by Gordon Ryan
Mike spoke first, “MacAlear Aviation has been developing a free swimming submersible that is allegedly capable of 20,000 foot depths. Some guy from MacAlear gave a talk at Stanford last year about their oceanographic programs and I remember being impressed with the depth.”
“Yeah,” said Sevson, “I’ve read about it as well. For some reason, there hasn’t been much press about the submersible in trade journals. I think everyone assumes that MacAlear abandoned the program. With the drop off of Navy funds a lot of programs have bitten the dust in the last year or two. I guess that the MacAlear submersible is a victim of some government cutback.”
“How can we find out more about this submersible?” asked an intrigued Robert McHugh.
“A good friend of mine works for MacAlear, I think you know him, Ed Robison,” replied Sevson.
“Wasn’t he the one who ran the Wayward Wind aground off Baja in ‘59?”
Sevson had also sailed on the R/V Wayward Wind and had a similar photograph like the one on McHugh’s wall in Port Hueneme.
“Yup! That’s the guy.”
“I guess he thinks if he stays in deep water, he’ll be okay.”
“Let me give him a call when we get back to Annapolis,” offered Sevson.
1967: Free Swimming
1130 Hours: Tuesday, November 1, 1967, Palo Alto, California
“Know of any quick places to eat?” asked Sevson.
“We could go down to the Oasis on El Camino,” offered Mike. “It’s not the fanciest place in the world but the hamburgers are good. It’s sort of a graduate engineering student hangout. Believe me, you’ll love it.”
Pulling into the parking lot of the Oasis, Sevson wasn’t sure what Mike was getting him into. The rather plain looking facade of the bar/restaurant wasn’t quite what he expected. As Sevson and Mike entered the dimly lit dining area, Sevson was not terribly impressed by the peanut shells on the floor, the long hard wooden benches, and the heavy wood tables.
Mike, on the other hand, seemed to be oblivious to the dingy surroundings. He went right to the counter and ordered two cheeseburgers, fries and drinks.
Sevson found two places on a bench, having to stare down a couple of shallow, pasty looking students who were hogging the entire table without any food in sight.
After what seemed to be an eternity, Mike came over with a tray holding two red plastic baskets, made to look like woven straw baskets, two mugs of some brownish solution - the glasses already frosting over. In the baskets were cheeseburgers in sesame rolls, French fries, and a slice of tomato sitting on a leaf of lettuce. The food was lying on a white paper napkin and a strip of wax paper.
“Didn’t I tell you that you would like this place?” said Mike enthusiastically.
Sevson grunted, as he brushed some peanut shells and food scraps off the wooden table. Mike handed Sevson’s red plastic basket to him and sat down across the table. The two former squatters at the table looked darkly at the older man in a white, short sleeve shirt and tan trousers with white socks inside brown penny loafers and the young Chinese dressed in the tan uniform of the United States Navy.
“Child killer,” muttered one of the long-haired graduate students in a loud stage whisper to no one in particular.
Despite his reservations about the ambience of the Oasis, Sevson bit down on his cheeseburger and found out that Mike was right; this place did have some social redeeming value. Mike said, “I used to come here once or twice a week, don’t you agree it’s great?”
“I guess so,” grunted Sevson, biting down on his cheeseburger.
After completing his first gastronomical experience at the Oasis, Sevson washed it down with another Anchor Steam Beer.
As Sevson and Mike got up from the bench and started out the door, a young Asian coed dressed in dungarees and a red Stanford University sweatshirt intentionally brushed against Mike as he walked toward the front door and whispered loudly, “Banana.”
Sevson noticed that with that remark, Mike’s face stiffened, his jaw became set and his eyes narrowed and focused on some distant point.
“What was that about?” asked a perplexed Sevson.
“Apparently, the young lady didn’t like my uniform,” said Mike, shaking his head as if to throw off the stinging remark. “A ‘Banana’ is an Asian who wants to be Caucasian: Yellow on the outside, white on the inside.” Mike’s personal war was fought on many battlefields.
“Oh.”
