THE BRINK - OPERATION DEEP FLIGHT

by Marshall Huffman

  The following year he started playing football and was good enough to make the varsity team. He wasn’t as big as many of the others but he was quick and agile. He could scoot through the smallest opening. In the second game of the year against the crosstown rival high school he was put in during a goal line stance. They had the ball on the nine yard line. It was fourth and goal and only 25 seconds were left to play. Nothing they had done in the previous three plays had resulted in a touchdown. They were behind by six points, so it was all or nothing.

  “Marcus,” the coach bellowed. Ray was jolted by the call of his name.

  “Me coach?”

  “We got any other Marcus on this team? I want you to go in. I - left, 34, on three.”

  “I - left, 34, on three.”

  “Get it in there and you start next week. Got it?”

  “Yes sir,” he said, snapping on his chinstrap and heading into the huddle.

  “I’m in for Jones,” he said rushing into the huddle.

  “Shit,” Jones muttered, and headed toward the sideline.

  “Let’s have it,” the quarterback said, looking at Marcus.

  “I - left, 35, on three.”

  “Okay got it. I - left, 35, on three. Break,” the quarterback shouted, and they all clapped hands.

  Marcus was beside himself. He was the 3 in the play. The third back. Wait. It was 34 not 35.

  “Hut, hut.......hut,” the quarterback barked and the ball was snapped. He faded back to Marcus and suddenly the ball was being slammed into his gut. It almost took the wind out of him. He started left, stopped and darted right through the number 4 hole. The other team was totally misdirected and he evaded the last linebacker and spun across the goal line.

  The crown went wild. Touchdown. His teammates ran over and knocked him to the ground and piled on top. Everyone was going crazy. The score was tied. A few minutes later the kicker put one right dead center between the up rights and they had won 35 to 34. What a fitting score he decided. The coach was just too happy that they had won to make much out of it except to kid him afterward.

  “Next time I’m going to put a big L on your hand, for left, you moron,” said jokingly.

  His grades, along with considerable pull from his uncle, were able to get him appointed to the Naval Academy. He was not nearly big enough to play football on a college level so he continued with his swimming. He had even considered trying to get into the SEALS but when he found out what they went through, he had second thoughts.

  He did well and only suffered the usual harassment that most cadets experience. Upon graduation he found himself stationed onboard the destroyer, USS Turner Joy. Within a few months it became the attention of the entire United States when the North Vietnamese attacked it, along with the destroyer Maddox, with patrol boats. While it was not nearly the attack that the papers made it out to be, it nevertheless, gave the President the authority to take all necessary measures to repel any armed attack. Later this was to become the Southeast Asia Resolution, more famous as the Gulf of Tonkin Resolution. It opened the door for President Johnson to pour American troops into the Vietnam War.

  For a young Lt. jg. it was quite an eye opener. He served with distinction and within two years found himself Engineering Officer of the USS Harry E. Yarnell. After an ill-fated NATO exercise he decided he wanted to become a submariner. The Navy does not take kindly to officers trying to dictate their own career path. This wasn’t college where you had electives. His request was turned down. Undaunted, he continue to request submarine school. Each time it was denied.

  It was more through fate than anything else that Marcus happened to be TAD to Halifax Nova Scotia. This temporary assigned duty allowed him to participate in the Canadian Armed Forces first exercise with a deep submersible. The SDL-1 was small by submarine standards, even deep submersibles. It was only twenty-five feet long and had a 12-foot beam. It was slow and rather clumsy. The maximum speed it could sustain was two knots with the pilot and five observers on board.

  He was able to spend six months working with the SDL-1. The glowing fitness reports that were written about his natural ability to work in a deep undersea environment, and his ability to get the maximum out of the tiny craft, would serve him well later.

  Marcus was hooked on the underwater world that had opened up before him. When he learned that the Navy was getting ready to launch the NR-1 nuclear research deep submersible, he applied for a transfer. It was turned down so he decided it was time to call in an old marker.

  “General Hampton, Captain Marcus.”

  “Who?”

  “Captain Marcus. I was your Engineering Officer on the Harry E. Yarnell, I was just a snot nosed Lt. jg. then.”

  “Ah, that Marcus. I knew I had heard the name. Yes. Yes. Now I remember. The missing nuclear bombs. You helped us to locate them. Now you have come back to haunt me. What can I do for you Captain?”

  “Well, General I need a little help and frankly I don’t know who else to turn to.”

  “I see. So you have called me up to remind me that I owe you one.”

  “Not at all sir,” Marcus said.

  “Sure you did or you wouldn’t have called. Just spit it out and I’ll see what I can do.”

