by Gordon Ryan
“Do you think it was Russian?” said Messinger.
Diaz frowned. “I’ve heard that both DARPA and the Scientific and Technical Directorate, KGB’s counterpart, have been developing something called a focused sonic pulse gun. Do you think that was what took Benthic Ranger One out?”
“What’s a focused sonic pulse?” said Wright.
“Sound is transmitted by a rapidly dissipating compression wave rather than by energy on its own right,” said Diaz. “A focused sonic pulse is a grouped energy pulse, not unlike the trick with a pretzel can and rubber diaphragm with a hole in its center that physics professors like to use to demonstrate sonic cannons. Our attempts at narrow beam sonar imaging have been feeble attempts to harness the energy in sound waves.
“Even whales seem to be better than us. Some marine biologists say that whales can stun their prey with sound pulses. I’ve heard recording of these supposed sonic pulses from whales and they sound like gunshots.
As we know from basic research in the field, if sound energy could be focused, then a beam of the focused energy could be transmitted to any metallic or crystalline object at a harmonic frequency that would vibrate the object violently, with catastrophic results.”
“So what happens?” said Messinger.
“If the right frequency is transmitted, the object will literally explode. You probably remember the commercials that Ella Fitzgerald made for that audio tape company, where a recording of her reaching a high note shattered a crystal goblet.”
“Wow.” Wright sank into one of the chairs in the command module.
“Why is it attacking us?” said Messinger.
“If it’s Russian, they may be trying to destroy the station. For what purpose, who knows? When I was in the nuclear Navy, we would play cat and mouse games. Sometimes we would even bump, but nothing like an overt attack. This is weird, especially given the changes in the Soviet Union, or should I say the Newly Independent States. It could also be from some other country, I suppose.”
“Maybe they were attempting to infiltrate American waters and came upon this installation and decided that we had to be eliminated,” said Wright.
“This is a big ocean,” said Messinger. “We would have never noticed them if they hadn’t attacked the Watch Station.”
“What if it isn’t Russian or some other nation?” said Wright.
“What do you mean, Jerry?” said Messinger.
“What if it’s from the Rock?” Wright said with a worried look on his face. He used the unofficial tag that all young CSAC personnel used to describe the Sentinels. A term that more senior officers frowned upon.
“That, Mr. Wright, is very scary,” said Messinger. “What do you think our course of action should be, gentlemen?”
“Our primary mission in a case like this is to defend the Watch Station against any attack,” said Diaz. “However, as we have seen, we may not have the firepower to accomplish that mission.”
“Let’s get an update from Takeshita,” said Messinger as he picked the intercom microphone. “Command to Benthic Ranger Two. What is the present status?”
Over the loudspeaker in the command module, the three officers could hear Takeshita’s report.
“Captain, she’s just sitting there like some cat watching a mouse. As far as I can tell, the vehicle has not been damaged by a direct hit with a uranium torpedo or a blast from the laser cannon. It’s just sitting there.”
“Can you tell anything more about this thing?”
“Sir, it appears to be about twice the size of a Benthic Ranger. I can’t tell if it has any windows or ports, it’s a little too far off for me to tell. I can’t tell if it has any external propulsion.”
“Jamie, keep a watch on that thing. If it makes a move, holler.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“We could wait this out, Captain,” said Diaz.
“Wait a minute, this thing — whatever it is — has already killed four of our crew. What’s to prevent it from taking the rest of us out?” said Wright.
“For one thing, the attack on Benthic Ranger One could have been a defensive action,” said Diaz. “After all, Benthic Ranger One did fire a torpedo at the thing and blast it with the laser cannon. We’ve already sent the S.O.S. buoy off. Help should be coming any time.”
“That doesn’t explain the unprovoked attack on the Watch Station,” said Messinger. “However, I agree with Mr. Diaz. As long as the thing is standing off and not making any overt moves, we should sit tight.”
