The Gamma Option

by Jon Land

  The Gamma Option

  Jon Land

  Dedication

  For my parents again,

  Because once was not enough

  Contents

  Prologue

  Part One: Ghosts

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Part Two: Critical Mass

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Part Three: The Indianapolis

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Part Four: The O.K. Corral

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Part Five: Independence Day

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  A Biography of Jon Land

  Acknowledgments

  A Sneak Peek at Strong at the Break

  Prologue

  July 29, 1945: The Pacific Ocean

  THE U.S.S. INDIANAPOLIS was sailing to her death. Captain Charles Butler McVay III entered the cramped communications room and spoke to the ship’s chief radioman only after making sure the door was sealed behind him.

  “Anything, mister?”

  “Negative, sir. No contact.”

  “Damn,” McVay muttered, certain this time the ensign had caught the edge in his voice.

  He had come down personally once more in the hope some word had come in—something, anything, pertaining to the status of what still remained in the Indy’s number three cargo hold. Three days before she had dropped the contents of cargo holds one and two on the island of Tinian. Ten days from San Francisco at top speed had got her there right on schedule, in spite of a stop at Pearl Harbor that had seen her take on numerous passengers with a keen interest in her journey.

  All of them knew that contained within the Indianapolis’s storage holds one and two were the unassembled parts for two atomic bombs. None of them knew about the contents of storage hold number three.

  But that was what we were supposed to drop at Tinian, McVay thought. He could accept the last minute switch from the primary plan to the backup formed by the atomic bombs. The rest he could not.

  From Tinian, the Indy had been ordered to Leyte by way of Guam, the first stop surely to relieve him of the remainder of his cargo. But the touch saw the ship simply take on more supplies and set on her way again. So the unloading would take place on Leyte then. He at least expected an escort ship to be assigned for the voyage, yet none was offered, and under the circumstances McVay wanted no record of having requested one.

  Doesn’t anyone know what we’re still carrying? he’d been tempted to ask at Guam.

  They almost certainly didn’t, though. And now, without an escort possessing sonar, the Indianapolis would have to depend on radar and visual contact to detect an enemy submarine.

  The first day out of Guam the weather had cooperated brilliantly, but today brought a storm in the afternoon that didn’t clear until nearly midnight. The storm left choppy seas and a clammy smell in the air that festered in the stifling humidity. With that in mind, the captain had allowed all ventilation ducts and most of the bulkheads to remain open throughout the ship. Otherwise the tropical climate would have made sleep impossible for his men.

  One thing for certain, ships of the heavy cruiser class like the Indianapolis hadn’t been built with comfort in mind. Commissioned in 1932, she was cumbersome to the eye but quick, with a top speed of thirty-two knots. The Indy had fought bravely as both sentinel and warrior, most recently as Admiral Spruance’s flagship for the Fifth Fleet. That tour had ended when a Japanese kamikaze struck her off Okinawa in late March, and this latest mission had come up too fast to allow for a shakedown period following her repairs. McVay had done his best to make up for this with plenty of training exercises during her high speed run to Tinian, but the overflow of passengers always seemed to be getting in the way.

  Damn them, the captain thought to himself with the sweat soaking through his uniform in the radio room, damn them all… .

  McVay returned to the bridge uneasy and tense. His routing orders at Guam had stated simply to proceed to Leyte for a two week training mission with nothing whatsoever mentioned about the contents of cargo hold number three. Did the bastards expect him to sail the rest of the war with it on board his ship?

  McVay chewed the thick air as he fought unsuccessfully to shove the question back in his mind. There was too much here that didn’t make sense.

  “Sir,” came a desperate call from the radar operator immediately before him on the bridge, “I have incoming torpedoes!”

  “Bearing!”

  “Trying for a fix now, sir… . God, north by northwest. Heading right for us! Range one mile. Speed fifty knots!”

  “Damn!” McVay barked. The low yield signature Kaiten subs the Japs were running called this area home. Why hadn’t they given him an escort? “Right full rudder!” he ordered. “Engine room, we have incomings. I need evasive action. Get us the hell out of here!”

  “Aye-aye, sir!” came the half-garbled reply.

  The Indianapolis’s engines tried valiantly to provide the additional thrust required for the maneuver. But the extra armor plating that made her an effective warship sacrificed quickness and agility. She managed to turn, gaining only slight ground in the process against the onrushing torpedoes angling toward her.

  “God help us,” McVay muttered, and imagined in that instant he could see the promised steel death rise out of the ocean night like a giant shark ready to pounce.

  Of the four torpedoes fired, only two hit the Indianapolis—both on her starboard side forward. A pair of violent explosions followed, and the cruiser’s bottom and topsides vanished in a flash of brilliant orange that quickly gave way to black smoke. But the engines clung stubbornly to life, pushing the Indianapolis forward at top speed for an additional minute, in which she took on countless tons of water through the gaping holes in her hull.

