A Triple Thriller Fest (90 page)

Both Mike and Twoomey jumped from the Sea Ranger and ran for the entrance way on the rooftop helipad at the National Security Agency headquarters in Laurel, Maryland.  As they left the helicopter, they were immediately surrounded by combat ready Marine guards carrying AR-15 assault rifles.  The group made the short distance to the entrance way in a few seconds.  Inside the entranceway, Master Chief Petty Officer Margaret Marston was waiting.  She was there to assure that proper security procedures would be adhered to, despite the excitement.

“Hello, Commander,” said Margaret.

“Hi, Margaret,” said Mike, grinning.  “We’ve got to stop meeting this way.”

With a thin smile, Margaret unlocked Mike’s handcuffs and took the briefcase from his wrist.  Mike rubbed the wrist to smooth the raw feeling of wearing the nickel-plated cuff for the last twelve hours.  Margaret and a troop of Marine guards disappeared into the bowels of NSA with the briefcase.

A Marine guard came forward.  “Commander, Admiral McHugh is downstairs and requests that you join him immediately.”

Mike and Twoomey followed the Marine down the stairs into the antiseptic world of NSA.  The atmosphere was one of bare, flat walls, bright fluorescent lighting, surveillance cameras constantly sweeping the office areas, and Marine guards at strategic points throughout the building.

The Admiral was in a conference room in the interior of the secured building.  The room was most unremarkable in its appearance, a typical blend of plastic chairs and Formica-topped tables.  In one corner stood a cornstalk plant.  McHugh was sitting with two men in their late fifties.  From the cut of their clothes and their demeanor, Mike decided they were probably career NSA operatives.

“Hi, Mike.  Come in,” said McHugh.  “Mike, this is Robert Telson and James Taylor of the National Security Agency’s Special Action Group.”

“James Taylor, huh?” noted Mike.

“Yeah, but I was James Taylor a long time before James Taylor was James Taylor,” said Taylor wearily.

“What’s up, Admiral?” said Mike.

“These fellows wanted to meet you and find out how you obtained the plate.  From your description of the metallic plate, I think we may be on to something.”

“Admiral, what level are these two?”

“They have the highest classification available and are specifically cleared for CSAC, Level One.  In addition, I’ve given them Socorro clearance.”

The code word stated, Mike understood that he could now talk about the fourth alien, a subject heretofore taboo to anyone except Robert McHugh.

“Okay.  What I surmise is that Johnny Thapaha was given the metallic plate by the alien he tried to nurse back to health.  Johnny Thapaha didn’t know the significance of the plate, but he knew that if the object were held up to the rays of light at sunrise, an image would rise from the surface of the plate.  This had mystical importance for the medicine man as the hologram showed the four points of the compass.  The number four carries religious significance in the Navajo community.  The hieroglyphics, of course, were indecipherable.  However, Johnny Thapaha was probably fascinated by the images the hologram formed as you adjust the way light plays on its surface.

“When I examined the plate after it was turned over to me, I was amazed to find that holding the plate at an angle where light can skip over the surface, five to ten degrees off of horizontal; the hieroglyphics interchange with Greek symbols.”

“Holy motherfuck,” said Taylor.  “The Rosetta Stone.”

“You got it.  I called Admiral McHugh immediately and told him in general terms what I had.  The Admiral arranged for a jet to bring me from Holloman field in New Mexico to NSA.  Here I am.”  He sat down.

“You must be pretty tired,” said McHugh.

“I could use some shuteye, Admiral.”

“Why don’t you find some place to grab some sleep?  We’ll talk more later.”

1993: War

1200 Hours: Monday, June 28, 1993: Watch Station Three, Near Santa Catalina Island, California

“Damage Control!” said Captain Carlton Messinger.  He had been caught by surprise.  The explosion that shook the Watch Station was unlike anything he had experienced before.

“Captain, we had an implosion in the stores module.  Automatic isolation procedure of the module took place and the rest of the station is okay for now.  We did, however, lose the ELF system, so we have no direct link with command headquarters,” said the engineering officer, Navy Lieutenant Ray Diaz.

“Any casualties?”

“The two crewmen manning the stores module, sir,” responded Diaz.

“Damn.”

