by Philip Chen
Twenty minutes past and the forward scanning sonar picked up a signal that was unmistakably the object. As the object drew closer, Anderson turned on the outside flood lamps. McHugh and Robison reclined on the mats that served as cushions and looked out the forward portholes.
What they saw was a smooth, almost polished black curved surface that extended to the limits of illumination, as far as the eye could see. Anderson steered the Squid on a path that first ran along the edge of the object, it was like walking along a curved wall of black glass. He then steered the Squid up and over the object, again nothing but the same black glassy surface. There were no cracks, no seams, no doors, no windows, nothing. Walt conducted temperature, current, salinity, background radiation, and sonar tests - nothing.
The Squid stood off of the object and tried to measure changes in or fall off from any of the readings - nothing. Only the metastable helium magnetometer showed any indication of the presence of the object, the readings correlated with the earlier surface and over-flight data. Anderson and Carver used the depth sounding sonar to construct a profile of the object. The shape was that of a gigantic oval object, no seams, no bumps, no doors, no windows, no anything.
"Damn, that thing is just not real. Nothing real could be that smooth," exclaimed a mystified McHugh.
"You know what you said topside, Bob?" said Robison.
"Yeah?"
"I think we're in deep shit," replied Robison.
Using the strobe lights and television camera, Robison took multiple shots of the smooth, grayish-black curved structure, the size of a football field. The height of the object was about fifty feet from the silt bottom; there was no way to determine how deep the object sat in the silt. Bathymetric readings from the USS Marysville suggested that the object sat in the center of what might have been an impact crater but the centuries had softened even that conclusion.
The time went too quickly, and soon Carver announced that they had overstayed their welcome and would have to leave. Anderson dumped his ballast and the Squid began its upward spiral home.
The R/V Falling Star stayed on station for about a week and multiple visits were made to the mysterious object. Eventually, Mike was also given a chance to see the mysterious object first hand. The profound impact of this perfectly smooth massive object lying on the ocean bottom would send shock waves through the intelligence establishment. Unfortunately for Sevson and Robison, their scientific reports were cloaked in the highest levels of secrecy and would never be published. However, both Sevson and Robison asked for and got funding to conduct similar research in non sensitive regions thereby giving them cover for reporting on these tremendous engineering advances in ocean exploration. The curtain of state secrets fell quickly on the mysterious object in the Hatteras Abyssal Plain. Mike and McHugh continued to work on the project from their offices in Port Hueneme.
1000 Hours: Monday, September 16, 1969: Port Hueneme, California
"Come in, Mike," said McHugh.
Mike entered McHugh's office. With McHugh were two men dressed in civilian suits. The three seemed to have been engaged in discussion about something but ceased when Mike knocked on McHugh's door. The three men were seated, McHugh behind his desk and his two visitors on the side chairs.
"Have a seat, Mike," said McHugh. "These two men are from Naval Intelligence. They would like to talk to us. Seems we blundered into something much bigger than we thought. Mike, this is Commander Richard Thompson and Lieutenant Robert Cohen. Gentlemen, Lieutenant Mike Liu."
"Mister Liu," spoke the older of the two. "The object located on the Hatteras Abyssal Plain, appears to be one of several located around the continental United States. After your work with Commander McHugh, we went back to our magnetometer surveys and found the same anomaly in three other locations, they escaped detection simply because their magnetic signature is only noticeably detectable during low altitude flights and no one understood their significance like that fellow Evans did here. Despite his hot rod flying, Buck Morrow's flying antics have enabled us to stumble on to something of mind boggling consequence.
"While we are now satisfied that they are not of Russian origin, we quite frankly do not know how or when they were placed in their locations. The work that you and Bob McHugh have done has contributed to our knowledge immensely. However, in order to integrate the data in the most expeditious fashion possible, we need your expertise."
"I'm not sure I understand," asked a puzzled Mike.
"Lieutenant Liu, both Lieutenant Cohen and I are actually from an interagency group called CSAC whose charter is to conduct investigations no other agency can or on its own could conduct," said Thompson. "We have been instructed to invite you and Commander McHugh to join our efforts."
"What does CSAC stand for?"
"That is classified, as is its very existence."
"What do we have to do?"
"Normally, CSAC agents come from one or another of the service intelligence agencies, the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the Secret Service, the Federal Alcohol and Firearms Department, or the Central Intelligence Agency. As a result, those agents can assimilate quickly into the structure. However, in your case coming from regular navy duty and all, we will have to train you in forensics, criminal investigation, technical knowhow, firearms etc. When your duty permits it you will be sent TDY to the FBI training academy in Quantico, Virginia, for the basics.
"Your cover will be that you have joined the Office of Naval Intelligence. Oh, by the way, how do you feel about carrying a gun?"
1100 Hours: Tuesday, May 24, 1970: Holloman Air Force Base, New Mexico
Edward McIntyre got out of his jeep and walked over to the military policeman standing near the parking lot to the detention barracks.
"Who's that?" asked McIntyre, a Captain in the Air Force.
"Some Navajo shepherd," replied the Airman, "one of the investigators thinks he might have some information of interest."