The wait was excruciating. Under normal conditions, life on board Watch Stations was not a holiday. Under unexpected wartime conditions, the stress easily became unbearable. The remaining crew sat silently. There was nothing to do but wait.
“Men, this is Captain Messinger. We’ve decided to wait this one out for the time being. As I’m sure you may have guessed, whatever is out there has destroyed Benthic Ranger One. Benthic Ranger Two is still on the docking pad. Jack Christensen, could you come forward to the command module? All others assemble in the transfer module. Be prepared for immediate evacuation.”
Jack Christensen, sonar mate, first class, was Watch Station Three’s top instrumentation and computer technician.
“Yes, Captain,” said the young black seaman as he reported to the command module.
“Jack, we have to be prepared to abandon the Watch Station at any time. I want all data copied to floppies in case we have to leave in a hurry. Also, I want the destruct sequence for all our instrumentation and computer memory initiated, but with a pause command.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” said Christensen, as he snapped off a salute.
“Gentlemen, now we wait,” said Messinger to Diaz and Wright.
1600 Hours: Monday, June 28, 1993: CSAC Headquarters, Newport News, Virginia
“Admiral, you’d better come downstairs immediately, sir. We have an emergency.”
“Be right there,” said McHugh.
McHugh hurried to the stainless steel elevator that would drop him into the subterranean world of CSAC Operations. Marine guards snapped to attention as he hurried down the narrow corridors toward the elevator.
At the elevator, McHugh gave his identification card to one of the Special Operations Group airmen, who ran it through the reader on the door. The stainless steel doors of the elevator slid open silently and McHugh stepped in. As the doors of the elevator opened into the heart of CSAC, McHugh hurried to the Situation Room. As he approached the Situation Room, he noted an unusual flurry of activity, given the normal low key manner of operations at CSAC.
The stainless steel doors of the access way to the Situation Room slid open and McHugh entered. Because of the emergency, McHugh was admitted to the Situation Room immediately, not stopping to adjust to the red light environment. McHugh hurried into the room, noticing that the wall monitor displayed an enlarged map of the location of Watch Station Three.
“Joe, what’s going on?” said McHugh.
“We’ve received an S.O.S. from Watch Station Three,” said Captain Joseph Mannington, McHugh’s deputy chief of operations for CSAC. “The Watch Station released the transponder buoy at approximately 1530 hours. The transmission was picked up by one of the CSAC communications satellites in geosynchronous orbit. The message was delivered about 10 minutes ago.”
“Have we tried to raise them on ELF?”
“Yes, sir. No response,” said Mannington. “When we ran an analog check on the system, we discovered that the communications link had been rendered inoperative.”
“How soon can we be on station?”
“The support ship, the U.S.S. Thomas Morrow, could be on station by late tomorrow morning. It is presently at Port Hueneme, taking on stores for the Watch Station.”
“Forget the stores; get that ship on its way as soon as possible. Get the nearest Coast Guard Station to send some Sea Stallions on site to search for survivors and get a Coast Guard cruiser on its way as well. Get me the Commandant of the Coast Guard.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” said Mannington. “Yeoman, get the Commandant, U.S. Coast Guard, immediately.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” said the yeoman’s mate, who immediately dialed the number of the commandant’s office on the classified scrambler telephone.
“Admiral McHugh for Admiral Ryan.”
“One moment, please.”
“Bob, what’s up?” came the soft Virginian drawl of Richard Ryan, Admiral, U.S.C.G. ”How’s that daughter of mine doing?”
“Rick, Corrine’s doing fine. She and Mike had a chance meeting.”
“Oh?” responded Corrine’s father.
“Rick, a very grave matter has developed. I need some Coast Guard assistance.”
“Ask it, you got it.”
“One of my underwater installations has radioed an emergency. I can’t get my vessel on site until tomorrow at best. I need some air sea rescue units on site immediately. This is the highest national priority. The President has put my agency on Priority One, Red; war status. Our installation may be under attack, for all I know.”
“Where is the emergency?”
