The Line bo-2

by Bob Mayer

  “Navy Special Warfare Group One at Pearl has got two DDSS and four SDVS in a secure holding area, or at least they have space for them. They might be out there mounted on the Sam Houston right now.”

  The sergeant major slapped his palm on the table.

  “It makes sense. The Army guys get the land target, the VP, up on the north shore. The Navy boys get the target in Pearl. They could get right up to the Arizona Memorial in an SDV. Hell, they can mount goddamn torpedoes on the Mark IX SDV. They can sneak into the harbor, stand off, and fire a torpedo and blow the shit out of everyone standing on the memorial.”

  “But I thought we were worried only about the Army?”

  Maggie threw in.

  “I thought The Line was from West Point.”

  “Shit, I bet they got a chapter at Annapolis,” Skibicki growled.

  “They probably got one at the Air Force Academy too.”

  Boomer felt uncomfortable with all this talk of plots and assassination. It just didn’t jive with what he believed and had seen in his time in service. But he also remembered pulling the trigger and killing those two men the other night and that didn’t jive either. If he took away the blinder that told him the military would never do such a thing, then anything was possible.

  Vasquez pulled out some satellite photos.

  “The sub ain’t all, sergeant major. Take a look at that.”

  “What the blazes is that?” Skibicki said.

  A massive ship floated in the middle of an empty sea.

  What appeared to be a huge oil-drilling derrick took up the entire center of the ship, towering over it. An Army helicopter sat on a landing pad on the stern. A broad wake behind it indicated the ship was moving.

  Vasquez smiled.

  “I had to go to the library and do some research to find out. It’s not listed in the current ship’s logs down at Pearl. It’s the Glomar Explorer.”

  “And what’s the Glomar Explored” Boomer asked.

  “You ain’t gonna believe this,” Vasquez said.

  “It was built in 1973 by Howard Hughes for the CIA.”

  “Say again?” Skibicki exclaimed.

  “To do what?”

  “To recover a Russian sub that sank northwest of here.”

  “Start from the beginning,” Boomer said, unsure of where, or even if, this new piece fit in the puzzle.

  Vasquez consulted the notes she’d scribbled.

  “The Glomar Explorer was built by Hughes to mine minerals off the ocean floor. Or at least that’s the cover story he told the press and even the people building it. It was constructed at York, Pennsylvania, and is over 200 meters long. They spent about 400 million of the tax payers’ dollars on the thing without the taxpayers knowing about it. To get it to the Pacific, they had to sail it around South America because it wouldn’t fit through the Panama Canal.

  “Anyway, it was actually built to be part of a secret CIA mission called Project Jennifer. While the ship was built on the East Coast, they built a companion craft called the HMB-1, Hughes Marine Barge, in California. It’s about a hundred meters long and built like an underwater aircraft hangar.”

  “Underwater?” Boomer asked.

  “The barge is submergible. It’s got a giant claw, remote TV camera, and lights. It can dock with the Glomar in the well of the ship underneath the derrick. They went after the sub in 1973, and I couldn’t find out whether they got it or not. One report says they got part of it. Another says they didn’t. Whichever, the whole thing had to be scrapped after the press got a hold of the story.”

  “Why did they spend 400 million dollars trying to get a Soviet sub?” Skibicki asked.

  “You could build your own sub for that much back then.”

  ‘ “They wanted the cipher codes that sank with the submarine.”

  “What for?” Skibicki asked.

  “The Russians would have changed their codes once they realized they lost the sub.”

  “Apparently, the CIA wanted to decode back traffic that they’d recorded over the years but been unable to break.

  Get information on how the Soviet missile fleet operated.”

  “What a crock,” Skibicki muttered.

  “Fucking CIA.”

  “So what’s it doing now?” Boomer wanted to know.

  “Is it still working for the CIA?”

  “I don’t know,” Vasquez replied.

  “I don’t know if the barge is underneath the Glomar” she said, pointing at the imagery.

