“Bill, we’re done talking about this. It’s time to act.” Hardy glanced over toward Joanna, recalling their discussion the night before. She’d been deferential and diplomatic, but she felt she had to voice her concerns about Hyland. Some of the points she’d made had just been painfully demonstrated. Hyland couldn’t handle dissention; he preferred to avoid conflict, and this had had a negative effect on the NSC staff.
Hyland opened his mouth to reply, then closed it quickly. Deflated, he simply answered, “Yes, Mr. President.” He silently sat down in his chair.
Hardy felt a little regret at having to run his NSA over, but he had a job to do and the younger man was getting in the way. The president turned to Richfield. “Hank, use whoever can get up there quickest and do a proper job of it. I’ll want to see the rough plan on my desk tomorrow morning. We don’t know what the Russians’ timetable is, so we’ll have to go flat out until we find out otherwise, or until it’s done.”
11
DEEP THOUGHT
“And they can’t put a cover over Shippingport,” RADM Sanders confirmed, hanging up the phone. “Their best estimate was a week to make the modifications — once they figured out how.”
Chatham shrugged as he typed. “We had to ask, sir.” He reviewed his work, then hit the print button. “Here you go, Admiral, the draft press release for your review.” He offered the hard copy to his boss. “I put this together in a hurry, and that’s when people make mistakes.”
Sanders carefully read the hard copy statement.
PRESS RELEASE-THE U.S. NAVY ANNOUNCES A NEW CONTRACT WITH THE ELECTRIC BOAT CORPORATION FOR REPAIRS TO USS JIMMY CARTER’S PROPULSION SYSTEM. THIS CONTRACT DOES NOT INCLUDE WORK ON THE SUBMARINE’S NUCLEAR REACTOR OR ITS SUBSYSTEMS. THE CONTRACT IS OF UNSPECIFIED DURATION, WITH WORK TO START IMMEDIATELY. A NAVY SPOKESMAN SAID THAT THEY WOULD TAKE ADVANTAGE OF THE UNEXPECTED DRY DOCKING TO MAKE A NUMBER OF MINOR REPAIRS AND MODIFICATIONS.
The admiral handed it back. “That looks fine, Russ. Given that the earlier release put her in dry dock for ‘propulsion repairs,’ this one definitely says ‘there’s more wrong than we thought, and EB’s going to be working on her for a while.’”
“And one of EB’s graving docks can be covered,” Chatham remarked as he hit send. “Public Affairs will have this out shortly, but word’s already gone out to everyone from EB to the harbormaster. They’ve ordered the tugs to stand by to move Carter out of Shippingport as soon as the EB dock is ready.”
An aviator, Chatham had only a passing knowledge of things like dry docks. “How long will it take them to cover the dock, sir? It’s not routinely covered, is it?”
“No, but it’s pre-assembled arches. It takes about half a day to rig the frames and spread them over the entire length of the dock. They can put the frames up while they prep the keel blocks Carter will rest on. They’ll bring her in, pump the water out, and let everyone see her sitting there. Then they’ll spread the canvas over the riverside opening. To get her out, we wait for a window at night when there won’t be any satellites overhead. It takes two or three hours to flood the dock, and about another six to get her propulsion plant up and running. We get Carter headed down the Thames River, then de-ballast the dock and run the canvas out so it covers the end. Nobody will be inside, but the Russians won’t know that.”
The admiral smiled. “I’m going to see if we can get a few ‘yard workers’ spreading tales in Groton’s bars about how ‘totally messed up’ Carter’s propulsion system is. We’ll build a legend — figure out exactly what’s supposed to be wrong, maybe even put in urgent orders for parts…”
“But all this is actually costing the Navy real money, Admiral,” Chatham protested. “Electric Boat will charge us by the minute for using one of their graving docks…”
“It’s money well spent if we can convince the Rooskies they ‘know’ where Carter is, when she isn’t.”
It wasn’t the first time he’d gotten an evening phone call from the Pentagon. Daniel Cavanaugh was an explosives expert, a civilian working out of the U.S. Army Explosives Laboratory in Adelphi, Maryland. He was good enough at his job that the army let him pick his own research projects, and would lend him out when his skills were needed.
As per the phone call, the car picked him up at his home in the morning. It was early enough to be cooler, but it was high summer in the south and it was going to be hot and muggy again. He left a little earlier than he normally did for work, but it was worth it to get ahead of the Washington traffic. The driver had orders to drop him at the south entrance, where he would be met.
“Dr. Cavanaugh?” The young civilian who met him and ushered him through security never identified himself, but led him through the passageways and down to a gray metal door labeled “PLAN 1.” After buzzing the intercom and announcing their arrival, at 0800 hours sharp, he disappeared down the hall.
Probably not cleared into whatever was going on, Cavanaugh thought. This wasn’t his first visit to some high-security project. He was glad to be of use, and flattered to be in demand, but expected just another routine technical question-and-answer meeting.
He was wrong, of course.
A crew-cut officer whose name tag read “Forest” brought Cavanaugh inside, both literally and figuratively, getting the civilian’s signature on several security forms before letting him past the entryway. Inside, he found a suite of offices, complete with its own restrooms and small kitchenette. Forest, a lieutenant commander, introduced him to Commander Gabriel, the team leader, and Petty Officer Brady, their assistant and computer specialist. The two officers both wore gold dolphins, and Gabriel a command pin. Brady’s dolphins were silver.
“This is the entire team, Doctor,” Gabriel said, shaking Cavanaugh’s hand. It hurt, just a little. Although the two were about the same age, Gabriel had obviously worked at staying in shape. Cavanaugh’s exercise program consisted of twenty minutes on a treadmill, when he couldn’t think of an excuse.
“Please, just Dan is fine.”
“Fine, Dr. Dan. Everything you see and hear is Top Secret, including the existence of this planning cell,” Gabriel continued.
“Although that will probably change,” LCDR Forest added smugly.
Gabriel nodded and grinned. “It’s likely.” The pair led him to a small conference room. There were signs of long use, including plastic trays with the remains of breakfast. Papers lay in organized piles on one side of the table, while a detailed chart of the Arctic Ocean and the Kara Sea covered one wall.
A carefully drawn course line came up from the south toward an island on Russia’s northern coast. The neatly lettered annotations were too far away for Dan to read, but “Top Secret” had been written in large red marker on each corner.
Gabriel saw Cavanaugh studying the chart. “That’s our third draft of the voyage plan for USS Jimmy Carter. As soon as we can put a plan together, she will leave Groton.”
He walked over to the chart, and tracing the track with his finger, explained, “She will sail north, pass Iceland to the west, then make as straight a course as she can for here.” He tapped the island. “It’s called Bolshevik Island. They send people from there to Siberia to warm up. And that’s why we need you.”