After the meal, Sevson and Mike walked out into the cool summer evening, got into the rented Ford Falcon and backed out of the parking lot. On the radio was Simon & Garfunkel singing “Cloudy.” After a short drive, the two reached their motel and checked in for the night.
0630 Hours: Wednesday, November 2, 1967, Palo Alto, California
The persistent knocking on his door woke Mike from a sound sleep. “Who’s there?”
“Open this door!” demanded the deep male voice.
Mike got out of bed, put on his pants, and went to the door. Opening the door, he was confronted by two Caucasian males, dressed in civilian suits. Both men were heavy set, their shirts yellowed with age, and suits ill-fitted. Pushing their way into Mike’s room, they started to move about the room casually looking at Mike’s possessions.
“Who are you and what do you want?” asked an obviously peeved Mike.
“We’re from the D.I.A.,” said John Thompson, flashing a gold badge and identification card at Mike. D.I.A. was the acronym for the Defense Intelligence Agency of the Department of Defense.
“I don’t care who you are. You have no right to barge in here and paw through my belongings,” said an increasingly angry Mike. “I am a Navy officer, and I will not stand for this treatment from you or any one.”
“Look, boy. I’m not going to argue with you. Just get dressed, you’re comin’ with us.”
“What?” asked a shocked Mike. Then he saw the handle of a .38 caliber Police Special poking out of a holster strapped to the waist of the D.I.A. agent. “Am I under arrest?”
“Just come with us.”
All that the two Defense Intelligence Agency agents allowed Mike to do was to put on his dress shirt, shoes, and socks. They took Mike out to an unmarked army green sedan and placed him in the rear seat. As the car pulled out of the motel parking lot, Sevson opened the door to his room and noticed that Mike was being driven away by two men in what appeared to be an army sedan.
“Operator, can you get me 213-661-4555,” said Sevson.
The young seaman picked up the ringing telephone, “Lieutenant Commander Robert McHugh’s Office.”
“Is the Commander in?”
“One moment, Sir. I’ll see if he is busy. Who may I say is calling?”
“Tom Sevson, tell him it’s an emergency.”
“What’s up, Tom?” answered a worried McHugh.
“Two men in what looked like an army sedan just took Mike away from the motel,” blurted out Sevson. I didn’t like the looks of it so I thought I should call you.”
“You did the right thing, Tom. I’ll get right on it. Were they in uniform?”
“No.”
McHugh shouted out to his Yeoman’s Mate, “Billy, see if you can get the Provost Marshal at the Presidio in San Francisco.”
“Provost Marshal’s Office.”
“Please hold for Lieutenant Commander Robert McHugh, United States Navy,” said the Yeoman. “Commander, I’ve got the Provost Marshal’s office on the line.”
“Can I speak to the Provost? This is important military business.”
“This is Captain John Wilson.”
“Captain Wilson, this is Lieutenant Commander Robert McHugh, from NAVFAC in Port Hueneme. I just found out that one of my men, Ensign Aloysius Liu, was just taken into custody by two men driving an army sedan. Is there anything that you can do to help me find where they have taken Ensign Liu? He is on a confidential mission of the highest priority. Captain, if he isn’t found, there could be serious, serious consequences.”
“Commander, I’m not aware of any arrests of Navy personnel in my district. In addition, my guys usually do not go out in civilian clothes. It almost sounds like it could be someone from the Defense Intelligence Agency. I’ll try to find out something, what is your telephone number?”
After giving Captain Wilson Mike’s name and rank and his telephone number, McHugh returned the handset to its cradle.
It was almost noon before John Wilson was able to get back to McHugh. “Commander, as far as I can determine Ensign Liu was picked up for questioning by the D.I.A. For what reason, I don’t know. I don’t think he is under arrest, but he is being held by the DIA who are asking him about some information he was apparently trying to obtain.”
“Shit! Excuse me Captain, that wasn’t meant for you.”
“That’s okay, I understand. Is there anything more I can help you with?” asked John Wilson.
“Who should I talk to?”
“I gather the agent in charge is a John Thompson. He can be reached at 415-LI-1-4336.”
“Thanks for your help, Captain.’