  “The wake looks funny, but I’d have to consult a Navy expert at wake interpretation and since there’s only one guy who does that at Pearl and it’s a Saturday and I’m doing this unauthorized—”

  “I get the message,” Skibicki said.

  “The important thing is, what is the Glomar Explorer up to now?”

  “It’s been docked out at Sausalito, California for over a decade. I read one account where the government, after the Cold War ended in’ eighty-nine, even tried to sell or lease it to the Russians to help recover their other lost subs. There was one newspaper report saying that it was bought by. some civilian corporation and refurbished a year and a half ago.”

  “Who bought it?” Boomer asked.

  “I couldn’t find the name of the company.”

  Boomer looked at the picture one more time.

  “Again, the question is, what’s it doing?”

  “I don’t know, but it looks to me from the imagery like it’s heading for a rendezvous with that unidentified sub,” Vasquez said.

  “Not the Sam Houston?”” Skibicki asked.

  “No, the bogey,” Vasquez replied.

  “Possible explanation?” Skibicki snapped.

  Vasquez paused, then gave her thoughts.

  “This unknown friendly sub, obviously it’s highly classified, even more so than the Special Operations sub. I’d say this Glomar Explorer would make an excellent at-sea tender for a sub that never wanted to enter a harbor or even surface at sea where it could be seen. If the Glomar Explorer is carrying the HMB-1 barge, they could berth this sub with the barge underneath and carry out maintenance and resupply totally out of view of satellites or aircraft.”

  “The question is, what’s so classified?” Boomer asked.

  “Some sort of cutting-edge technology stealth submarine?

  I heard the Navy was using some sort of floating barge out of San Diego to cover up their testing of a stealth surface ship.”

  “This sub isn’t so stealthful,” Vasquez pointed out.

  SOS US picked it up. And this barge is underwater, not floating.”

  “Then what is it?” Boomer repeated.

  “I’ll try to find out,” Vasquez volunteered, “but it isn’t going to be easy.”

  Boomer turned to Skibicki. “What now?”

  “Maggie can monitor the phone in case Trace calls,” Skibicki said.

  “Let’s take a ride up to the North Shore and poke our noses around where the Vice President is. Maybe we can trip over something. If not, then we can go by the tunnel this evening and see what we can dig up. They have a copy of the President’s classified itinerary in the vault.

  We can also see if we can get some more information on these vessels ourselves.”

  INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, OAHU, HAWAII

  2 DECEMBER 7:10 A.M.LOCAL 1710 ZULU

  Special Agent Stewart had chased the sun from the east and lost only a little ground with a delay in Dallas-Fort Worth. He was met at Arrivals by Mike Newman, a member of the Second Team, the security detail for the Vice President.

  Newman hustled him out of the airport and into one of the Service’s vans, which had been flown to Hawaii aboard an Air Force C-5 transport.

  As he pulled out of the parking lot, Newman pointed at a file folder tucked into Stewart’s side panel.

  “Got all your information there. We’ve already screened the threat list. Honolulu PD will pick up the four A’s today and give you a call to confirm. They’ll detain the
m for the duration of the Boss’s trip.

  “I’m taking you to the Royal Hawaiian. You’ve got one of the rooms on the fourteenth floor. The entire floor is reserved for the President.

  We’re staying up on the North Shore at the Turtle Bay Hilton. The VP is taking in the golf course.

  “The name of the Hawaii PD point of contact is in there,” he continued.

  “He’s a good guy. So is the local FBI rep. It’s been pretty quiet.”

  “What about the military?” Stewart asked.

  “I’ve got to do the prelim for’ the President’s speech at Pearl and I need to get a hold of whoever is in charge of security there.”

  He was uneasy about General Maxwell’s request and had pondered it during the flight. He wasn’t sure whether Maxwell was concerned about a physical threat to the President, which was the Secret Service’s area of responsibility, or a political threat in terms of an embarrassing incident, which was the purview of the President’s advisers. There was no doubt that there was bad blood between the military and the President, but Stewart had no idea what could come of it.

