“260 at 12.”
“Speeds are 18 and 21, Randy. Landing checklist complete.”
“OK, pilot’s power, Scoop.”
“You got it.”
Scoop looked over his shoulder at Chief ‘Hairy’ Harris and motioned for him to reset the oil tank circuit breakers. Harry did so and shoved a thumbs up in front of Scoop.
At the TACCO’s station, Lieutenant Commander Kevin James “KJ” Martin looked out the window making sure the gear was down, rechecked his harness, looked over at LCDR Barney ‘Rubble’ Roberts, and received a thumbs up. He keyed the ICS and said, “Five is set in the back, gear looks good.”
“Roger that, KJ,” Fast Eddie replied.
Randy called, “Short final, flaps to land.”
“Flaps to land, speed is 118.”
“OK.”
Randy finessed the P-3 the last 30 feet down to the runway, but it still flopped down the last fifteen feet.
“6000 remaining.”
“Four good Beta lights.”
“K, Full reverse.”
“Charlie Fox 232, right off approved when able, contact ground 236.8.”
“232 switching, night Moffett.”
Randy steered the P-3 off the runway and keyed the ICS. “Just another day at the office, guys. Crew’s released, KJ, let em know we’re home, and get us a spot.”
KJ double keyed the ICS in acknowledgment, noted the landing time on his log, and did the arithmetic for total flight time. He waited for Barney to complete the in-report to the ASW Operations Center and switched to the squadron’s base frequency. Barney gave him a thumbs up, and KJ keyed UHF2, called maintenance and gave the time, status and asked for a parking spot. The maintenance chief told him to park it in front of the hangar, as the bird was due for a periodic maintenance inspection.
Meanwhile, Chief Iverson, the in-flight technician, strolled up with the first aid kit and his helmet on sideways. KJ smiled and pointed to the flight station; Iverson assumed the persona of an injured person and limped into the flight station. “Anybody up here need this? We only need a couple of ambulances for the guys in back.”
Randy shrugged as Fast Eddie, Tip and Scoop laughed. “Sorry ‘bout that, I didn’t do it on purpose. Any major gripes?”
“Nope, we’re up and up in the back, Sir, but this ain’t a 747; we’re a little closer to the ground. Just saying,” Iverson replied.
KJ came over the ICS saying, “Randy, put it right in front of the hangar; no gas, no covers. Scoop, they’re gonna do an inspection.”
KJ keyed the PA, telling everyone to pick up all loose gear, secure their stations, and clear all codes. Barney and Tip walked through the airplane, clearing all the secure equipment codes, inventoried the communications box, and signed it off.
Chief Clark, the senior anti-submarine warfare operator, asked who had to go to the debrief. KJ replied, “Well, since we debriefed at Whidbey, I don’t see any reason for any of y’all to go, Randy and I can handle it.”
“Sure about that, TACCO? After all, it took you seven minutes to get the torp off after we told you where the boat was,” the chief replied with a smile.
Chuckling, KJ shot back, “Alright Charlie, you can come along and keep us straight.”
“Naw boss, we trust you to get it right. We’ll be waitin’ in the parking lot.”
The bird was parked and turned over to maintenance, and Randy and KJ went to the ASW operations center to turn in the operational message blank, debrief with the watch officer, and turn in all the classified material. Chief Clark, the ordnance chief, and the ordnancemen cleaned up the bomb bay and did a walkthrough on the bird. Scoop and the second engineer did their post flight, then went into maintenance to write up gripes on the plane and sign off the daily inspection.
An hour later, the crew gathered at KJ’s rental car in front of Hangar Two for the parking lot debrief. KJ started things off by handing out beers and cokes, then did a round robin of each crewmember for comments, complaints, and plans. As a master augmentation unit crew, they didn’t work or fly on the same schedule as a standard reserve crew. They flew their own aircraft or one loaned by an operational squadron. Since most of the crew lived and worked in the Bay Area, most of them were headed home until next month, as they had no squadron support flights or operational commitments scheduled.