“You’re welcome, Sir. If there is anything else, just give me a call.”
McHugh dialed the telephone number that Wilson had given him. “This is Lieutenant Commander Robert McHugh with NAVFAC. Is John Thompson available?”
“This here’s John Thompson. What can I do for you?”
“I understand that you are holding one of my officers, Ensign Aloysius Liu. Can you tell me what the charge is?”
“Mister, I don’t know who you are. I got me a Chinee boy on suspicion of espionage.”
Fighting back the rising anger in his voice, McHugh stated in measured tones, “Mr. Thompson, I am going to make this very clear. If you continue to hold Ensign Liu on any charge whatsoever, you are going to be in shit so deep that your red neck will be brown. Am I making myself clear? In addition, Ensign Liu is an Officer in the Navy and is not to be referred to as a ‘Chinee boy’ by you or anyone else is that also cl….” — The line went dead.
Furious, McHugh called Jeb Tillingham, a classmate of his from the Academy, assigned to the Office of Naval Operations in Washington, D.C.
“Jeb, this is Bob McHugh.”
“Bob, long time no hear. Last I heard you were out west chasing porpoises and killer whales to make them into finny commandos.”
“Jeb, I wish I could chat but I’ve got some serious business.”
Tillingham quickly became quiet, “What’s up, Bob?”
“One of my officers, Mike, is in the Bay Area working with Tom Sevson of Western Light on that geomagnetic problem. I got a report that he was picked by the D.I.A. on some hoked up charge. I just spoke to a D.I.A. agent, John Thompson, who refuses to release my man. I have to tell you that this Thompson has a neck so red my telephone glowed.”
“Is this guy at the Presidio?”
“Yes.”
“Great, the Commander of the Presidio, General Perry Williams, is an old friend of the CNO’s. I’ll give his Aide de Camp a call immediately.”
The receptionist at the D.I.A. office looked up to see a full bird Colonel in the Army, and six military police carrying M-1 Carbines burst into her office.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m Colonel Bradley Robertson, Executive Officer to the Commandant of the Presidio, General Perry Williams. Is a John Thompson present?”
“Yes, I’ll get him for you.”
A minute later, a large man in an ill fitting civilian suit walked through the doorway into the receptionist’s area. “I’m John Thompson, Can I help you?”
“I understand that you have a naval officer in custody by the name of Aloysius Liu. Is that correct?”
“Do you mean that Chinaman I picked up this morning?”
“Thompson, I’m not here to play games with you. I have it on good authority that you are holding an officer in the armed forces of the United States. If you have Ensign Liu in custody, you had better have one hell of a good reason.”
“That Chinaman is being held on suspicion of espionage.”
“On whose authority?”
“On my authority!”
Robertson, a former green beret and a holder of many decorations including the Silver Star, was not normally prone to excitement. However, before him stood the very reason he, at times, hated the service; it allowed racist creeps like John Thompson to hide in its crevices like so many cockroaches. Swiftly grabbing the labels of Thompson’s cheap suit, Robertson pulled the face of John Thompson close to his. The intermingled smells of body odor of someone accustomed to drinking cheap wine, smoking cheap stale cigars, and even cheaper whiskey was overpowering.
The urge to physically teach Thompson a valuable lesson in sensitivity was almost overwhelming, but Robertson spoke softly and deliberately.
“Listen you dumb fuck, do you know who you are holding? Ensign Liu is a NAVFAC officer on special assignment to the Oceanographer of the Navy for a top secret project. Your little adventure has already brought discredit to my boss, the Commandant of the Presidio; the CNO’s office called this morning and all hell is breaking loose. It would give me no small amount of pleasure to take that fucking red neck of yours and break it in two. Am I making myself sufficiently clear?”
With that Robertson threw the portly 250 pound Thompson against the wall with a loud thud.
Robertson thought to himself: shit, I didn’t know I had that much strength.
Dusting off his hands and straightening out his dress uniform, Robertson addressed the now cowed John Thompson, “Now will you please get Ensign Liu for me? Oh! By the way, don’t ever use the term ‘Chinaman’ again. If I ever find out you have, I will find you and I won’t be in my dress uniform.”