  Newman pointed across Stewart’s chest and out the window.

  “That’s it right there,” he said. Stewart looked out.

  He could see gray ships riding at anchor and a white building just off an island.

  “That’s the memorial. The whole installation is a secure area. I’ll give you the name of the Navy guy in charge.” Newman laughed.

  “Hell, we’re on a damn island. Security’s been a piece of cake so far.

  Enjoy yourself.”

  Stewart leaned back in the seat and tried to do just that, but Maxwell’s words stayed in his head. He cursed to himself.

  So much for having a good time. Stewart knew he wouldn’t be able to relax until this whole trip was over.

  PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVANIA

  2 DECEMBER

  12:30 P.M.LOCAL 1730 ZULU

  Trace didn’t think about needing a ticket to get into the stadium until she’d parked the rental car twelve blocks away and walked to Veterans Stadium. The game was sold out and the ticket booth locked and closed.

  It was a nice day for early December in Philadelphia. The weather was in the low forties and the sun was shining brightly.

  Between the stadium and the Spectrum, she could see the Corps of Cadets lining up, 4,000 strong. To their left, the Brigade of Midshipmen was already beginning its march-on, entering the stadium.

  Trace mingled in the civilian crowd near the stadium, searching for someone hawking tickets. She ended up paying fifty dollars in cash for an upper-level seat, a rather deep investment for a game between two non-nationally ranked teams. But, as Trace well knew, the Army-Navy game was much more than a simple football game. It was an event.

  When Trace had entered West Point in July of 1978, the game in early December had been the first time she’d been allowed off-campus in the six months since entering Beast Barracks. At that time, the Academy had bussed all the plebes down to the game Saturday morning and back on the “vomit comet” that evening. In the few hours the plebes had between the end of the game and the mandatory bus formation to return, most tried to imbibe as much alcohol as possible at tailgate parties and local hotels, leading to a grim scene on the four-hour ride back up to New York.

  From talking to more recent graduates. Trace had heard that the Academy had modernized slightly, allowing all cadets — even plebes! — the weekend off as long as they showed up for the march-on and game and weren’t on disciplinary restriction.

  The new freedoms being allowed cadets were bitterly protested by old grads of which Trace assumed she now was one. She didn’t follow the old grad “make it as hard for them as it was for. me” theory. After graduation, she had seen several of her classmates, unused to responsibility, since almost every of aspect of their lives as cadets had been dictated, fail miserably when given the authority and responsibility of being platoon leaders in the Army. Trace had often wondered where and how the Academy thought the magical maturation from being a cadet to being an officer occurred. In her time they certainly had never treated her and her classmates as responsible, thinking adults prior to sending them forth into the Army.

  Trace made her way into the stadium and began heading for the section Colonel Rison had indicated. The midshipmen had finished their march-on, done a few traditional cheers, and were now beginning to file off into their place in the stands. Trace noted that many of the naval academy students were drunk, unable to march in step.

  Trace remembered carrying a bottle of Jack Daniels on the inside pocket of her dress gray overcoat’to the game in 1981 and mixing the liquor with Coke in a can during the fourth quarter and sharing it with her roommate in the stands. The alcohol fuel helped explain the enthusiastic cheers of the Corps of Cadets in that game as time ran out and their side was being pounded by the Navy 33-6. Alcohol was one of the ways cadets dealt with living in a high-stress environment. And from intimate experience Trace knew that the stress was very real. In her first six months at the Academy, she had not had a period. Finally gathering her courage, she had gone on sick call to get checked. The doctor at the hospital had told her that such a thing was not uncommon among female cadets and advised her not to worry.

  “The Corps of Cadets!” the speakers in the stadium blared as the announcer welcomed the Corps.

  “Duty, honor, country. The long gray line. From the United States Military Academy on the Hudson River at West Point. Distinguished cadets include Ulysses S. Grant. Robert E. Lee.

  Douglas MacArthur. George S. Patton. Dwight D. Eisenhower.”

