Mission Critical

by Jamie Fredric

The CNO swung his chair around, folding his arms across his barrel chest. "Commander Stevens, let's assume your theory is correct. How do you propose they would go about getting their hands on this technology? We've got a whole damn fleet out there with the Bronson, not to mention the Bronson herself."

  "Right now, Admiral, I honestly don't know what their plan is. But my first guess is that they're counting on us not to unleash anything until they make the first decisive move, if they make a move at all, sir. And..." Grant took a deep breath, knowing the reaction his statement was going to receive, "I believe that this will all come about with the assistance of a Russian mole."

  "What! Are you out of your freakin' mind?" shouted Allan Sherwood as he flew out his chair.

  Allington had had all he could take and brought his fist down hard on the table. "For Christ's sake, Allan!" His voice tore through the room as he pointed at Sherwood. "Sit down before you have a goddamn heart attack!" He didn't take his eyes from the Chairman until Sherwood was settled in his seat, then he turned back to Grant. "Go on, Commander." He gave Sherwood a quick glance.

  "Yes, sir. The CIA and NIS have suspected for a long time that there was a mole somewhere in our military, in the Navy more specifically. What better time for him to surface?"

  Admiral Maxwell pushed his chair back then got up and walked toward Grant. Even though he was a few inches shorter than the younger officer, his very presence could be intimidating, with eight rows of ribbons, piercing brown eyes, and a commanding attitude. That is, intimidating to anyone else but Grant, who was always respectful, but never intimidated. Maxwell rested his hands on his hips, rocking back and forth on his heels, staring down at his highly polished black Navy shoes, and mulling over what had just been put on the table. Finally looking up at Grant through narrowed eyes, he asked, "Commander Stevens, do you have any opinion as to when they'll try to carry this out?"

  Grant paused a moment before responding. "I suspect the time is getting closer, Admiral, especially with the reports and photos showing the troops and missiles in the positions they're in. There's not much left for them to do." He slapped the back of his hand into his palm. "Look, they made their threats against South Korea knowing we'd send a fleet to protect it. They counted on us sending the Bronson. They've had a little more than three months to finalize their plans, and they got their troops and artillery into position faster than hell." The right side of his mouth curved up. "But I guess they didn't count on a SEAL team taking a sneaky peak, Admiral."

  Maxwell nodded approvingly, a hint of a smile appearing. "I have another question, Commander. Wouldn't it be prudent for us to confront them now, tell them about the exercise rounds, in other words, call their bluff?"

  Grant shook his head. "The exercise rounds only affect the mortars, sir, not the missiles, and they've got a helluva lot of troops out there."

  Maxwell glanced at the SecDef then back at Grant. "And...?"

  "While you were negotiating, you could be giving them the time they needed to go for the Bronson. I believe we need to move forward and prevent it from happening, and hopefully, uncover the mole." Maxwell detected the concern showing in Grant's eyes. "I know that's an extreme risk, Admiral, but one I feel we've got to consider taking. And getting back to your earlier question, sir, as far as how they plan on carrying it out, I don't know, sir, at least...not yet. But I do have an idea on how we can find out, sir," he said with a broad grin.

  Maxwell saw the look, the excitement in the eyes of Grant Stevens, and he smiled inwardly, wishing he still possessed that same enthusiasm. He shook his head and smiled, saying over his shoulder as he went back to his chair, "Somehow, I thought you might, Commander. I thought you just might."

  Chapter Three

  Kodiak, Alaska

  The First National Bank of Kodiak had been erected on the corner of Birch Avenue and Mill Bay Road during the latter half of 1972. The two-story building drew few curiosity seekers during the nine months of construction. After all, it was just another bank, the second one in town. For the grand opening the amiable employees handed out free ball-point pens and calendars with a colored photograph of the bank displayed across the top half. A massive, high-luster steel door to the vault was kept open the first two days, prospective customers allowed to see into the vault itself. Beyond the main door was a second door made up of 3-1/2" diameter steel bars, the bars acting as another security feature. Most impressive for such a small town bank, the residents remarked.