  “General, I’ve been trying to get into subs but you know how the military can be. Once you’re on surface ships you are slotted there for the rest of your career. I’ve been TAD to the Canadian Armed Forces and had a chance to work on a deep submersible. It’s what I want to do. The Navy just launched one and I was wondering if you had any pull over at the Navy. Something that could get me assigned to that craft.”

  “Anything else? Want to fly a plane too?”

  “No sir, just the deep diver,” he said seriously.

  “Okay kid, I know some people. I have lots of friends in the Navy Department. I can’t imagine why though. You saltwater suckers are all strange. Let me see what I can do. Don’t get your hopes too high. I’ll make some calls. Anything else?”

  “No sir. Thank you, sir.”

  “You’re okay, Captain. I’ll give it my best shot,” he said and hung up.

  Nothing happened for the next four weeks and Marcus was resigned to the fact that he would be on surface ships forever.

  “Captain Marcus?”

  “Yes?”

  “Commander Thompson wants to see you. He said to shake a leg.”

  Marcus quickly put on a fresh uniform and headed to the Commander's office.

  “I don’t know who you know, but it must damn sure be someone important. Rear Admiral James Norton had his aid call me personally and formally requested your transfer to COMSUBDEVGRU ONE in San Diego. That’s some pull, sailor,” he said.

  “I don’t know what to say sir. Does it mention what my duties are?”

  “Here,” he said handing him over a hard copy, “They just came in an hour ago.”

  They told him that he was to report to Commander Arnold and COMSUBDEVGRU by 0800, Monday, July 20. He was ecstatic. He could hardly remember the rest of the conversation. Fortunately you don’t salute indoors when you are not covered.

  He arranged a MAT flight to San Diego for the following day. He arrived two days early and checked in to the BAQ. Like most bachelor officers’ quarters, they were spartan, but still better than a military barracks. Marcus spent the next two days checking out the area. There was a lot to see and do in Southern California.

  He reported, as ordered, to COMSUB ONE and found that he was being assigned to the Trieste II for training. He was going to be trained as a pilot.

  The Commander made it clear that he was uncomfortable with the orders but since they had come from Rear Admiral Norton’s office he would see that they were followed out to the best of his ability. Marcus’ success was going to be strictly up to him.

  The commanding pilot showed a certain disdain for Marcus at first but quickly became aware of his talents. The Trieste II was not huge by any stretch of the imagination, but it was a step up. It measured a li
ttle over 67 feet long and could stay down for up to forty-five hours. It had a maximum collapse depth design of 35,000 feet.

  As always, Marcus threw himself into the project and was considered a proficient pilot. He was able to qualify in less than six months, a record at COMSUB ONE. His final dive obtained a depth of 13,100 feet, a record for the Trieste II at that time.

  Nine months later he was transferred to the NR-1. This was more like a submarine. It was nuclear powered, with twin screws, and could obtain a maximum speed of almost fifteen knots. Measuring in at 140 feet, it was the largest submersible that Marcus had been exposed to yet. He was able to advance to assistant pilot in a short time, but because he had not attended Nuclear Power School, he could not qualify as a pilot.

  He was very discouraged but stayed with the program until his promotion to Lt. Commander. The downside was it was back to surface ships. This time he was assigned to the missile cruiser USS Mississippi. It was easy duty and he got to see a great deal of the world when it made an around the world, Goodwill Tour. He was growing restless and began to plot his return to the undersea world that he had grown to love. Once he achieved the rank of Admiral he was in a position to launch his return. One year later, he maneuvered himself to be in charge of operation Deep Flight. He was ready.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  - WASHINGTON DC -

  Operation Deep Flight was going to be the Navy’s most ambitious undertaking in smaller, deep-water submersibles. The specifications were set to build a submarine that would be able to travel to the very bottom of the ocean floor to map the terrain. Admiral Marcus did not want it to be nuclear powered for two reasons. He wanted the sub to be totally stealth and he wanted to be able to pilot it, if he so desired. Nuclear Power School was not going to stand in his way.

  The design ended up being just a few inches over 150 feet long. Due to all of the sophisticated gear that was to be crammed into the vessel, the crew size had grown to twelve. Speed was necessary in order to aid as a defense mechanism if needed. Only a few subs could obtain 30 knots and none would have the maneuverability of this deep diver.

  In order to sell the program, he had had to convince the review committee that it could have more than one use, so provisions for 6 SEALS or other troops was built in to the specifications. His plan met with a lot of resistance and to get the funding he had to compromise and add armament. He added two forward torpedo tubes and suddenly everyone was happy or at least appeased. He was granted permission to do a feasibility study and nine months later he was given the go ahead. Operation Deep Flight would be a reality at last.

  Now all he had to do was pick a team of scientists who could invent a totally new propulsion system and create a submersible capable of going to the deepest depth of the ocean floor. Sure, he thought, nothing to it, all in a day’s work.