Just about this time, Clyde Hopkins, Thompson’s partner burst into the room with his revolver drawn. As he looked up, he stared into the muzzles of six M-1 Carbines.
“Drop your weapon,” demanded Robertson. Hopkins complied with that request.
With his hands in the air, Hopkins asked Thompson, “What the hell is happening?”
“Shut your fuckin’ mouth, Clyde. These fellas want that Chinese guy, now!” sputtered a defiant Thompson.
“What is your name?” asked Robertson.
“Clyde Hopkins, Sergeant First Class, United States Army,” replied Hopkins.
“What is your rank and service, Thompson?”
“Master Sergeant, U.S. Army.”
“Sergeant Wills, please take Hopkins and go look for Ensign Liu.”
“Hopkins, before you go, both you and Thompson are hereby relieved of your duties as agents of the Defense Intelligence Agency and are remanded to the custody of the Provost Marshal. I’ll have formal charges as soon as possible, probably something like federal kidnapping or disrespect of a commissioned officer, if I can’t think of any legit charges I’ll make up some. Take this shit away, Sergeant it’s beginning to smell in here.”
In a few minutes, a disheveled, unshaven and visibly irritated Mike was brought into the receptionist office.
Robertson greeted him in Mandarin, “Nee how mah, Liu shan sen?”
“Hey, that’s pretty good,” said Mike, caught unawares by this Caucasian speaking his mother tongue. “Where did you learn to speak like that?”
“I learned it at the U.S. Army language school in Monterey, California. I’m Brad Robertson, Executive Officer at the Presidio, sorry about your rather unfortunate welcome to the Presidio, Mister Liu.”
“I gotta tell you that was something I expected in the deepest part of the South, not in California. Who turned these apes on?”
“As far as we have been able to determine, someone overheard you asking directions to MacAlear Aviation where they are working on a super secret system of some sort. That someone - maybe the motel clerk - called Thompson and his sidekick. Thompson followed you and Sevson for a couple of hours, saw you go into the Oasis, where anti-war activists hang out and decided that you were a spy. With the Viet Na
m war raging on, everyone thinks every oriental is a Viet Cong. It’s stupid, but it happens. I’ll have one of my men take you back to your motel so you can change and then down to Sunnyvale. Tom Sevson is waiting for you at MacAlear.”
“Thanks for your help, Colonel. What’s going to happen to these two creeps?”
“Unfortunately, there isn’t much we can do since their defense will be they were just doing their job. However, I’ll see to it that they are relieved of their assignment with the D.I.A. They’ll probably go back to some military police assignment somewhere. With a little bit of help, I’m sure we will be able to find a suitable next post for them. Maybe Thule, Greenland. That sounds good.”
“Thanks again.”
1600 Hours: Tuesday, November 2, 1967, Sunnyvale, California
The green Army sedan turned into the guard gate at the MacAlear Aviation facility in Sunnyvale, California, not too far from the Ames Naval Air Station at Moffett Field. Like the Ames facility, the MacAlear compound consisted of several buildings and two large hangers. The guard at the gate, a young civilian in a white shirt and blue trousers, examined the identification cards of all the occupants of the sedan. He then directed the sedan to Building A2, a barracks like building constructed of white clapboard with a grayish composite slate roof. The three story building was labeled, “Project Squid.”
Mike got out of the Army sedan and thanked the two Sergeants who had assured his safe arrival and walked up the concrete steps to the door of the reception area.
Inside in contrast to its drab exterior, the reception area was brightly decorated in earth tones, sand colored walls and maple stained wood work. The receptionist’s desk was blond teak wood, as were the Danish style sofa and chairs. Contrasting with the blond teak wood were royal blue sack cloth cushions and backs.
On the coffee table were magazines and other reading material such as Sunset, technical journals, the San Francisco Chronicle, and the Alumni Weekly from Stanford University. Hanging from pots in macramé pot hangers were several plants. On the walls were colorful posters of the Redwoods in Muir Woods, Earth Day - 1967 showing the rising earth from moon orbit, and a poster displaying fish of the Pacific Ocean.