  Adjacent to the rear of the bank, facing Baranof Street, were two shops, one sold hunting and fishing supplies, and the other, dry goods. Above the shops, two small, two bedroom apartments had been built. The kitchenettes were completely stocked, living rooms and bedrooms fully furnished. Each apartment had its own access, one wooden staircase on Baranof, and one in the alleyway. The shops and apartments were designed around a steel-encased elevator shaft, built behind false walls, in between the bank and the building. A recessed roof covered the top of the building. Hidden beneath were satellite communications dishes, out of site from prying eyes.

  The inhabitants of Kodiak were unaware that more than just routine activities were carried out at the First National Bank and the shops. All employees were either CIA or U.S. Navy officers, because buried four levels below the bank structure, a highly classified, sophisticated Computer Center was located in small-town Kodiak, Alaska. The center looked like something from a Star Trek episode, with its rows of computer screens blinking and scrolling unrecognizable alien language. A green, neon-like glow from the monitors filled the room and gave the operators an unearthly pallor, as the lights brightened, dimmed and flickered on their faces. Four printers, lined up on the north wall, clattered like typewriters gone berserk. Reams of paper lay in the trays behind them, with a paper shredder close by.

  Every component of the Bronson's equipment, every missile, the guidance system, navigation, and radar were entirely controlled by its 'brain', the Tactical Support Computer (TSC) MK1 system. From the moment it was brought on-line, the TSC-MK1 computer had performed impeccably, pumping information to the three terminals, spewing out vital details at a moment's notice. Every movement the ship made was controlled by the TSC. Nothing escaped it. Images picked up by the ship's radar were instantly transformed on the screens at Kodiak. The very heartbeat of the Bronson was recognized, explained and detailed on computer printouts. The Center was the very 'lifeblood' of the USS Bronson. All commands were encrypted instantaneously, sent to one of two satellites, then unencrypted when picked up by the ship's computer, the same process when coming back to Kodiak. CIA Headquarters in Langley, Virginia, received enciphered, thorough reports--Command Center data, Bronson data--passed constantly, over and over. Not a command was issued of which Langley wasn't aware.

  Three mini-cameras were positioned inside a protective shield running along the outside top edge of the ship's bridge. Camera 1 was aimed across the bow of the ship, Camera 2 down the port side, and Camera 3 down the starboard side, all capable of turning from 0 to 180 degrees. Cameras 2 and 3 were responsible for images off the stern. Live broadcasts were sent from the Bronson to the center. Color television monitors, three for each terminal, were individually set in built-in shelves just above eye level. Langley received simultaneous broadcasts, seeing the same picture as Kodiak.

  Precautionary measures had been taken by setting up three backup sites, exact replicas of Kodiak. They were located in Scotland, Morocco, and Australia. Each site had a sector to control, allowing the Bronson a world-wide range and backups to boot.

  The Computer Center was powered by its own generator, including a UPS (Uninterruptable Power Source) for 30 minutes of emergency power, giving the Kodiak site time to switch to a backup site, each of the three on standby, 24 hours a day. The room was 2,000 square feet, built on raised flooring, made up of individual panels, like three-foot square ceiling tiles, some dotted with small holes. Cold air, shooting upward through the openings, made the room a comfortable 68 degrees, which was
critical to the hardware's operation.

  Beneath the flooring lay a crawl space, two feet in height, running the length and width of the room. In the space was a jumble of cables, a snake pit of green, yellow, blue and red cabling wire, tagged with neatly inscribed labels. Each cable, about an inch in diameter, was composed of many smaller wires, multiple connections for each piece of computer hardware to which it was assigned. Thirty miles of cables sat beneath the floor, sending electronic pulses at half a million bytes per second, fast enough to send an entire library's data in a matter of hours.

  All of the keyboards were designed to register and recognize the fingerprints of the naval officers authorized to control the SNAGS. If, at any time security was breached and the center was about to fall under the physical control of an adversary, small explosive charges were strategically distributed within the walls, floor and inside the computer itself. They were automatically set to go off when anyone other than the men assigned even touched the computer system. An emergency tunnel was easily accessible if the normal exit was blocked. Beneath a section of the floor, where the cables had been rerouted, the tunnel was made of steel and waterproof, leading to the basement of the dry goods shop.

