by Philip Chen
"Mister Evans," Vander called without looking back. Immediately, a thin, bespectacled Lieutenant appeared from the shadows on the bridge of the USS Marysville and joined the Captain.
Frederick Evans, a Ph.D. from Caltech, had already established a reputation for geosciences measurement including his duty on the fateful March 20, 1967, flight of the P-3B Orion. Evans had been seconded to the Marysville especially for this mission to search for and locate the mysterious object.
"Mr. Evans, have you ever seen anything as dang fool as that Nematode contraption?" referring to Western Light's side scan sonar that had been put on-board the USS Marysville.
Vander was from the old Navy, assigned to push around research barges in the twilight of his career. In his day, oceanography meant Seechi discs, and sounding wires. The most exotic items in his arsenal were things like bucket thermometers and Roberts-type current meters.
Having signed aboard during the waning days of the big one, Vander served aboard almost every class of warship in the Navy except submarines. "I like to sleep with my portholes open," was his standard reply.
High-tech, space age gizmos were better left to the eggheads like Evans. Vander could drive his boat and put her exactly wherever the scientists wanted her. Despite his rough hewn exterior or, maybe because of it, Vander was an expert mariner.
"Sir - that contraption may look awkward, but it has some of the fanciest electronics any ocean going instrumentation package has ever seen."
Vander continued staring out over the bow of the Marysville, oblivious to the techno-jargon that Evans was engaged in. Evans, sensing that the Captain's interest was probably out of boredom, rather than a thirst for knowledge, turned to the ship's navigator who stood at the map table and started plotting transits that would coincide with his route on the over flight of the Lockheed P-3B Orion many months before.
Finally, the Nematode was ready to be deployed and with a splash, Nematode was committed to the deep.
"Here's hoping it ain't Russian," whispered Sevson to himself.
1600 Hours: Tuesday, October 4, 1967: Aboard the Marysville Over the Hatteras Abyssal Plain
The sound of the sonar systems filled the darkened instrumentation room on-board the U.S.S. Marysville as she maintained a straight heading under the skillful watch of Captain George Vander.
Up on the bridge behind Vander, Evans poured over the charts with Vander's navigator. Using dividers and rulers to plot their current position, Evans satisfied himself that their course was exactly the same course the Lockheed P-3B Orion had flown months before. The task was not that easy.
Consider trying to remotely tow a car using a cable deployed from an airplane over three miles up and several miles ahead. A rather formidable job that challenged even the time-tried skills of Vander, cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth and a steaming cup of hot black coffee in his weathered left hand.
In the instrumentation room, several levels below deck, designed to be at the center of gravity of the vessel, Mike, McHugh, and Sevson crowded behind the Western Light sonar technician. The only moving thing in the tight cabin was the greenish trace on the cathode ray tube as it displayed the line by line return of the side scan sonar.
The only sounds other than the "blips" made by the sonar in the darkened room were the scratchy noises made by the pen registers as they recorded the images now being laid out on the cathode ray tube or CRT. If it weren't for the soft rolling of the Marysville, there would have been no indication that Mike was even at sea.
The trace on the sonar's oscilloscope held steady, a faint greenish line followed the brighter green dot that ran left to right across the circular screen. Except for occasional jiggles of the trace, which could be accounted for by changes in the local magnetic background of the ocean bottom, nothing unusual had occurred.
"Any more theories on the magnetic anomaly, Bob?" asked Sevson.
The ever present half smoked cigar dangling from the corner of his mouth, McHugh was absorbed in thought. The stale cigar smoke competed with the sweet smell of "Barking Dog" tobacco emanating from the corn-cob pipe in the corner of Sevson's mouth. The tinfoil packet from which Sevson constantly refilled his pipe had the subtext, "Barking Dogs Never Bite."
Absentmindedly, McHugh replied, "Nothing radical, Tom. If it is Russian, then we are in deep trouble. We won't be able to deploy a sizeable station at that depth for any period of time. Based on the magnetometer readings this thing, whatever it is, is substantial. If your Nematode, or whatever you call it, can help us locate the source of this anomaly, we can get down there with the Trieste for a look."
