“Like I said, nerves. My apologies. Honest, I’ll try not to ping on you again, XO.”
“Never say that, Captain. Not at a time like this. Just one time one of us overlooks something that’s chewing on us, that might be the fatal mistake.” Simonds noticed Moroney, the sonar chief, eavesdropping, and waved an index finger at him in the dark, blue-lighted room. “How many stories can the greatest sonarman in the world tell us about that one little mistake someone made that told you they were out there?”
“These ears have heard more than you’d ever care to know, Mr, Simonds. The hiss of a beer can at a hundred yards.…”
“Don’t remind me, Chief. You’re bringing tears to my eyes.” He nodded toward Steel. “The chief’s got a good point there, Captain. Manmade sound. That’s the only thing I can’t guarantee. If we’re going to give ourselves away, it has to be something like that. We’re as tight as a tick otherwise.”
“Okay, We’ll take that opportunity away from the bad guys. Why don’t you secure the galley for now, except for sandwiches, of course? Have the cooks get everything they need out of the reefer now. Then they haven’t anything to play with but a few knives, that sort of thing. Pass the word through each compartment that regular meals have been secured, and keep the sandwiches rolling for anyone to grab when they’re hungry. No maintenance — so no tools adrift. If anyone has a problem that needs fixing, they ask your permission first. We’ll continue the current watches until sonar picks up something solid.” Steel wrinkled his forehead and rubbed tired eyes as he settled the headphones back over his ears. “Maybe some of the crew’ll catch up on their sleep.”
The process of finding out how much the Americans already knew about the fate of their boomers was indeed complex, much more complex than the KGB director could explain to the General Secretary.
Assuming the three Washington admirals would eventually end up in Hawaii at SUBPAC headquarters, operatives in Honolulu were ordered to undertake a painstaking search. Eventually, once it was agreed that the Americans had thrown them off the trail by avoiding easily traceable military transportation, it was a process of elimination among civilian passenger agents. They learned that the Chief of Naval Operations had arrived from Seattle. The Director of Naval Nuclear Propulsion had been on a flight from San Francisco. The Assistant CNO for Undersea Warfare had come from Washington. He’d also rented a car. All traveled in civilian clothes, using the names of enlisted men who had arranged reservations for them. The trail ended at the gate to the sub base. But it was enough to substantiate their assumption that the elimination of U.S. ballistic-missile submarines was indeed a probability. So many senior admirals on the hoof in the same place was a rarity, indicating an emergency of some kind.
Analysis of the message traffic concerning the SSBN’s once again was based on assumption. Considering the sheer volume of military communications over any twenty-four hour period, it was akin to untying a Gordian knot — and there was no opportunity to slash away at it with a great sword. There is a statistical possibility of breaking any code, though the probability lessens proportionately to security requirements, it was known that one-time codes, which were in the possession of only the people utilizing them, were being employed. In essence, that meant that the actual use of the code for breaking a message also resulted in that code’s destruction. Luck would have a great deal to do with finding even a single word in such a message.
The most talented individuals in the Soviet Union dropped whatever they were doing to take part in the process. Mathematicians, engineers, computer scientists, linguists, and those few mavericks who possessed a natural bent toward code breaking were called upon to prove what the Kremlin power structure wanted to confirm — that their orders had actually been carried through and that in all probability they had been successful.
Four admirals disappearing within the Hawaiian naval base seemed to indicate success. The amount of high-priority message traffic from and to specific commands seemed to acknowledge it. Even the use of so many unknown codes substantiated it. But it was a simple American voice communication to an Air Force intelligence aircraft closing SSV-516 that seemed to confirm their suspicions. That voice was intercepted not by SSV-516 but by a remote communications facility in Siberia. It ordered a KC-135 tanker aircraft to rendezvous with the Air Force plane regardless of the weather conditions. The pilot of the KC-135 was told in no uncertain terms that his mission would have grave impact on national security and must be completed regardless of hazard to personnel and equipment. It was that single voice message that convinced the KGB director and the General Secretary that Washington was indeed working very hard to disguise a critical situation, for refueling in that weather was certain suicide.
A third method of confirmation was also employed at the same time, one primarily designed to infuriate official Washington. It required the efforts of a uniquely trained Soviet commando unit, called Spetznaz, that had been infiltrated into the Puget Sound area the previous year. Their duties ranged from military and industrial sabotage to infiltration, small-unit actions, assassination, and chemical/ biological shock efforts in time of actual war.
Each individual in this particular unit spoke English as well as any student at the University of Washington. They’d arrived individually in the Seattle/Tacoma region with Social Security cards, drivers’ licenses, passports, and a thorough knowledge of the northwest and its lifestyle. Even if their existence had been known, identification would have been almost impossible.
The officer in charge had assumed the name of David Lundgren, and his blond hair and blue eyes complemented his new identity. When he appeared at Chicquita McCarthy’s door, he carried credentials as a reporter for the Seattle Post-Intelligencer. “Good morning, Mrs. McCarthy. I’m Dave Lundgren.” He presented his newspaper photo ID to her. “I hope you might allow me a few moments of your time.”
Chicquita McCarthy had been taught to be wary of newsmen. Her husband Paul had explained when he took command of Alaska that too many considered the wife of the captain of an SSBN to be a shoot-first-ask-questions-later person. Look out for traps, Paul had said. “Just exactly what is it you want, Mr. Lundgren?” she inquired politely.
“Just a few questions for a story we’re trying to get a handle on. It’s nothing—” But the young man halted in midsentence and looked down at his shoes. Then he raised his head and looked into her eyes apologetically. “No, that’s not it. My apologies. I wouldn’t have been honest with you to say that. We’ve picked up some rumors from one of our stringers in Washington, D.C., and my editor wanted nothing to do with it until we could confirm more of it.”
Chicquita could imagine another story critical of the Navy and the men who manned the strategic-missile submarines. “I’m really not at liberty to talk about the ships. Besides, I’m afraid there’s nothing I could tell you that you don’t already know.” She looked down the street nervously. “I really make an effort not to know… and I don’t ask questions.”
The young man was growing increasingly nervous. “No, no, that’s not it, Mrs. McCarthy.” He shook his head sadly. “I don’t like this any more than you do, but it’s my job. I already know how you feel about the media around here … and I guess I can’t blame you.…”