  Captain McVay’s first thought was that they might be able to ride the damage out and stay afloat. But it was rapidly apparent from the ferocity of the flames and belching black smoke that he was wrong. He knew his ship was doomed, knew it with a steel heaviness that settled in his gut and climbed for his throat. McVay shouted the order to abandon ship through the clog, clinging desperately for balance against the ship’s severe list to starboard. His last order was for the radioman to send the appropriate distress signal.

  Of the twelve hundred men on board, the initial blasts and fires had claimed one-third. The remaining eight hundred made it over the side in time to see the Indianapolis roll onto her side, and begin to drop bow first into the black depths below.

  Captain McVay coughed the water from his lungs, held over the surface only by the life jacket he had pulled on at the last instant. He had struck his head during the plunge downward, and now a blurred darkness had become his world. The scent of loosed diesel fuel filled his nostrils, and somewhere burned the sight of the last of his ship’s flaming carcass disappearing beneath the sea.

  Dazedly he felt himself being dragged toward a waiting circle of entwined crewmen. With no time to launch the life rafts, such a tactic formed their only hope of survival until a rescue team arrived. McVay was conscious of his arms being
raised to the shoulders of others and his being supported in turn. Seawater flooded his mouth, and he coughed fitfully again. His eyes teared as he fought for breath, for life, against the raging waters heavy with the smell of fear and death and—

  McVay’s eyes bulged at a dim sight revealed by the half moon being abandoned by its covering clouds. An apparition at first, but then a shape, slithered like a huge snake through the water.

  This can’t be! … It can’t be!

  In that instant everything was clear to the captain. A new coldness flooded him deeper than the sea’s.

  There! he thought to scream to the men around him. Look over there!

  But fresh floods of water flushed his nostrils and stung his eyes anew. The clouds covered the sky once more in a dark blanket that draped down to the water, the impossible shape lost as the sea raged against him and Captain Charles Butler McVay surrendered to oblivion.

  Part One

  Ghosts

  Maine: Monday, May 1; two A.M.

  Chapter 1

  THE FIGURE SLID through the night, the low-lying sea mist making him seem more phantom than man as he approached the isolated townhouse. He had stolen a skiff and ridden it across the bay from the mainland. In order to avoid detection by possible security personnel, he had cut the engine and paddled the last stretch to McKinley Estates’ private dock on Great Diamond Island.

  It was not a place where he would have expected to find Blaine McCracken, but then it was difficult to tell what to expect from McCracken if truth was to be gained from experience. That McCracken was on the island was not in doubt; the problem was getting to him without being noticed. The townhouse was off by itself, in a grove at the head of a bank that looked out over the water. A single outside light shone down from the porch illuminating the front walk. The figure elected to make his approach from this point, using the light instead of tempting the darkness at the back of the townhouse.

  Security systems became the problem now. McCracken would have several of them set to alert him to unwarranted approach. The figure eased forward, cloaked in the rolling mist. A waist-high brick wall surrounded the townhouse; an opening gave access to the front walk. The electric eyes built into the wall on either side of the walk appeared to be mere imperfections in the brick, one high and one low to prevent leaping over or ducking under to bypass the system.

  Of course the walk itself might be wired, sensitive to weight which would trigger an alarm. The freshly sodded grass inside the wall would be watched over as well, probably by ultrasonic waves. The figure understood the limits and constraints of such systems. He knew there would be a single weakness to exploit, a foot-wide strip on either side of the walk that acted as a buffer between the two systems preventing overload and short-circuiting.

  The figure eased himself over the brick wall, and placed one foot gingerly behind the other with barely a row of single grass blades separating them from the walk. He proceeded to move forward tightrope style toward the front door. He kept his arms close to his sides, resisting the temptation to extend them for balance. At last the porch was within reach. The figure held his breath. He could tell by the way the boards were placed that the porch and steps leading to it were wired. The most difficult task of all thus lay before him: to get the door open and deactivate the final alarm system while balanced precariously on the threshold.

  The figure reached out and grasped the beam supporting the overhang of the porch. Wasting no time, he vaulted up and over the railing and projected himself forward through the air. He rotated his body so his feet would reach the threshold an instant before the rest of him hit the door. He managed to latch on to the brass doorknob just as his feet touched down. With that in his grasp to cushion him, the figure was able to absorb most of the impact as his upper body thumped weakly against the door.

  All the same he held his breath, half expecting an intrusion alarm. When there was none he set to work immediately on the locks, three of them, all strictly top of the line. But he had never known a lock that couldn’t be picked and had the knob ready to turn in barely a minute. Now came the toughest part of all. Still balanced precariously on the threshold, he had to crack the door and disable the entry alarm at the same time. The alarm activating plunger would be placed low on the hinge side of the door. Stretching to the maximum extent of his muscles, the figure could just reach it with his left hand while holding on to the doorknob with his right.