KJ and Randy walked back into the MAU’s space in the hangar and were approached by the ops boss. “Nice flight guys, the Skipper wants to see you both in his office.”
“OK, Willie. Hope to hell something hasn’t come up, since I just let the crew go,” KJ replied.
Commander Furness looked up as KJ and Randy knocked on the door. “Come on in guys, nice flight. Seven minutes from COMEX to weapon is a new record for us, KJ. How the hell do you do it? Especially with a reserve crew? Most of the fleet squadrons can’t even do that well.”
Randy and KJ looked at each other, and Randy replied, “Shit, Skipper, look at the qualifications and experience we’ve got here. Fast Eddie and Tip both had crews in the fleet, KJ and Barney were both first tour mission commanders, Chief Clark has seventeen years as an acoustic operator, Henerson and Macklin both have over fifteen, Iverson is a wizard with the gear, Vessels and Harris both are old B-model flight engineers who know ASW as well as or better than we do, and ‘Pops’ Kanaka did his last fleet tour with PMTC as the research and development ordnance shop leading petty officer before he flipped over to the civilian side. There isn’t a fleet crew that could come close to that, much less stay together for five years like we have.”
“Guess so, but you guys never cease to amaze me. Randy, what’s your schedule?”
“Seven in the morning, here to L.A., layover, then Sydney and back.”
“When are you going to upgrade? Or is United holding you back?”
“Hell, I don’t know, and no, they aren’t. Flying right seat on a 747 ain’t bad. Plus, if I upgrade to Captain on the 75 it would mean moving back to L.A., and Julie would shoot me,” Randy replied.
CDR Furness laughed and nodded at KJ. “What about you, still looking for a real job?”
KJ rolled his eyes, chuckled, and answered, “Why get a job, Skipper? It would just ruin my social life. Seriously, I finished up a security job yesterday, and I’m headed back to Bradenton tomorrow morning. We’re doing pretty well with the FBO business, and Dad’s having a ball, which lets me run around and do other things.”
The skipper shook his head and said, “I’ll never understand how the Navy didn’t let you fly.”
KJ grimaced and replied, “Shit, they claimed I wasn’t 20-20. Said I was 20-25 in the right eye, and you know how that goes; one chance and that’s it. I decided to try the NFO route since I was already there, besides which, if I’d gone home, then the old man would’ve killed me. You know how he feels about doing your time.”
“Well, you guys need your rest, so thanks for a great job, and see ya next month. Your crew should be doing an ASWEX with VP-19.”
Reflections: CDR Bob Furness
Those two guys are damn good, maybe the best I’ve seen in 20 years. Too bad we couldn’t keep them on active duty. Randy’s a known entity—steady, happily married and loves flying for the airlines. KJ’s a different story altogether—his record is outstanding from the start. A real golden boy in his first tour, special missions certified and every possible important job. A tactical wizard—that’s what his skipper said. I wonder what would have happened if KJ’s wife hadn’t been killed during his first shore tour, and he hadn’t resigned to take care of his daughter. Wonder if KJ will ever get a real job—he’s so damn talented it’s not funny, but he plays with airplanes, has this KJM Consulting which he won’t talk about, but seems to make money, has some connection with his Dad’s fixed base operation at Bradenton, Florida; lives in Florida, but drills in California. Ah hell, I guess I shouldn’t look two damn good gift horses in the mouth. I’ll just take ‘em and run.
Randy and KJ got up and headed out th
e door, logging out with the duty officer to ensure their drill time was counted. In the parking lot, they coordinated the call tree for next month, said their good-byes, and KJ jumped in his rental and headed back to the Airport Crowne Plaza. He had paperwork to do and was looking forward to a good night’s sleep and getting home to his now teenaged daughter, Jonna, who was thirteen going on thirty-one, or so she thought. He just hoped she’d behaved, as Mom had promised to have a ‘girl’ talk with her.
* * *
May 22, 1985
Washington, DC 1300Z
Third assistant agricultural attaché and KGB Lieutenant Colonel Sergei Rostov picked up the Washington Post and scanned the headlines, immediately focusing on the arrest of John Walker in Norfolk, VA, for spying. He slammed the chair down and hurried down to the secure room to find out what had happened.