  Seven Navy officers, considered to be tops in their fields, had been selected from a list of mathematicians and computer engineers. Each required White House security clearance. They were between the ages of 22 and 33, unmarried, and none had personal responsibilities that could interfere with their demanding assignment. They wore civilian clothes, on and off duty, and carried Social Security Cards and civilian driver's licenses under assumed names. When they weren't on duty, they melded into the civilian community as bank and shop employees. They always stayed within range of their special locating devices, similar to beepers, carried at all times in case of an emergency and there was a recall to the center. However, these devices were installed inside wrist watches, pulsing silently when a signal was received.

  A duty roster was instituted to rotate three of the officers every eight-hours. Any longer and it would be counter-productive. There was always the fear that a mistake could ultimately cause a catastrophic event involving the Bronson or the crew in Kodiak; attention to detail was critical.

  Eight heavily armed Marines were assigned as security, rotating watches every six hours. When four had completed a 24-hour rotation, they were off the next day in the rotation and the other four took over. They were posted within the 12" thick steel doors, a .45 holstered on their web belts and carrying an M-16 with six clips of 20 rounds. Even though they weren't required to stand at attention during their watches, they were well aware of the criticality of their assignment. Being Marines, one could usually find them at a 'stiff' parade rest.

  *

  Computer Room, Kodiak

  Lieutenant Commander Jeff Holland sat at the keyboard watching the monitor. He and Lieutenant Commander Bob Little shared responsibility as Operations Officers, in charge overall for surface navigation, guidance, weapons control and interpretation of diagnostics.

  Holland had just settled into his watch, having just relieved Little. He sat at the keyboard as the TSC-MK1 processed millions of bytes of data. For the amount of data processing, the idle time still showed at 90%. "Jesus, this thing still amazes me," he mumbled. He glanced at the three monitors, checked the radar screen, then at precisely 2210 hours he typed in the command for the Bronson to reduce her speed to ten knots. He hit the 'enter' key. The response came back instantly. "Alllriightt! Let's keep playing, baby!" He sent the command for the ship to come left to 315 degrees. The Bronson responded immediately, heeling almost unnoticeably to starboard as she came about to her new course.

  On board the destroyer, its only crew member was CIA Agent Tony Mullins, an ex-Navy UDT frogman. His background as a boatswain's mate, familiar with navigation, communications and gunnery was the basis of his qualifications to sit in the 'hot seat', as it was known. But most of the time he merely had to maintain communications with Langley and the Control Center at Kodiak. Mullins would joke that he was just along 'for the ride', when in all actuality, this man, living in solitude, was one of a handful trained to use the SNAGS system, the ultimate offensive/defensive weapon.

  During the day at 1000 hours, then again at midnight, Mullins would assume control of the Bronson by flipping the override switch. Once again, encrypted codes were used to release the ship from Kodiak. For three hours he would test the integrity of the controls and gauges. After Kodiak resumed control, he would spend most hours secluded within the bowels of the destroyer, completing paperwork, recording in the log and communicating the day's events with Langley and Kodiak.

  Surrounded by layers of reinforced steel, one entrance from above and one emergency escape route, he was secure in his habitat. The escape hatch would have to be used only as a desperation escape. Hanging alongside the hatch was a specially designed, Velcro-edged, wraparound wetsuit and air tank. The hatch opened to a pressurized chamber, giving him less than five seconds to prepare himself before being jettisoned beneath the ship once the watertight door was shut. And if he didn't have the time to shutdown the engines, he'd be fighting for his life in the churning turbulence under the ship. A predicted path would take him dangerously close to being sucked into the rotating screws.

  Again, his past experience had helped land him the assignment. Mullins had been a combat swimmer instructor at the Navy Underwater Demolition School where UDT students were trained and prepared for the covert and riverine missions they would face. Mullins' nickname was "Legs”. When his students were put on their backs for the flutter kick exercise to strengthen the abdomen and gluts and build endurance, it was odds on money that every student in class would be winded and spent before "Legs" Mullins even began to think about resting. He goaded new students with, "Remember, ladies...the only easy day was yesterday!" Mullins could swim the seven mile ocean course required for students, and would never use his arms. It was spooky. Yet, he would finish first, even as a student. He and other instructors pushed their students beyond what any student thought was physically and mentally possible of himself. The instructors were often heard to say: "It's mind over matter, gentlemen. If I don't mind, it doesn't matter!" If anyone could propel himself clear of the screws, "Legs" was the best bet going.

