by Gordon Ryan
The first station to be designed and deployed soon after the Squid submersible missions were completed in 1973 was Watch Station One in 1974. Shortly thereafter, three other stations were built and deployed. One was set in the deepest depths of Lake Superior where a similar object had been detected by an ore research vessel. A third station was located in the submarine canyons in the Pacific Ocean beyond Santa Catalina Island off the coast of California. The fourth and final Watch Station was established in the Gulf of Alaska. All the Watch Stations were of similar design although the later ones were more comfortable than Watch Station One. But the most popular assignment at the CSAC Undersea Affairs Department was the flagship, the one that started it all.
The Watch Stations were active duty vessels of the United States Navy and relatives of the crews assigned to the Watch Stations believed that their loved ones are serving on experimental submarines. CSAC had seen to it that the true purpose of the Watch Stations was not known to anyone without the proper clearance. Mail, food, and other supplies were delivered to the Watch Station every week by robotic delivery submersibles.
Life on board Watch Station One was tedious: constant calibration of instrumentation and constant maintenance. Data recording and data interpretation were also conducted by the crew. The data they collected were sent topside for analysis to determine the presence of any change from the baseline information collected over the last twenty years.
McHugh, surprisingly agile for someone in his early sixties, scampered through the passageways as if he were a child. McHugh and O’Shannon made their way to the main command module, while Wong excused himself for the mandatory rest period, which was required immediately following a twelve-hour duty period. By requiring mandatory rest periods, the CSAC psychologists believed they could modify circadian behavioral cycles to maximize efficiency during the duty periods. However, B.F. Skinner be damned, no company shrink was going to deny Wong the chance to meet the old man, who had become a god over the years to many of the younger CSAC permanent staff.
Wong’s crew was also anxious to meet the legendary old man. However, they would have to wait until their shifts began. Rank still had some privileges even at 18,000 feet below the surface of the sea.
After meeting Admiral McHugh in the mess hall and activity area, the three members of O’Shannon’s crew who had been able to break free to meet him drifted off to their respective tasks. Afterward, McHugh and O’Shannon headed toward the main command module where Sonar Mate John Lawrence had remained during the festivities. Before entering the main command module, both McHugh and O’Shannon had to spend a few minutes sitting in the passageway between the mess hall and the main command module while their eyes acclimated to the red light. Once adjusted to the red light, O’Shannon unlatched the steel dogs of the hatch and he and McHugh entered the main command module.
“Hello, Captain,” said Sonar Mate John Lawrence.
“Admiral, this is John Lawrence, the best instrument man in the Navy,” said O’Shannon with obvious pride.
Lawrence snapped to attention and saluted.
Returning the salute, McHugh said, “At ease, Mr. Lawrence. Congratulations. By determining so swiftly that a message was being played out, you’ve helped our effort immensely. Tell me how it happened.”
“Sir, I was about halfway through my watch when the annunciator started flashing and the panel alarms sounded. This indicated that the sensors had picked up something. It’s always terrifying when that happens because you don’t know if it’s just something normal like a seaquake somewhere — we do have very sensitive instruments — some unfriendly intruder, or something on the Rock. But this time it was different. There seemed to be a pattern.” Younger CSAC operatives used the term, “Rock”, when describing the Sentinels. Although the term was not officially sanctioned by CSAC, even McHugh would find himself using this same diminutive at times.
Lawrence turned toward his instrument panel. “I immediately began both the backup sequence and the checkout sequence. I made sure to switch on both the analog and the digital recorder to backup any real signals that we might have been receiving. On checkout, all of our sonar, electromagnetic and other equipment proved to be operating fine. We don’t affect our measuring capabilities by conducting the checkout since it’s done by digital electronic means. Anyway, once I was certain that there were, in fact, signals being sent, I alerted the skipper. He sent out the general alert.