  First he removed a small square of putty from his pocket and reached down again with his left hand. The plunger would remain depressed until the door parted from it entirely. The figure started the door slowly inward, easing the putty into place a little at a time until it covered the whole of the plunger, holding it in its slot even without pressure from the door. Then the figure eased the door open the rest of way and slid inside with some of the sea mist trailing behind him.

  A key pad before him with bright red light warned of the final security system, which would include a motion detector. The figure had the tools to bypass it, but he reached out first and pressed a sequence of four numbers with his index finger. The red light flashed green, and the figure allowed himself a smile.

  Not like McCracken to be so foolish.

  The moonlight through drawn glass curtains over a bay window that overlooked the water provided what little light he needed now. The stairs rose just to his right. The matter was finished so far as the figure was concerned, the rest a mere formality. McCracken’s bedroom would face the ocean, and when he reached it all pretense of subtlety would be abandoned.

  The figure crept onward, almost to the head of the stairs now, careful with each step, silent as the night that had delivered him here. He had barely reached the top and started to turn when the slightest motion froze him; no, not a motion so much as a shifting in the air, a breeze passing through an open window. The figure had just begun to slide on again when something cold and hard touched the back of his neck. A distinctive click sounded as hammer met pin.

  “Bang,” said McCracken.

  “I’ve got to hand it to you, Henri,” Blaine said when they were back downstairs. “You haven’t lost a step in all these years.”

  Dejourner shrugged in the darkness. “Apparently, mon ami, I have lost something.”

  Blaine preceded him back down the stairs and hit a pair of switches which activated recessed and track lighting throughout the first floor.

  “Looks better with the lights on, old friend,” he said and led Dejourner past the galley kitchen into a living area furnished in rich dark leathers. Oriental rugs in many shades lay on the polished hardwood floors. What might have been the dining alcove was dominated by custom-built cherry bookshelves packed with leatherbound books.

  “I’ve taken to reading them,” Blaine said, following Henri’s gaping eyes.

  “I must say, Blaine, that when my sources placed you in Portland, Maine, I was surprised and worried, but this—”

  “Don’t sell the city short. Riverfront redevelopment is a way of life around here. Take a look.”

  Another flip of a switch illuminated a deck with a clear view to the sea.

  “Got a pair of bedrooms upstairs and a full gym in the basement. You know, I’ve got five apartments scattered around the country, but I seem to have settled here. Maybe it’s because the long winter gives me an excuse to be isolated. Might try Canada next, who knows?”

  “Then please excuse me for disturbing you.”

  “Solitude is fine, but the winter was long enough.”

  Blaine sat down in a leather chair that faced out to the deck. Henri Dejourner settled into the couch adjacent to him against the far wall. A brilliant landscape painting hung above it.

  “I gotta tell you, Henri, no man could have negotiated my security systems better. It was a real treat watching you work again. The only one I can’t figure is the alarm code. How’d you guess it?”

  “Simple, mon ami. I pressed 1-9-5-0, the year of your birth. Since it’s exactly twenty years after
my own, it’s easy to remember.”

  “Don’t remind me. Turning forty wasn’t exactly the happiest day of my life.”

  “And how do you think I felt turning sixty?”

  McCracken couldn’t say how Henri felt, but he looked marvelous. His still-full hair was the same shade of gray it had been when they had last met, and his frame, though small, remained lean and taut.

  “And in spite of everything,” the Frenchman said, “you were still lying in wait for me the whole time, laughing to yourself no doubt. You’re still a magician, mon ami.”

  “Johnny Wareagle’s the magician, Henri. I rely on more traditional aids. Like a harbormaster named Abner who saw you make off with the skiff. He gave me a call.”

  “Ah, knows what to look for, does he?”

  “He certainly does.” After both of them had shared a smile, Blaine added, “You enjoyed yourself tonight, didn’t you?”

  Dejourner smiled fondly. “I miss the old days. When was it we met, Vietnam in ’70 or ’71?”

  “ ’Seventy on the crisscross. I was on my way in and you were on your way out. And it wasn’t Nam, it was Cambodia.”

  “Forgive me.”

  “For that, of course. For tonight, I’m not so sure.”

  “Blaine?”

  “Who were you testing tonight, Henri, you or me?”

  “There would be no reason to test you, mon ami. I have kept tabs.”

  “Then you should have known that the last party that showed up on my doorstep unannounced went swimming.”

  “You gave him a life jacket, of course.”

  “Sure. I made sure his seatbelt was fastened before I made him drive his car into the bay. About a month ago I think it was. Figured he might be coming back for a second dunking. Abner keeps an eye out for me.”

  “You haven’t changed, mon ami. That’s good.”

  “The fact is I wouldn’t have needed Abner a few years ago or these damn security systems either. I’m slipping. My last few missions haven’t gone too well. I think I came here to hide out for the winter. Now I’ll probably go somewhere else.”