  Chapter Four

  Monday, January 27

  0645 Hours

  During the night the SSN Bluefin set her course for one eight zero degrees, distancing herself from the carrier. She was a Sturgeon Class, Fast Attack Nuclear Sub built at the Mare Island Naval Shipyard in Vallejo, California, and commissioned in 1970. She was designed partially for reconnaissance, but mainly, she was built for speed. Her outer hull had few deck projections that interrupted the clean, streamlined form. Many of the masts had fairings on top of them to minimize turbulence when they were retracted. Powered by one water-cooled, pressurized nuclear reactor with one turbine, she carried on board MK46 Astor nuclear and conventional torpedoes, and Harpoon anti-ship missiles. Bluefin's immediate assignment, though, would have nothing to do with the launching of torpedoes or recon patrols. This silent hunter-killer was to play what seemed a very minor role in a very major production. She would set the stage for the coup de grace in a sophisticated plot designed to avoid nuclear war.

  Hopping up onto the slightly raised periscope stand, the sub's captain issued the order at precisely 0635 hours. "Take her up! Bring her to periscope depth."

  "Aye, aye, Captain," answered the OOD. He stood behind the helmsman and reached overhead, hanging on to the support bar. "Helm, five degrees up bubble. Make your depth sixty feet."

  The helmsman locked his eyes on the gauges and dials in front of the wheel, watching the bubble displaying the angle of the boat. "Aye, aye, sir, up bubble. Passing 250 feet."

  "Conn, we're passing 250 feet," the OOD notified the Captain.

  After several minutes, the helmsman called out, "Passing 100 feet, sir...80 feet...we're at 60 feet, sir."

  "Up per
iscope," the captain ordered. Hydraulics whined as the periscope rose. He draped his arms over the handles, rotating the periscope slowly. "There it is! One three five degrees. Down scope! OOD, make preparations to surface!"

  "Aye, aye, sir. Make preparations to surface!" He immediately sounded the horn, the noise blaring throughout the boat. "Stand by to surface! Three degrees up bubble."

  "Smitty, stand by the hatch!" COB (Chief of the Boat) ordered.

  "At forty-five feet sir," the helmsman called out, his eyes still glued to the gauges and dials.

  "Captain, the tower is clear," COB responded, walking closer to the ladder.

  Grabbing the ladder's handrail, the captain called, "Mr. Reese, you've got the Conn. I'm going topside. C'mon, Chief!"

  "Aye, aye, Captain," responded OOD Reese.

  An immense, dark shape rose from the abyss, the attack sub settling on the ebony-colored water of the North Pacific. White, foamy, sea water spilled down the sail and over the black hull. Ocean spray washed across the deck, being carried by a strong northerly wind, bringing with it a threatening, rolling cloud cover and four foot swells. The sail hatch opened. At the top of the sail, twenty feet above the deck, the captain and chief scrambled out, binoculars raised, immediately searching the horizon.

  "There it is!" COB called out.

  The helo pilot maneuvered his aircraft and headed for the Bluefin, struggling against a strong headwind. Sea King pilot, Lieutenant Troy McPherson spoke into the mini mike on his headset: "Bluefin, this is Sea King 6. Stand by for personnel transfer. Over."

  "Roger, Sea King. Standing by," responded OOD Reese from the Conn. "Transfer personnel to the after hatch. Take your orders from Ground Control. Over."

  "Roger, Bluefin.” Lieutenant McPherson fought to hold the chopper steady, as it was buffeted by the bone-chilling wind. He centered it directly above the sub's after deck just forward of the escape hatch. The backwash from the helo's main rotor blades sprayed sea water over the men on deck. Crouching low, they continued engaging the whirlwind descending from above, as they battled a twenty knot wind.