Messinger, a career naval officer, was one of the select.  Being chosen to command a Watch Station as a brand new Captain made Messinger the youngest of all the Watch Station commanders in CSAC.  A Naval Academy graduate, he had a mercurial rise in the nuclear Navy and a resume that had caught the attention of the old man.  After the Academy, nuclear training, and a brief tour on a boomer, Messinger had gone to Stanford University in California, where he earned a doctorate in nuclear engineering in less than three years.

His initial work in the nuclear Navy had resulted in the development of a nuclear reactor that literally could fit into the trunk of a car, but which could supply enough energy to run that car continuously for twenty-five years at a constant 55 miles per hour speed, assuming of course that the mechanical structure of the car could stay intact that long.  Although limited in civilian applications for obvious reasons, including the shielding necessary for safe operation, the relatively lightweight reactor was an instant success for such applications as powering Benthic Rangers, the principal submersibles in the CSAC fleet.  The design of the Benthic Ranger could accommodate the weight of the shielding necessary for the small reactor.

The Mess-I reactor, as it was called, was installed in the new series of Benthic Rangers.  The first two were assigned to Watch Station Three as the main and auxiliary vehicles for the station.  The Benthic Ranger Model III-NR was the most exotic of all the Benthic Rangers.  For example, each of the two Benthic Rangers had been outfitted with the new blue-green laser cannon, capable of firing bursts of energy at enemy targets.  Though experimental, the blue-green laser had proven its capabilities in secret underwater tests.

“Any theories, Mr. Diaz?” said Messinger.

“The passive sonar went crazy a split second before the leak detector sounded.  The poor bastards in the stores module didn’t have a chance, everything happened so quickly.”

Normally, the alarm would sound and any personnel in the area could vacate before the automatic isolation mechanisms went into effect.

Messinger winced at the news.  “Sounds like an attack.”

“I agree.”

“Better sound battle stations, Mr. Diaz,” said Messinger.

“Battle stations, aye, aye, sir,” responded Diaz.

Diaz pushed the large red button on the instrument console.  Immediately, the distinctive alarms blasted throughout the Watch Station.

“Battle stations sounded, sir,” reported Diaz.

Crewmen on the Gold Team scrambled to their assigned stations, normal duties dropped in mid-task.  Interrupted from a deep sleep, the members of the Blue Team bolted out of their beds and hurriedly pulled on their blue coverall uniforms.  The crews of the Benthic Rangers raced to the transfer module and to the crew module and strapped themselves into the pilot and co-pilot seats and awaited orders.

“Mr. Diaz, deploy the transponder buoy,” said Messinger.

“Deploy transponder buoy, aye, aye, sir,” responded Diaz.

Diaz lifted the yellow and black striped metal cover and pressed the green button underneath.  Once the button was pushed, a cylindrical canister was ejected from the command module.  Upon leaving its storage tube, the end of the canister snapped open, releasing a rubberized balloon which immediately began expanding from nitrogen gas stored in the canister.  The balloon and canister began a rapid ascent to the surface of the ocean.

“Transponder buoy deployed, sir,” said Diaz.

Upon reaching the surface of the water, the canister began transmitting in code on a secret CSAC frequency.  This message was picked up by one of four CSAC satellites in geosynchronous Earth orbit over 22,000 miles in space.

The transmitted message was “Mayday, Mayday.  Station Three.  Mayday, Mayday.”

On
Benthic Ranger One
, Chief Warrant Officer Tommy Dirks rapidly went through the checklist with his co-pilot, Senior Chief Petty Officer James O’Shaunnessy.

“Reactor.”

“Critical.”

“Propulsion.”

“Activated, on standby.”

“Weapons Systems.”

“Energized, locked.”

Dirks reported to Messinger, “Captain,
Benthic Ranger One
activated and available.”

“Roger,
Benthic Ranger One
,” said Messinger.

Chief Warrant Officer James Takeshita also reported from
Benthic Ranger Two
.  “Captain,
Benthic Ranger Two
activated and available.”

“Roger,
Benthic Ranger Two
,” said Messinger.  “Mr. Diaz.  Any information on what hit us?”

“Sir, as far as I can tell we were hit with a sonic force of considerable energy,” reported Diaz.