“The signal I detected was more than a tonal adjustment or amplitude adjustment in the magnetometer, there was a definite regularity to the signal. It was almost as if there were a message to be understood, like the old Morse code used in the telegraph system of the early eighteen hundreds.”
McHugh asked O’Shannon if any visual inspections had been made at the site. O’Shannon nodded. “We conducted an on-site inspection but no visual clues appeared, just the message, which was repeated for two days. It’s been silent since.”
McHugh frowned.
O’Shannon continued. “We sent both of our Jason-II units to inspect the object immediately after the transmittal of the apparent message. The Jason-II’s are outfitted with practically every instrument known, thermometers, metabolic O2 analyzers, CO2 analyzers, flux gauges, magnetometers, you name it. They also have television cameras and passive and active sonar. Since the Jason-II units are tethered vehicles, we get real time information. So far, they haven’t detected anything except the same magnetic fluctuations we recorded in the Watch Station.”
“Did you use the Benthic Ranger?” said McHugh.
“No, Admiral. We didn’t think that we needed to since the Jason-II’s hadn’t detected anything abnormal. But since you’re here, we should probably take one out for a spin. Let me get Barry Morris, he’s my best Benthic Ranger pilot,”
O’Shannon picked up the black intercom handset. “Can you get Chief Morris?”
“Aye, sir,” said the young engineer’s mate. “Chief, the boss wants to talk to you.”
“Aye, sir,” said Chief Warrant Officer Barry Morris.
“Barry? Can you hand over the engineering room? Admiral McHugh and I would like to tour the site in Benthic Ranger One.”
“Aye, sir.”
O’Shannon switched off the intercom. “Admiral, Chief Morris asked that we meet him in the submersible module.”
“Good morning, Admiral,” said Morris, a large, heavy-set man in his late forties. Morris had a reputation as one of the best engineering officers in CSAC. He was one of the first recruits to the CSAC contingent and had worked on the construction of Watch Station One. He had spent his entire Navy career serving on Watch Stations.
“Good morning, Barry. How’s Jane and the boys?” said McHugh. McHugh had a particular fondness for the CSAC staff that had joined in the beginning and drew strength from knowing them on a personal basis.
“They’re great, Admiral. Barry, Jr., is serving on a tin can in the Seventh Fleet and Johnny just graduated from Annapolis, wants to join the nuclear Navy,” he said, beaming. “Jane is just finishing her Master’s degree in social psychology at Rutgers University. I hope to be topside for her graduation in August. You ready for a ride?”
McHugh climbed up the ladder into the rather comfortable cabin of Benthic Ranger One. Unlike the older utilitarian Squid, the interior of the Benthic Ranger was outfitted with six individual captain’s chairs, three against each side of the vessel. The front window was rectangular, a triumph of modern engineering. There was a large porthole at each seat. The Benthic Ranger was roughly rectangular in cross-section, with a hydrodynamically shaped nose and tail.
Propelled by thrusters and outfitted with lights and television cameras, Benthic Ranger One literally flew over the ocean bottom at relatively high speeds. Except for trim and adjustment for ocean density, the Benthic Ranger did not depend on ballast or blow tanks for buoyancy. The Benthic Ranger was a shaped hydrodynamic body that depended on the adjustment of vanes and thrusters to gain or lose altitude. In an emer
gency, the pilot of the Benthic Ranger could make an emergency dump of its permanent ballast and pop to the surface.
The two Benthic Rangers were also equipped with four wire-directed Mark 48 torpedoes which were externally mounted and fired without propulsion tubes. McHugh hoped that the Benthic Rangers would never have to defend the Watch Stations. However, with the events of the last few days, McHugh was glad that Mike and the late Tom Sevson, the genius marine engineer who worked on the discovery of the objects in the seventies and developed many of the systems now in use, had talked him into adding this armament.