“About 100 miles southwest of Santa Catalina Island.”
“Isn’t that the highly restricted zone?”
“Yes. Are you secure?” said McHugh.
“Wait a minute, Bob,” said Rick Ryan as he punched an alphanumeric into the keypad on his special phone.
The special code punched in by Admiral Ryan shifted the telephone line from the normal scrambling mode to a special encrypting mode which was based on a randomly selected cipher that was set by the parties to the call. To any potential eavesdropper, the normal scrambling device sounded like garbled gobbledygook.
With the encrypting device, the line seemed to go dead and was replaced by a caterwauling not unlike the noise one gets on a modem. Messages were digitized and transmitted as series of computerized messages. The receiving telephone, when encoded with the appropriate code, which was not the same as the transmitting code, decoded the transmitted messages. Finally, a voice synthesizer completed the digital to analog emulation.
Although the system was considered the state of the art for very sensitive messages, the barely perceptible delay was annoying and, as a result, the system was only used for the most sensitive communications.
“Rick, we think that Watch Station Three may be in trouble. Our satellites received the special S.O.S. that the watch commanders would only send if the Watch Station were in danger.”
“What about ELF communications, Bob?”
“We can’t raise them on the ELF system, either.”
“Sea search and rescue will be initiated immediately. Who’s your liaison? I’ll put Captain Paul Jensen, one of my best search and rescue men in charge. He’s port master on Santa Catalina Island.”
“My DCO, Joseph Mannington, will direct the operations. He’s on his way to the West Coast as soon as this call is over. I’m going to assign Mike Liu to assist Joe in this investigation.”
“How is Mike?”
“He’s O.K., just a little shot up from some attacks on my agents, but he’ll survive.”
“Good. Let’s get moving.”
McHugh put the handset down on its cradle. “Joe, get out to Watch Station Three as fast as you can. Where’s Liu?”
“I think he’s still at NSA,” said Ellen Jones, who had just joined the group in the situation room.
“Get him here.”
In a few seconds, Ellen had located Mike at the National Security Agency. “Mike, the Admiral wants to speak to you.”
The Admiral? thought Mike. Ellen always called McHugh the old man. Something must be up.
“Mike?” said McHugh, into the secure scrambler phone. “Joe Mannington is headed to Port Hueneme, California. I want you to drop everything and join him as soon as possible. I’ll arrange for an F-15 to get you there.”
“What’s up, Admiral?”
“Mannington will brief you. It’s important.” The line went dead.
Something must have happened at Watch Station Three, thought Mike.
0800 Hours: Tuesday, June 29, 1993: Port Hueneme, California
“Glad you could make it, Mike,” said Mannington.
“When do we go?” said Mike.
“They’re loading the new Benthic Ranger with the Mess-I reactor on the U.S.S. Thomas Morrow,” said Mannington. “We’ve also outfitted it with a Jason robot. As soon as it’s aboard, we’ll set sail. We should be on site by mid-morning.”
The Morrow, classified a supply ship but outfitted with an internal launching bay for Benthic Rangers and supply robots, was named after Navy Commander Thomas Morrow, a Navy hero who lost his life over the Cambodian border in the early seventies. The ship was affectionately called “Buck” by all CSAC members after the antic-loving pilot whose daring piloting of the old Lockheed Orion led to the discovery of the mysterious objects.
The Jason III robot submersible was the latest model of the highly successful Jason units that facilitated such discoveries as the Titanic and others.
Mike and Mannington walked over to the loading area of the Morrow and were welcomed aboard by the officer of the day. Returning the salute, Mannington said, “Where is Captain Vander?”
“Vander?” said Mike.
“Yes, do you know George Vander?” said Mannington.
“It can’t be. The George Vander I know was sixty years old twenty-three years ago. He was the commander of the USS Marysville, the oceanographic vessel from which we discovered the first Sentinel. Crusty old guy, but he could position the Marysville like no one’s business. He was a master in his job.”
