, each representing a guarantee that no first strike could ever be truly disarming.
USS Kamehameha (SSBN-642) would outlast all of them, commissioned December 10, 1965 and decommissioned April 2, 2002 — 13,262 days of service spanning nearly four decades, far outlasting the Cold War that created her.
USS Mariano G. Vallejo (SSBN-658) carries particular local resonance: named for the Mexican general and California pioneer whose land grant once encompassed the ground on which the shipyard itself was built. Her sail is preserved at Mare Island today.
The final wave — Gurnard, Guitarro, Hawkbill, Pintado, and Drum — were Sturgeon-class fast attack submarines, the most capable anti-submarine warfare platforms of their generation. Their mission was the offensive counterpart to the deterrent SSBNs: find and destroy Soviet ballistic missile submarines before those boats could launch. They were the hunters in a war conducted entirely in darkness and silence, at crushing depths, by men whose work could never be publicly discussed.
USS Guitarro (SSN-665) required the longest build of any Mare Island nuclear boat due to a casualty while under construction— 2,466 days from keel-laying in December 1965 to commissioning in September 1972. USS Drum (SSN-677), commissioning April 15, 1972, was the last nuclear submarine Mare Island would ever build.
The submarines beneath the ocean were not merely defending territory or population. They were defending the proposition that the American experiment — the one Lincoln had named at Gettysburg as the thing worth preserving — would continue. Soviet leaders had said plainly that history would bury it. The workers of Mare Island made sure that verdict was denied.
Part V: The Numbers in Context
Across the fourteen years of Mare Island's nuclear building program, the United States commissioned roughly 87 nuclear submarines — attack boats, ballistic missile submarines, and specialized vessels — as the Navy raced to field the undersea deterrent force that American strategy demanded. Electric Boat built the largest share, as it had since the beginning of the nuclear age. Newport News and Portsmouth contributed substantially to the ballistic missile fleet.
Mare Island built 17. That is approximately one of every five nuclear submarines commissioned by the United States during the years the yard was actively producing them.
Consider what that meant in practice. At the height of the Polaris program in 1963 and 1964, the Navy was commissioning ballistic missile submarines at a pace that strained every yard in the program simultaneously. In 1964 alone, the nation commissioned fifteen nuclear boats across all classes. Mare Island commissioned four of them — Andrew Jackson, Daniel Boone, Stonewall Jackson, and a portion of the Sturgeon-class pipeline already underway. The workers on the Napa River were keeping pace with their counterparts in Connecticut, Virginia, and Maine, building the same technology to the same exacting standards, while operating three thousand miles from the Navy's traditional submarine-building heartland.
The build periods tell their own story. Early boats like Scamp were completed in under 900 days. As submarine technology advanced through the 1960s — quieter machinery, improved sonar, more sophisticated weapons systems — build times lengthened: Hawkbill took 1,606 days, Pintado 1,415, Gurnard 1,445. The Navy was not cutting corners, and neither was Mare Island.
The combined service record of all seventeen boats — 458 years— reflects that quality. These were not ships that wore out quickly. Kamehameha served 36 years. Woodrow Wilson served 30. Drum served 23. The deterrent they sustained was not theoretical or symbolic. It was continuous, daily, and real.
Part VI: What the Submarines Made Possible
The strategic logic of the submarine deterrent can be stated simply: the Soviet Union could never be certain it had destroyed all American nuclear weapons in a first strike, because it could never locate all American nuclear submarines. That uncertainty was the foundation of deterrence. It prevented nuclear war not through trust or diplomacy but through the cold mathematics of guaranteed retaliation.
The 41 Polaris submarines that formed the core of the sea-based deterrent — of which Mare Island built seven — maintained continuous patrol schedules designed so that a significant fraction of the fleet was always at sea, always hidden, always ready. Naval strategists calculated that as long as Soviet planners faced this uncertainty, the incentive to launch a first strike could never be sufficient. The submarines did not need to threaten cities to deter; they needed only to exist, to be unlocatable, and to be capable.
Mare Island's attack submarines served the complementary mission. Their job was to ensure that Soviet ballistic missile submarines faced the same uncertainty in reverse — to hunt, track, and if war came, destroy the Soviet undersea deterrent before it could be used. The silent war beneath the surface between American and Soviet submarines was the Cold War's most dangerous and least publicized theater. Mare Island-built boats were in that fight from the beginning.
Epilogue: What the Numbers Mean
That is Mare Island's share of the nuclear submarines the United States commissioned during the fourteen years the shipyard was actively building them — roughly 17 of the approximately 87 boats the nation put to sea between 1958 and 1972. For a single public shipyard on the Pacific Coast, competing alongside the private yards that had dominated American submarine construction for half a century, that figure is extraordinary.
The workers who produced that share rarely made headlines. They carried security clearances and lunch pails. They understood reactor physics and hull tolerances and the difference between a weld that would hold at test depth and one that would not. They went to work each day in Vallejo, California, and built ships that spent the next thirty years patrolling the deep ocean on behalf of a country that for security reasons could never fully acknowledge what they had made possible.
Mare Island closed as an active naval shipyard in 1996. The last of its nuclear submarines — USS Kamehameha — was decommissioned six years later. Today only two shipyards in the United States build nuclear submarines, both on the East Coast. The Pacific nuclear building capacity that once existed at the Napa River — that once accounted for a fifth of American nuclear submarine production during the most dangerous decade of the Cold War — is gone.
But for fourteen years, in the most dangerous strategic environment in human history, Mare Island stood at the center of something that mattered enormously. The peace that held — imperfect, frightening, contested — was built in part right there, on the water's edge, by the people of Mare Island. The Soviet leadership had declared with confident certainty that history was on their side, that their system was the inevitable future, and that the American experiment was a relic awaiting burial. It turned out differently.
The upstart communist state that had existed for less than seventy years, that had never held a free election, that had to wall its own citizens in to prevent them from voting with their feet, was defeated — not by invasion, not by nuclear exchange, but by the patient, unglamorous persistence of the oldest constitutional republic on earth. The workers of Mare Island were part of that persistence. They showed up. They built the boats. They held the line. And when history finally rendered its verdict, it was the 1776 experiment still standing — not the one that had declared itself inevitable in 1922.
Sources: Mare Island Naval Shipyard records; U.S. Navy submarine service histories; navsource.net; Naval History and Heritage Command; Naval Institute Proceedings; Smithsonian National Museum of American History submarine program records; Wikipedia submarine class articles.