"Don't we have sonar arrays deployed at those depths?"
"No, our SOSUS nets are generally deployed at much shallower depths. No submarines are known to be able to dive to the depth associated with the anomaly. If the Russians have a submarine capable of that depth, they could hide in the submarine canyons off Santa Catalina Island and be within thirty miles of Los Angeles and not be detected by our SOSUS nets."
"Holy shit!" said Sevson, sinking into a chair. "God, it's Cuba all over again!"
"Let's not jump to conclusions, Tom. We have no knowledge that the Russians have that kind of technology. If they did, I think we would have heard by now."
"Bob, I think you'd better see this," interrupted Mike, who had been looking over the shoulder of the Western Light technician.
"Commander, we have a reading," called out the sonar technician. McHugh walked across the small room to stand behind the technician. On the CRT, the greenish lines were definitely displaying something.
The green trace was rising steadily, not in dramatic jumps, but steadily as each trace ran across the face of the oscilloscope, the tension in the instrumentation room grew. Evans and Sevson joined McHugh and Mike. More lines were painted vertically on the screen. Each new line gave a better indication of the shape and size of whatever the side scan sonar saw.
As the object began filling the screen of the CRT, McHugh asked the operator to turn on a backup plotter. McHugh went to the plotters and what he saw was something big, as big as a football field, and oval in cross section. This was not a natural feature like a rock outcropping or fault line.
"Damn!" uttered Frederick Evans.
1800 Hours: Tuesday, October 4, 1967: Aboard the Marysville Over the Hatteras Abyssal Plain
"What do you make of it?" asked McHugh.
"From the sonar record, it appears that the object is quite large, perhaps over a football field long. By triangulation we're pretty certain that the centroid of this thing, whatever it is, is also the peak of our magnetometer trace within a statistical accuracy of one standard deviation," replied Sevson. Evans nodded assent.
"You're not writing a scientific paper, Tom. How about some plain speak for the troops," chided McHugh.
"What it means is that we found whatever was causing the magnetic anomaly on Evan's Orion flight; it's just that we don't know what it is."
"What if we drop the Trieste on this thing," asked McHugh.
"You could be here for years. All that the Trieste will be able to see would be an infinitesimal part of whatever is there. In order to get a definitive idea of this object, or whatever it is, we need to have mobility. The explanation of this could be perfectly normal. We could be merely seeing the tip of a massive seamount, magma, or a salt dome.
"It's just that the regularity of the shape bugs the hell outa me. I've never seen anything like it before, just doesn't make sense, especially given the fact that the benthic topography is so uniform for hundreds of miles around. If the geology of the region were such that we could predict a seamount or a salt dome, then I'd feel better, but it doesn't."
"You don't normally associate a salt dome with anomalous magnetometer readings, do you?" questioned Mike.
"Not normally, and certainly not at the levels we have found here. A magma outflow could explain the magnetometer readings, but the area is not known for volcanic activity. Also, magma flows would n
ever be so regular in shape. It's almost like someone lobbed a gigantic football onto the ocean floor," explained Evans.
"We've got to get down there and have a look, any suggestions gentlemen?" inquired McHugh.
"We could attach television cameras and strobes to the Nematode, but we would be basically seeing only small portions of the object at one time." offered Sevson. The combination of darkness and the relatively small field of illumination offered by the Nematode's on-board lighting would not give much of an overview; just small snatches of the object now depicted on the sonar tape.
"Doesn't anyone have a free swimmer that could get to those depths?" asked an exasperated McHugh.
Both Sevson and Mike's face lit up simultaneously.
Mike spoke first, "MacAlear Aviation has been developing a free swimming submersible that is allegedly capable of 20,000 foot depths. Some guy from MacAlear gave a talk at Stanford last year about their oceanographic programs and I remember being impressed with the depth."