At this point, Mike and Mannington were joined by an attractive redhead with flashing blue eyes in the summer tan uniform of the United States Navy. On the collars of her tan uniform blouse were the gold oak leaves of a Lieutenant Commander of the United States Navy. The slim commanding officer of the Morrow wore uniform trousers as a concession to having to climb up and down the ship.
“Captain Mannington, welcome aboard,” said Lieutenant Commander Georgette Vander, saluting Mannington.
“Thank you, Captain Vander,” said Mannington. “May I introduce you to Mike Liu? He thinks he’s a civilian.”
Mike, who was still dressed in civilian clothes, reached to shake Georgette Vander’s outstretched hand.
“Hello, I knew your dad from many years ago. How is he?”
“Dad passed away about ten years ago. After he retired from the Navy, there really wasn’t anything else left with Mother having passed on when I was a child.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. He was one hell of a sailor.”
“Every chief petty officer I’ve ever met has told me that. Makes one heck of a pair of shoes for me to fit into.” She smiled. “Welcome aboard, Mr. Liu.”
After the Benthic Ranger and its armaments had been stowed aboard, the Morrow made its way out of the harbor.
Captain Vander had invited Mike and Mannington to stay on the bridge during the trip to the site of Watch Station Three. It felt good to be back at sea, even under the horrible circumstances that occasioned this trip. The sea looked so calm on this June morning. How could anything as catastrophic as what the emergency signal from the Watch Station suggested happen on such a peaceful, calm day. It was a gentle voyage with only gentle swells and no chop.
Captain Vander stood on the bridge, a cup of hot steaming black coffee in her left hand. Mike remembered that her father always had a steaming cup of black coffee in one hand and a coffin nail in the other. The scene evoked memories of those halcyon days on board the Marysville. The only thing missing was Captain George Vander’s ever present cigarette. Georgette Vander did not smoke.
1100 Hours: Tuesday, June 29, 1993: On Site Over Watch Station Three
The Morrow arrived on site at about 1100 hours, joining the Coast Guard cutter already on scene. Over head circled the white and orange colored rescue helicopters of the United States Coast Guard. Captain Vander brought the Mor
row to within one hundred yards of the cutter and had her crew lower a launch over the side. Mike and Mannington scrambled down the narrow ladder to reach the launch, which was rolling with the waves. Once aboard, the two were transported to the Coast Guard vessel.
Climbing on to the cutter, Mike and Mannington were greeted by the Captain of the cutter. “Welcome aboard, gentlemen. Heard you were on your way.”
“What have you found so far?” said Mike.
“So far the only debris has been six yellow life preservers, no markings except for military specification numbers, and the emergency transponder buoy,” said the cutter’s Captain. “We’re continuing our search. How long do you think it will take to launch the Benthic Ranger?”
“It’s going through final checkout right now,” Mannington replied. “We expect to be able to launch in about one hour. Have you found the transponder locating the site of the Watch Station?”
“Yes, you’re standing over it.”
After examining the life preservers and confirming for themselves that the debris was CSAC issued material, Mike and Mannington launched back to the Morrow.
“Captain Mannington,” said Chief Warrant Officer Jeffrey Graham, the pilot of the Benthic Ranger. “We should be ready to go in about fifteen minutes. Could you and Commander Liu be in the launch bay in Benthic Ranger uniforms in that time?”
“We’ll be there, Mr. Graham.”
Aboard the Benthic Ranger for this dive would be the pilot, Graham, his co-pilot, Senior Chief Petty Officer John Bell, a dive physician, Dr. Ruth Fleming, a Jason pilot, Seaman First Class Alex C. Broward, Mike and Mannington. Because of the operational module for the Jason, the cabin of the Benthic Ranger was crowded.
Graham and Bell were making the final inspection and had just completed the checklist when Mike and Mannington walked on to the dry deck of the launch bay, a platform elevator set in the bowels of the Morrow, a bit of camouflage to deter prying eyes from learning the true purpose of the Morrow.