"Doesn't look very happy," commented McIntyre as he went into the detention barracks to pick up some files.
The Navajo was taken into the detention barracks by the Air Force investigator through the back entrance.
1970-1993: The Intervening Years
The existence of the mysterious objects had been uncovered during an ordinary geomagnetic profiling flight over the western Atlantic Ocean in the late Sixties. The flights were commissioned by the Oceanographer of the Navy for ostensibly scientific purposes and called, "Project Magnet."
Project Magnet's true purpose had been to profile the background magnetic signature of the waters adjoining the continental United States to facilitate anti-submarine warfare. The nuclear submarine force of the United Socialist Soviet Republics prowled the seas off the coast of America waiting for orders to launch ballistic missiles aimed at strategic targets onshore. Knowing the magnetic background allowed the U.S. Navy to detect and monitor these forces and to deploy submarine, surface and airborne deterrents. The P-3B Orions were a principal component of the Navy's ASW capability.
Some cowboy Orion pilot flying the deck had stumbled onto something unimaginable. That something was called the Morrow Affair before the federal government was able to hush it forever. Certain key participants in the Morrow Affair were suddenly transferred to parts unknown. Navy Lieutenant Commander Thomas Morrow, considered by many to be too unreliable to keep the secret, was sent to Vietnam, where he performed as a fighter pilot outstandingly, but with tragic result.
This discovery and later verification of four mysterious objects located in the waters around the United States initiated an urgent agenda to determine what and why they were there. Although attempts were made to try to determine if similar objects existed in other parts of the world, none were ever found.
Given the geo-political climate of that period, a nation could not simply fly over territorial waters of another and conduct the types of surveillance that was needed to detect such objects. Even the intelligence services of the United States were unable to g
ather any information that could help CSAC in discerning the existence of other similar objects in other parts of the world. If they existed, the countries that knew they had them did not share such knowledge.
Initially, funds were established to only deploy remote sensing devices on the ocean floor. The information they gathered was transmitted through cables to surface vessels, some disguised as ocean tugs or, even, lighthouses such as the Ambrose vessels.
Because of the enormity of what the objects or "Sentinels" as they came to be called could signify, this system of remote sensing was eventually replaced with manned stations located adjacent to the objects on the bottom. Called "Watch Stations," the manned, pressurized habitats were commissioned by the Navy and staffed with its personnel.
Under the guise of exploring "inner space," the government mounted a substantial monitoring program when initial efforts to identify their origin had proven fruitless. Construction of these ocean-bottom monitoring stations was facilitated by a secret fleet of ocean vessels outfitted with clandestine launching bays. The public disclosure of one of these vessels, the Glomar Explorer, had been unfortunate, but was put to rest as an attempt to raise sunken Soviet submarines. The ruse was quickly accepted in the era of U.S.-Soviet confrontation called the Cold War.
The need for continued monitoring of the four objects did not result from scientific curiosity. The implication of four objects apparently guarding the waters of the United States was staggering. Theories ran from super secret surveillance installations of foreign governments intent on spying on the United States to even more mind-boggling scenarios.
Over the years, the objects remained mysteriously silent despite the immense attention that the United States government paid them. The enigmatic silence of the objects caused some officials in the government to question the vast expenditure of funds necessary to maintain surveillance. However, it was a cost that was grudgingly given each year because not to do so was unspeakable. The most puzzling aspect of the four objects was their mute presence. They just sat there, giving no indication of any activity except for the anomalous magnetic signature that had first occasioned their discovery.
The secret was well-kept and the Morrow Affair eventually became old news. The vast population of people, in and out of government, never had a clue why so much of the nation's gross national product was spent year to year on such research. In fact, the sensitivity of the objects was such that, as far as the public was concerned, governmental funds intended for oceanographic research simply disappeared overnight.
The operational phase of monitoring these objects was eventually taken over by CSAC, an acronym whose meaning remains classified to this day. A multi-agency operation created in the early days of the Cold War, CSAC was the most secretive of all such agencies and continued to sponsor missions that other agencies could not or would not do.
In 1972, Mike Liu left active duty; eventually moving on to other things. However, Bob McHugh kept him on his personal radar screen. Occasionally, Mike would be called back to take care of short-term matters, whenever Bob McHugh felt he could add to the solution of some matter. Some of Mike's assignments did not have to do with the objects, but he was not in a position to refuse any request made by Bob McHugh, his superior in the agency. Once an agent of CSAC, you simply could not resign.
1993: The Silence Ends
0630 Hours: Wednesday, June 9, 1993: Watch Station One
With an explosive roar, multiple alarms wrenched the attendant from his routine-induced stupor. Red, orange and white lights flooded the dimly lit compartment in a psychedelic wash.
"Damn!" said the suddenly energized sonar mate.
Dropping the spy novel his wife had sent to him in the last mail pouch; forgetting to mark his place, John Lawrence immediately switched on the backup sequence and began the checkout procedure. As a last step, Lawrence switched on the digital recorder.