* * *
CINCLANTFLT Compound, Norfolk, Virginia 1500Z
‘Chief’ Downs had his feet up on the watch desk, idly watching the staff in the watch center starting their turnovers, when the secure phone on his desk rang. He sighed as he reached for it and said, “Watch officer.”
A couple of seconds later, his feet hit the floor, and he was writing quickly on the pad by the phone as the voice on the other end identified himself as the deputy director of the FBI. He said, “Sir, I’m the watch officer. I need to get this information to the chain of command. Will someone be there in the next half hour or so? Yes, sir. I’ll have them call you back.”
He jumped up and headed for the door, telling the commander on the submarine ops desk, “Shit’s gonna hit the fan. FBI caught a spy with classified Navy carrier data. I’m going up to the flag office. You’ve got the desk.”
The commander nodded and got up, moving to the watch desk as Downs banged through the door. A couple of minutes later, he stood in front of the flag aide’s desk, “Commander, I need to see the boss right now. We got a problem.”
“What kind of problem, Chief?”
Chief glanced around before answering softly, “A spy, caught with classified carrier plans.”
“You’re not kidding, are you?”
Chief shook his head, “Not in the slightest.”
“C’mon.” The aide got up, went to the admiral’s door, and knocked. “Admiral, Chief Downs from the watch floor with a hot one. Chief, go right in.”
* * *
May 26, 1985
Chief of Naval Operations Office, the Pentagon 1400Z
The CNO turned toward the deputy director of the FBI. “So, you’re telling me he’s admitted they’ve been passing all our crypto to the Soviets?”
“Yes, sir. He says they’ve never asked for hardware, only the codes.”
The CNO leaned back against his desk, scrubbing his hands over his face. “So…as of now we have to believe the Soviets are reading all our traffic, including the encrypted traffic. And we have no alternative but to destroy all the current crypto in the entire Navy and reissue all new.” He glanced at the Vice CNO. “How long?”
“Thirty days, maybe forty-five. Depends on the courier delivery to overseas. What do we do in the meantime about the boomers?”
“Recall them. We need them out of harm’s way. We need to do a secure…shit, I’m not even sure we can do secure voice either.” He pushed off the desk, pointed at the deputy director and said, “You need to come with me, we need to go brief the secretary and chairman of the joint chiefs. I hope you didn’t have anything planned this morning.”
“No, sir. I didn’t. We planned to give the other services courtesy briefs once we found out the level of compromise to our systems.”
The CNO looked at the Vice CNO. “Mark, get with your counterparts, figure out what crypto we have in common, and let them know about the compromise. We’re not going to downplay this. It is too important.”
* * *
Admiral of the Soviet Fleet Gorchakov’s office, the Kremlin 1100Z
“So, we have lost our naval spy,” asked Admiral Gorchakov.
“It appears so, sir. Comrade Rostov in Washington was able to confirm he has been picked up, along with his son and other members of his cell.”
“So, now we go to work. Are there any units we can pick off before the Americans know about it?”
His chief of staff unrolled a chart on his desk, pointing at an area in the North Atlantic off Norway. “There is one. The USS Michigan is on patrol here. Kursk and K-324 have been detached from the operations off Murmansk and are en-route, pending your approval. They should be there in eighteen hours. K-123, an Alfa, is already in the area and believes she has had a couple of sniffs of contact. We have positioned her in a patrol box southwest of that position.”
“Send a Udaloy ASW destroyer also. If we can get her up, the Udaloy can hold her hostage.”
“It will be done, Admiral.”
* * *
May 27, 1985
USS Michigan, North Atlantic 0300Z
Captain Thomas stuck his head in Sonar. “What you got, Chief?”
“Alfa is still south of us. I think we’ve got one or two Victor IIIs coming down from the north. They’re a couple of convergence zones out yet.” He pointed to a couple of dim lines on one of the screens.
“So, they’re trying to box us. Dammit, we can’t go further west; no water. I think we’ll move east and see if we can sneak down the coast.”