McHugh took the starboard seat immediately behind the co-pilot’s seat. O’Shannon sat in the co-pilot’s seat and Morris climbed into the pilot’s seat after sealing both the transfer sphere and the Benthic Ranger’s airlock. The whooshing sound, indicating that the hatchway between the Watch Station and the Benthic Ranger was being flooded, could be heard by everyone on the Benthic Ranger. With a soft metallic clang, the latches of the Benthic Ranger released their grip on the flange of the airlock and retracted into the body of the vessel.
The green heads-up display on the windshield of the Benthic Ranger gave all the vital information necessary for its operation. Morris turned on the forward halogen head lamps. The bottom was essentially lifeless with the occasional skeletal remains of some sea creature lying on the sea floor and the tangle of cables splaying out from the Watch Station to various instruments and cameras. He also turned on the forward scanning sonar in order to see more clearly in order to steer.
Aboard the Watch Station, John Lawrence carefully shuttered the portholes of the Main Control Module before Benthic Ranger One began its journey. This was done to preserve his night vision for the tasks at hand. After the whirring sounds of the Benthic Ranger’s thrusters faded into the distance, Lawrence unshuttered the portholes.
Elsewhere on the Watch Station, both crews were crowded around the small portholes watching the departure of Benthic Ranger One. In the sterile, dead world of the ocean bottom at 18,000 feet, even the comings and goings of submersibles were major events.
Barry Morris flew the Benthic Ranger like it was an airplane. Unlike the earlier versions of Squid, the Benthic Ranger did not crawl over the bottom like a snail. The thrusters on the Benthic Ranger were the latest technology. New lightweight nickel metal-hydride batteries supplied enough power for the Benthic Ranger’s fairly sizable engines.
“Barry, how fast can this go?” said McHugh.
“Admiral, I’ve gotten it as fast as 20 knots,” said Morris.
In a matter of minutes, the Benthic Ranger had completed the circuit around the object. O’Shannon wanted McHugh to see one more thing.
“Barry, let’s take the Admiral over to the carbon dating site.”
“Aye, sir,” said Morris as he put the Benthic Ranger into a sharp right bank. The sensation was just like taking a turn in a light plane. In a few minutes, the Benthic Ranger was over the core drilling site. Here, robot roughnecks were employed to drill and sample the benthic sediment for more clues on the origin of the objects.
“I read about this project,” said McHugh to O’Shannon. “Do we have much data so far?”
“So far, Admiral, we’ve been able to calculate the age of the sediment in this area. As a benchmark we used sediment cores taken near the object and correlated the data to this site. The top layers of sediment seem to have been deposited after the darker material found more adjacent to the object. If this data is right, the Sentinel has been here over ten thousand years.”
“That’s very interesting.”
1993: Defection
0930 Hours: Wednesday, June 16, 1993: Tenth Precinct House, Minneapolis, Minnesota
Bill Sorenson had not been able to sleep for several nights. Every moment had been spent running over and over the gruesome scene he had witnessed in that old farmhouse south of Mankato. During those brief moments when fatigue overcame his despair, the slow motion horror of Richard Winslow’s exploding head played over and over again, like a poor quality film loop in a pornographic peep shop. When those nightmares came, Sorenson would bolt up in bed, screaming, and holding his temples as if the squeezing could drive out the final death scream once and for all.
Sorenson had taken to wandering around Lake of the Isles, thinking, wondering, hoping, pleading that someone could take him out of his nightmare. He had not bathed in several days as well. His hair was matted and dirty. His wife, LuEllen, noticing the terrible change in his sleep habits and his behavior, had expressed concern, but she could get nothing from Sorenson. Over the course of several days, her concerns had changed to an uneasy wariness.
On this morning, Sorenson found himself walking aimlessly down Hennepin Avenue toward Lake Street. His thoughts remained jumbled. What could he do? As he approached Lake Street, he saw two blue globes out of the corner of his eye, a police station.
Yes, thought Sorenson, I can turn myself in. That will solve my problem.