  Trace wondered why they never mentioned Custer or Edgar Alien Poe who had managed a little time at the Academy.

  One of the pieces of knowledge she’d been required to memorize as a plebe was the answer to the question “Who commanded the major battles of the Civil War?”

  The answer, according to the Bugle Notes issued to every cadet was: “There were sixty important battles of the war.

  In fifty-five of them, graduates commanded on both sides; in the remaining five, a graduate commanded one of the opposing sides.”

  Boomer had once half-jokingly told her that that helped explain why that war lasted so long.

  Trace paused on the second level of the stadium and watched as the thirty-six companies that compromised the Corps of Cadets marched onto the field in large gray blocks.

  The announcer called out the brigade commander and his home town, then each regimental commander, every battalion commander, and every company commander as the designated unit took its place.

  The midshipmen were still filing into the seats as the cadets began their rote cheers, something the entire Corps had spent three late afternoons the previous week practicing.

  One thing Trace had always found a bit amazing about West Point was the way enthusiasm was dictated.

  “Spontaneous pep rallies” prior to games were planned, which sort of defeated the entire purpose of the event. The last meal that the football team ate in the mess hall before a game was called “Joe College” night, where, in the mighty leniency of the powers-that-be, cadets could wear a civilian shirt with their uniform pants to the dinner meal. In some convoluted thinking, that small taste of normalcy was supposed to increase morale rather than increase awareness of the differences of Academy life from mainstream America.

  It was a tribute to the desperation of the Corps, that it did increase morale.

  Trace listened as the 4,000 members of the Corps dutifully shouted out a less-than-spontaneous cheer written decades earlier, led by gold-and-gray clad rabble rousers:

  “Away, away, away we go, “What care we for any foe?

  “Up and down the field we go! “Just to beat the Navy.

  “A-R-M-Y! TEAM!”

  Trace looked down and caught the guidon for Company I-1, her home for her first two years at the Academy. She’d survived the inferno, and after two years, during the scramble, where all third
year cadets were reassigned to new companies, she’d been assigned to the last company in the Corps — I-4. She’d found life in 4th Regiment to be a bit more laid back, the only major problem being that as the last company to pass in review during a cadet parade, cadets from A-l were already back in their barracks, showered, changed, and up in the parking lots two miles away departing on leave while I-4 was still saluting the flag while passing in review.

  She continued to make her way around the stadium. The seat that Rison had indicated was right beside where the Corps of Cadets was to be seated, and when the cadets finished their cheers, they flowed into the stands, making her going slow. She halted, hand over heart, when the national anthem was played. As soon as it was over, she was caught in the reverse tide as cadets poured back onto the field to form a welcoming cordon for the team to come onto the field. Most of the cordon was made up of plebes who felt obligated to be out there, while savvy upperclassmen took the best seats in the stands during their absence.

  Across the stadium, the welcoming cordon for the Navy team was more subdued, reflecting a less intense attitude by the seamen. Trace slipped her way through the crowd of cadets and halted short of her destination, scanning the crowd. She was standing in the aisle, next to row AA, so she counted up six more rows. A man with silver hair glinting out from underneath a black watch cap and wearing long tan coat sat there, a blanket over his lap. His face had the complexion of worn leather, and his eyes were clear and blue. Those eyes were glancing about the stadium and they came to rest briefly on Trace, meeting her gaze, then moving on.

  Trace edged her way into the cadet section, wanting to wait a bit and let all the seats be filled before approaching Rison. A cadet glanced at her civilian clothing, gave her credit for her twelfth man sweatshirt, but still confronted her.

  “Excuse me, ma’am, but this seating is for military only.”

  Trace pulled out her ID card.

  The first class cadet backed off.

  “Sorry, ma’am.”

  The Corps exploded in cheers as the Army team appeared, running between the two walls of cadets that extended the length of the field. Trace glanced over her shoulder. Rison was watching the field. She edged herself into the crowd, determined to wait for the game to start before approaching him.