“Seen anything like that before?”

“No, sir.”

“Where do you think it came from?”

“No idea, Captain.  We had no warning of an impending attack.  None of our sensors detected any intruders or activity on the Rock.”

The tension mounted on the faces of the crew members as they sat quietly.  The Gold and the Blue Teams now acted as one crew.  Lieutenant Jerry Wright, U.S.N., came into the command module.  Watch supervisor of the Blue Team, Wright was also the executive officer on board Watch Station Three.

“What’s the problem, Captain?” he said.

“We were hit by a sonic force of unknown origin and the stores module imploded.  I guess the bio-feedback earphones blocked out all the noise.”

The Blue Team had been asleep with the new bio-feedback tapes, designed to block out all noise.

“I didn’t hear anything until the alarm sounded.”

“What’s your recommendation?”  The three men sat silently for a moment contemplating what was happening.

“I think you should deploy
Benthic Ranger One
,” Wright finally commented.

“I concur,” said Diaz.

“So do I. 
Benthic Ranger One
?” said Messinger.

”
Benthic Ranger One
, Aye, Aye, sir,” said Dirks.

”
Benthic Ranger One
, we’re under attack by an unknown enemy.  I’d like you to investigate and destroy any attacker.  Commence launch sequence.  Red status.  Fire at will.”

“Roger,
Benthic Ranger One
,” Dirks initiated the lockout sequence.

Messinger, Diaz, and Wright heard the soft metallic clank as the pressure doors closed, the faint hiss as the air in the entryway was displaced by sea water, and sharper clanks as the latches fell away from the Benthic Ranger.  The whirring sound of the Benthic Ranger’s propellers was then heard as
Benthic Ranger One
lifted off the watch station.

“Captain, I suggest you inform the crew,” said Lieutenant Wright.

“Yes, I guess we’d better,” said Messinger as he reached for the intercom microphone.  “Attention, this is Captain Carlton Messinger.  As some of you may have guessed, Watch Station Three is under enemy attack.  This is not a drill. 
Benthic Ranger One
has been deployed to search and destroy any enemy vessels.  I’ll keep you advised.  God save us all.”

The crew of Watch Station Three waited.  With red status, any unnecessary movement or noise might give the unseen enemy an advantage, an advantage that could be deadly.  The silence included all equipment mechanical and electronic.  Except for the quiet discussion in the command module, every crewman remaining in the station sat quietly, each with his own private thoughts.

On
Benthic Ranger Two
, Takeshita sat in the left front seat of the six passenger vehicle.  At his right sat Chief Yeoman’s Mate Theodore Westerman, a fifteen-year veteran of CSAC.  Under red status, neither crewman could talk until the launch order was received from the Captain.  The checkout of the Benthic Ranger had been flawless.  Through the front window, they could see the lights of
Benthic Ranger One
making a sweep of the immediate compound area.  The depth of Watch Station Three was only 5000 feet and some scientists were predicting that man would soon be able to withstand that environment without the protective shell of a submersible sheltering him.

”
Benthic Ranger Two
?” said Messinger.

”
Benthic Ranger Two
,” said Takeshita.

“Do you see anything?”

“Captain, all we see so far is
Benthic Ranger One
conducting a — wait a minute.  Did you see that, Ted?”

“Shit, what was it?” said Westerman.

“What do you see,
Benthic Ranger Two
?”

“Captain, it was big and black, about twice the size of
Benthic Ranger One
.  It just shot past us.”

“What do you mean shot past you?”

“Captain, it was traveling at a rate of speed twice that of Benthic Rangers.  Permission to signal
Benthic Ranger One
.”

“Can you tell what or who it was?” said Messinger.

“No, sir.  It was big, black and carried no markings.  It traveled like a bat out of hell.  Repeat, Captain.  Permission to signal
Benthic Ranger One
.  It doesn’t know that this damn thing is out there.”

Despite the advances in underwater travel in recent years, no one has yet developed an effective means of transmitting messages between two vehicles in the water.  The highly touted extra long wavelength electromagnetic (ELF) communications network performed well for base-to-CSAC communications, but was not much use for base-to-vehicle or vehicle-to-vehicle transmissions.