"Yeah," said Sevson, "I've read about it as well. For some reason, there hasn't been much press about the submersible in trade journals. I think everyone assumes that MacAlear abandoned the program. With the drop off of Navy funds a lot of programs have bitten the dust in the last year or two. I guess that the MacAlear submersible is a victim of some government cutback."
"How can we find out more about this submersible?" asked an intrigued Robert McHugh.
"A good friend of mine works for MacAlear, I think you know him, Ed Robison," replied Sevson.
"Wasn't he the one who ran the Wayward Wind aground off Baja in '59?"
Sevson had also sailed on the R/V Wayward Wind and had a similar photograph like the one on McHugh's wall in Port Hueneme.
"Yup! That's the guy."
"I guess he thinks if he stays in deep water, he'll be okay."
"Let me give him a call when we get back to Annapolis," offered Sevson.
1967: Free Swimming
1130 Hours: Tuesday, November 1, 1967, Palo Alto, California
"Know of any quick places to eat?" asked Sevson.
"We could go down to the Oasis on El Camino," offered Mike. "It's not the fanciest place in the world but the hamburgers are good. It's sort of a graduate engineering student hangout. Believe me, you'll love it."
Pulling into the parking lot of the Oasis, Sevson wasn't sure what Mike was getting him into. The rather plain looking facade of the bar/restaurant wasn't quite what he expected. As Sevson and Mike entered the dimly lit dining area, Sevson was not terribly impressed by the peanut shells on the floor, the long hard wooden benches, and the heavy wood tables.
Mike, on the other hand, seemed to be oblivious to the dingy surroundings. He went right to the counter and ordered two cheeseburgers, fries and drinks.
Sevson found two places on a bench, having to stare down a couple of shallow, pasty looking students who were hogging the entire table without any food in sight.
After what seemed to be an eternity, Mike came over with a tray holding two red plastic baskets, made to look like woven straw baskets, two mugs of some brownish solution - the glasses already frosting over. In the baskets were cheeseburgers in sesame rolls, French fries, and a slice of tomato sitting on a leaf of lettuce. The food was lying on a white paper napkin and a strip of wax paper.
"Didn't I tell you that you would like this place?" said Mike enthusiastically.
Sevson grunted, as he brushed some peanut shells and food scraps off the wooden table. Mike handed Sevson's red plastic basket to him and sat down across the table. The two former squatters at the table looked darkly at the older man in a white, short sleeve shirt and tan trousers with white socks inside brown penny loafers and the young Chinese dressed in the tan uniform of the United States Navy.
"Child killer," muttered one of the long-haired graduate students in a loud stage whisper to no one in particular.
Despite his reservations about the ambience of the Oasis, Sevson bit down on his cheeseburger and found out that Mike was right; this place did have some social redeeming value. Mike said, "I used to come here once or twice a week, don't you agree it's great?"
"I guess so," grunted Sevson, biting down on his cheeseburger.
After completing his first gastronomical experience at the Oasis, Sevson washed it down with another Anchor Steam Beer.
As Sevson and Mike got up from the bench and started out the door, a young Asian coed dressed in dungarees and a red Stanford University sweatshirt intentionally brushed against Mike as he walked toward the front door and whispered loudly, "Banana."
Sevson noticed that with that remark, Mike's face stiffened, his jaw became set and his eyes narrowed and focused on some distant point.
"What was that about?" asked a perplexed Sevson.
"Apparently, the young lady didn't like my uniform," said Mike, shaking his head as if to throw off the stinging remark. "A 'Banana' is an Asian who wants to be Caucasian: Yellow on the outside, white on the inside." Mike's personal war was fought on many battlefields.
"Oh."
After the meal, Sevson and Mike walked out into the cool summer evening, got into the rented Ford Falcon and backed out of the parking lot. On the radio was Simon Garfunkel singing "Cloudy." After a short drive, the two reached their motel and checked in for the night.
0630 Hours: Wednesday, November 2, 1967, Palo Alto, California
The persistent knocking on his door woke Mike from a sound sleep. "Who's there?"