"Transfer module," Lawrence said breathlessly into the microphone on the desk. "I gotta speak to the Captain." He could barely contain himself. The only sound in the now-quiet compartment was the steady drumming of Lawrence's fingers on the Formica counter. He waited anxiously for a response.
"What's up, John?" said the disembodied voice coming from the tiny speaker on the countertop. It was the deep bass voice of the Watch Station commander, William O'Shannon, a Captain in the United States Navy. O'Shannon had been in the transfer module discussing a training sequence with other crewmembers.
"Captain, the control panel just lit up like the Fourth of July."
"I'll be right there. Have you initiated backup?"
"Aye, sir. I also started the checkout procedure."
"Good."
In what seemed an eternity to Lawrence, O'Shannon walked the short distance from the transfer module to the command module. Lawrence turned from his intense scrutiny of the control panel when he heard the pressure door being unlatched with a metallic clang. Curiously, he felt a sudden wash of relief knowing that O'Shannon was with him.
"Okay, John, what do we have?"
"Nothing like I've ever seen before, Captain. Here, take a look."
"You're right. It sure doesn't look like background," said O'Shannon calmly. He silently watched the rapid amplitude changes and frequency shifts on the magnetometer. "Have you checked the seismometer?"
"Aye, sir. Absolutely nothing -- nothing at all. Everything is quiet, real quiet. One thing, Captain. The signal seems to repeat itself over and over." John pointed to the regularity of the spikes and valleys on the green-hued screen.
O'Shannon was puzzled. He studied the screen trying to see a pattern in the greenish trace on the screen, some sense of order. He finally looked up at Lawrence.
"You're right. Did you start the recording sequence?"
"Aye, sir."
"Get the DCO up here," said O'Shannon into the intercom.
Rubbing his eyes after the rude awakening, the Deputy Commanding Officer, Lieutenant Joshua Wong, entered the command module. "Yes, Captain."
"Mr. Wong, we have a verified signal."
Wong snapped fully awake. "I'll start the encoding process immediately."
"Good idea. Who gets to carry the message?"
"Machinist Mate George Waterson is scheduled for rotation on the next supply vehicle. He has clearance."
"Good. Alert Newport News."
"Aye, sir."
Wong took leave of O'Shannon and Lawrence, who continued to observe the rapidly shifting trace on the screens. There would be much to do in the coming days.
1993: Awakening
0730 Hours: Wednesday, June 9, 1993: Sutton Place, New York, New York
Mike Liu woke with a start. He had forgotten to set the alarm and had overslept by a half-hour. That is, if you could call it sleep. Mike had tossed about all night. It was that recurring dream -- that something had been left undone. He hadn't had that dream in a longtime and it was disturbing. What had wakened Mike was someone calling his name.
This wasn't like some of his dreams, the ones about the life he had once hoped to share with Corrine Ryan, a student at Mary Baldwin College in Staunton, Virginia. Mike had met Corrine through fraternity brothers at the University and the pair had dated throughout his fourth year. Corrine had suffered from a degenerative retinal disease at a young age and had quickly lost her vision. Maybe it was her blindness that allowed her to see the young Mike in a light so different from other people. Mike had never met any other girl who was as accepting as Corrine.
After college, Mike was commissioned as an Ensign in the Navy and sent to Stanford. Corrine went to graduate school at Columbia University to study linguistics. After graduate school, Corrine went into government service. Mike would write Corrine often, but her responses seemed less enthusiastic over time. Writing letters were difficult for Corrine, as she had to use a Braille typewriter.
In one letter, Corrine mentioned that her room mates thought he looked Mediterranean, not Chinese, in his photo.
Eventually, t
ime and distance proved too great; the letters became fewer and farther in between. Then one day, Mike received a long letter from Corrine saying that things had changed and she could not write him anymore.
Mike never married after losing Corrine. He learned through friends that Corrine dated and married another researcher at the government linguistics laboratory where she worked. But the dream was not about Corrine; it was the other dream; about dark shadows and enormity the likes that the world had never seen.
Mike jumped out of bed and went into the bathroom. He had a busy day planned with the SystemGraphon deal stalled as it was; last night had dragged into the early morning hours. As Mike dressed for work, he glanced quickly at the clock. Damn, he thought. I should've set the alarm.
0530 Hours: Wednesday, June 9, 1993: Navajo Indian Reservation, New Mexico
The power that compels men does so inexplicably. The affected do not understand or even, for that matter, begin to comprehend the power. Such was the case of the lonely figure kneeling on the hard dirt of the barren, windswept mesa, his curved back contrasting dramatically with the sharp edged geometry of the rocky ledge.
"O Bearer of Light, Creator of Day. Give me a sign to chase the darkness away," he cried.
The early morning sky was a rich royal blue. Thin wisps of dark gray clouds traced with white spotted the dark blue sky. In the distance, the cold, desert sky had begun to lighten. There, the deep rich blue of night started to give way to the softer pastel blue of the day.
As the first golden light peeked over the horizon, a lone hawk floated over the plains searching for early morning thermals; hunting for his daily meal.
In the darkness of the valley below, the soft, haunting tones of a Native American flute floated languidly into the waking sky.