“We gonna stay deep, Skipper?”
“Unless I hear different, Chief. No reason to go up on the roof since we got the orders for recall and to terminate comms. Something bad is going down, and I’ve got a feeling…our comms might be compromised.”
“That Walker thing that was on the feed?”
“Yep. Keep us honest, Chief. I’ll be in Conn.”
“Will do, Sir.”
* * *
Navy Ops Center, the Pentagon 1700Z
The various Navy department heads sat around the conference table, empty coffee cups and wax paper cups filling the trash cans as Captain Montfort, the lead planner, asked tiredly, “Any other options? There sure as hell isn’t anything in the contingency plans covering this level of cluster fuck.”
The LANTFLT rep on the VTC said, “We’ve got a carrier underway from the Med, but she’s a couple of days away at best. And we really don’t know where Michigan is or if she’s still in her patrol box. Everybody else is accounted for and headed home but her, and we’ve grounded all Naval Air outside the US, for obvious reasons.”
Montfort heard a grumble from down the table and said, “What?”
Captain Tobin looked up in irritation, “And that’s BS. There is no reason to ground the P-3s. We could have been out there locating Michigan and giving her a hand. We routinely communicate with subs at sea.”
“You don’t work with boomers. And the Soviet’s posture right now is to try to provoke a situation. You saw the report where that MIG hit the Norwegian P-3,” the SUBLANT chief of staff countered.
“I don’t remember anything in the SOPs that says we can’t communicate with boomers, and you guys supposedly have the same pubs and buoys aboard.”
“Well, they aren’t allowed to use those.”
Montfort made a chopping motion, “Alright, knock it off, you two. Who did authorize the grounding of the P-3s and why?”
* * *
May 28, 1985
Test Center, NAS Patuxent River, Maryland 0000Z
The P-3 taxiing into the transient line with one engine feathered stopped suddenly, then turned and taxied to a hangar on the Test Center side of the field. It came to a stop in front of a hangar as the doors slid slowly open, and a tow crew tractor hooked up to the airplane. Minutes later, the hangar doors rumbled closed behind the airplane. As the crew trooped off, they were loaded on a bus and taken to base housing, with the mission commander being told he would be notified when the P-3 was ready for a test flight.
Once the crew was gone, a group of civilians came out of various offices and started moving equipment into place on the
unmarked P-3 in the other half of the hangar. Four torpedoes were pushed from behind a bank of storage containers as the bomb bay on that P-3 whined open.
* * *
Tactical Support Center, NAS Patuxent River, Maryland 0200Z
KJ led the rest of the officers and the three anti-submarine warfare chiefs into the briefing room, where they quietly took chairs, staring at each other. Finally, Charlie Clark said, “Still no idea what is going on, TACCO?”
KJ shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. We weren’t supposed to be on the hook for another three weeks, much less here. I guess we’ll find out, since we’re obviously going flying somewhere tonight.”
The door opened, and a grizzled chief stuck his head in. “I see this is the mushroom locker. Kept in the dark and fed shit as usual.”
Randy started up, bristling, but KJ jumped up. “Dusty! What the hell are you doing here?”
They shook hands, and that devolved into beating each other on the back as Dusty said, “Same shit; different day. I’m workin’ out of here now. Looks like I’m going with you.”
KJ cocked his head. “I’ve already got—”
“We’re taking 323. It’s here, and full up.”
Charlie walked over, “Hey, you old reprobate. You ain’t getting my seat.”
They shook hands as Dusty replied, “Don’t need to, I got my own. Your ordy will lose, he gets the galley seat.”
Somebody said, “Attention on deck!” and everyone popped to attention as two older men in civvies walked into the briefing room.
One was RADM Gallo, the current Patrol Wings Commander, and he said, “At ease. Seats, guys.” The second man wearing civilian clothes walked forward, a briefcase in hand, as the admiral made sure the door was locked. “Gents, this is Vice Admiral Mark Kalenberg. He’s the VCNO, and he’s going to brief you.”
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