"Open this door!" demanded the deep male voice.
Mike got out of bed, put on his pants, and went to the door. Opening the door, he was confronted by two Caucasian males, dressed in civilian suits. Both men were heavy set, their shirts yellowed with age, and suits ill-fitted. Pushing their way into Mike's room, they started to move about the room casually looking at Mike's possessions.
"Who are you and what do you want?" asked an obviously peeved Mike.
"We're from the D.I.A.," said John Thompson, flashing a gold badge and identification card at Mike. D.I.A. was the acronym for the Defense Intelligence Agency of the Department of Defense.
"I don't care who you are. You have no right to barge in here and paw through my belongings," said an increasingly angry Mike. "I am a Navy officer, and I will not stand for this treatment from you or any one."
"Look, boy. I'm not going to argue with you. Just get dressed, you're comin' with us."
"What?" asked a shocked Mike. Then he saw the handle of a .38 caliber Police Special poking out of a holster strapped to the waist of the D.I.A. agent. "Am I under arrest?"
"Just come with us."
All that the two Defense Intelligence Agency agents allowed Mike to do was to put on his dress shirt, shoes, and socks. They took Mike out to an unmarked army green sedan and placed him in the rear seat. As the car pulled out of the motel parking lot, Sevson opened the door to his room and noticed that Mike was being driven away by two men in what appeared to be an army sedan.
"Operator, can you get me 213-661-4555," said Sevson.
The young seaman picked up the ringing telephone, "Lieutenant Commander Robert McHugh's Office."
"Is the Commander in?"
"One moment, Sir. I'll see if he is busy. Who may I say is calling?"
"Tom Sevson, tell him it's an emergency."
"What's up, Tom?" answered a worried McHugh.
"Two men in what looked like an army sedan just took Mike away from the motel," blurted out Sevson. I didn't like the looks of it so I thought I should call you."
"You did the right thing, Tom. I'll get right on it. Were they in uniform?"
"No."
McHugh shouted out to his Yeoman's Mate, "Billy, see if you can get the Provost Marshal at the Presidio in San Francisco."
"Provost Marshal's Office."
"Please hold for Lieutenant Commander Robert McHugh, United States Navy," said the Yeoman. "Commander, I've got the Provost Marshal's office on the line."
"Can I speak to the P
rovost? This is important military business."
"This is Captain John Wilson."
"Captain Wilson, this is Lieutenant Commander Robert McHugh, from NAVFAC in Port Hueneme. I just found out that one of my men, Ensign Aloysius Liu, was just taken into custody by two men driving an army sedan. Is there anything that you can do to help me find where they have taken Ensign Liu? He is on a confidential mission of the highest priority. Captain, if he isn't found, there could be serious, serious consequences."
"Commander, I'm not aware of any arrests of Navy personnel in my district. In addition, my guys usually do not go out in civilian clothes. It almost sounds like it could be someone from the Defense Intelligence Agency. I'll try to find out something, what is your telephone number?"
After giving Captain Wilson Mike's name and rank and his telephone number, McHugh returned the handset to its cradle.
It was almost noon before John Wilson was able to get back to McHugh. "Commander, as far as I can determine Ensign Liu was picked up for questioning by the D.I.A. For what reason, I don't know. I don't think he is under arrest, but he is being held by the DIA who are asking him about some information he was apparently trying to obtain."
"Shit! Excuse me Captain, that wasn't meant for you."
"That's okay, I understand. Is there anything more I can help you with?" asked John Wilson.
"Who should I talk to?"
"I gather the agent in charge is a John Thompson. He can be reached at 415-LI-1-4336."
"Thanks for your help, Captain.'
"You're welcome, Sir. If there is anything else, just give me a call."
McHugh dialed the telephone number that Wilson had given him. "This is Lieutenant Commander Robert McHugh with NAVFAC. Is John Thompson available?"
"This here's John Thompson. What can I do for you?"
"I understand that you are holding one of my officers, Ensign Aloysius Liu. Can you tell me what the charge is?"