“Can I help you?” The voice of the police sergeant came from behind the high golden oak counter. Before the police sergeant stood a dazed man with dirty, matted hair, whose clothes were unkempt and who weaved as he stood.
“Yes,” he stuttered. “I’d like to speak to someone about something.”
“That’s not enough,” said the police sergeant. “You’ll have to tell me more.”
“I’m a secret agent, I need help.”
God, thought the police sergeant. Why do I get them all?
“Just sit on the bench there for a moment. I’ll get someone to help you.”
As Sorenson moved away from the counter, the unmistakable scent of someone who hadn’t bathed in many days wafted over the counter. The police sergeant picked up the telephone and dialed the detective squad room.
“Pete, I’ve got a live one for you. He claims he’s a secret agent. Do you want to see him or should I just get rid of him?” whispered the police sergeant into the telephone.
“Secret agent, huh? Well, it’s a slow morning. Why don’t you send him back,” said Detective Sergeant Peter Wilkinson.
A moment later, Sorenson knocked on the door to the detective squad room.
“Come in. Take a seat,” said Wilkinson, as he put a blank interview form into his typewriter. “Now what can I do for you?”
“My name is William Sorenson. My real name is Nikolai Sakurov. I was sent to the United States to infiltrate your country and to spy.”
“By whom?”
“Russia.”
“How long ago?”
“Ten years.”
“Where do you live?”
“In the James Arms Apartments at 36th and South James Avenue, Apartment 28A.”
“What is your telephone number?”
“436-4009.”
“What do you do?”
“I operate the Lake of the Isles Bicycle Repair Shop in Lowry Hill.”
“How is the security of the United States going to be hurt by a bicycle repairman?”
“You don’t understand, I was sent here in deep cover.”
“What?”
“I said deep cover.”
“Can you explain that to me.”
“My masters have been infiltrating the United States for years, particularly across the Canadian border.”
“Who are your masters?”
“The Soviet military. They have a program of training spies who can infiltrate a country like the United States. The committee called this project ‘Cicada’, after the insect by that name.”
“What’s a cicada?” said Wilkinson.
“You know, the insect that hibernates for years,” said Sorenson. “We’re told to go underground for long periods of time. We’ve been penetrating the shores of the United States for over thirty years. We’re trained from youth in special camps in the Urals until we’re indistinguishable from Americans. We enter the country using either false visas from western European countries or travel through Canada and slip into the United States i
n such places as International Falls, Minnesota, Vancouver, or Detroit.
“The crossing guards at these stations on the Canadian border do little more than say hello to the occupants of cars. And when we answer back in a mid-American accent, the guards assume that we’re United States citizens. Once in the country, we’re instructed to live a modest life, drawing no attention to ourselves. Often we don’t hear from our controllers for years or even decades.”
“That’s a very interesting story, Mr. Sorenson. What do you want me to do?”
Sorenson bolted out of his chair. “You’re the policeman, not me.”
“Now calm down, Mr. Sorenson,” said Wilkinson. “Please take your seat.”
“What I’ve been trying to tell you is that the KGB has infiltrated this country, your country. Not in small groups, but in hundreds.”
“But why are you telling me all this stuff?”
“I think my controller has gone crazy. He shot this guy last week because he thought he was a CSAC agent. I didn’t think being a cicada meant we had to kill. I just thought it would be a game.”
“Who was this guy you say was shot?”
“A CSAC agent named Richard Winslow.”
“What is Seasack?”
“CSAC. C-S-A-C.”
“What is C-S-A-C?”
“I don’t know.”
“What? Who is your controller?”
“I only know his first name, it’s Tim. His real name is Dimitri.”
“Where was this Winslow shot?”
“Near Mankato.”
Sensing he was getting nowhere with this person, Wilkinson looked at his watch.
“Mr. Sorenson, I can’t continue this discussion now because I have to be across town in ten minutes. Can I call you tomorrow?”
“No, Dimitri might find out. I’ll call you.”