  Here he was, almost one year later, but he was starting to see it all come to fruition. He had picked his team and they were already starting to show some results. He knew it was going to be a long road but it was one he was willing to travel at any cost.

  He had made his first personnel decision directly connected with the project. Doctor Peter Ferris would be the point man. He seemed to have a natural ability to get people to listen to him and follow his directions. From what he had learned, Dr. Ferris was regarded as a person with a lot of natural leadership skills, a great deal of knowledge, and some stubbornness. Throw in a little bit of con artist, add some daring and just a pinch of bluster, and you had your team driver. He was sure that he was going to have to rely on Doctor Ferris on many occasions during the term of the project.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  - SEA of OKHOTSK -

  The two lethal F-16 Falcons were streaking along at 450 knots. The simulated HAVCAP scenario had the two aircraft on patrol protecting the aircraft carrier, USS Coral Sea, CVS 43. HAVCAP is military parlance for High Asset Value Combat Air Patrol. Their deadly adversaries were a pair of newly acquired Mig-29s. High overhead, observing, was an E-3 AWACS.

  The two falcons had dropped down to only 500 feet above the ocean surface when the wingman’s radar lit up and a high-pitched screech filled his earphones.

  “I have two bogeys at 3 o’clock, 32 miles at 2 angles,” he said, in a calm voice. They were flying low and fast.

  “Roger the two bogeys. I have them on radar. Nothing on the threat indicator. Let’s move to intercept,” came the equally calm reply of the leader.

  “Breaking right,” the wingman informed him.

  “Roger.”

  The plan was to spread out and to try to slip in behind them. The maneuver resembled a champagne glass on its side. They were closing quickly and were roughly coming in at a 45 degree aspect angle, hoping to get to zero degrees before engaging. Suddenly the Migs broke left and right. They had picked up the Falcons on radar. Now it became a matter of pursuit. The leader was closing on his Mig-29 and was close to obtaining the outer edge, or RMAX, of the weapon's envelope. The Mig-29 dropped speed and went into a high G turn, causing the leader to lose the aspect angel he had been working so hard for.

  He kicked in afterburners and tried to stay with him but it was too late. The Mig had already started to climb and roll out. The dogfight was on. A similar scene was being played out between the wingman and the other Mig. Now the golden rules were in effect.

  The first being, that speed is life. If you don’t have the speed you will never be able to maintain the aircraft’s energy level to stay in the fight. Lose sight and you lose the fight is the second rule. Maintaining visual contact can do more for a fighter pilot than all the electronic gear in the world. The leaders HUD display was showing a 6 G bat turn and a slight closing rate on the TDI, or target distance indicator.

  They continued to play this fascinating game of high speed chase. Each of the highly skilled pilots was trying to get that small edge over the other to make the simulated kill. The leader was closing the attack angle and his target designator was locked on. Just a little more and the Aiming Rectangle would start to flash, indicating that he had a lock and could count it as a kill for this training session.

  “Tracking kill on the Mig-29,” the leader heard from his wingman. They were doing well.

  “Break-off. Break-off,” the order came suddenly through the earphones of all the pilots at once.

  The adrenaline pumping through the fighter pilots made it hard to break off instantly.

  “Roger break-off. What’s up mother?”

  “I have a single bogey, bearing 155 degrees, 29,000 feet, 40 relative. This is not a drill, repeat, this is not a drill!”

  All four of the pilots realized that this could be a real life and death situation and disengaged immediately. Game time was over.

  “Reform on me. V stack. 'Thruster' low, 30 Angles,” the mission leader flying the Mig-29 said.

  The others fell into quick formation with the two Falcons stacked in between the Migs directly below the leader as they started their climb to 30,000 feet.

  “Going AB,”

  “Roger, afterburners.”

  The four aircraft set off toward the unidentified bogey.

  “Leader one, Mother. Something is wrong here. The bogey is far too big to be an aircraft. It’s huge. Our instruments are washing out. I.....n’t.......Wha........own...”

  “I’ve lost signal. Does anyone copy?”

  “Negative,” came the reply from each of the pilots.

  “Mother, this is leader one over.”

  Nothing.

  “Mother, leader one, do you copy?”

  Again silence.

  “What gives?”

  “Stay off the air, Chopshop”.

  “Mother, this is leader one. Do you copy?” he asked at a slower pace.

  Static filled their earphones.

  “Anyone have anything on Threat Indicators?”

  “Negative.”

  “Clean, clear and naked,” came one reply, indicating that they had nothing on radar, nothing vis
ual and nothing showing on the threat indicator.

  “We should be getting something soon. We’re starting to come into range.”

  Suddenly all of the planes' LCK lights started to flash on the threat indicators at the same time.

  “I have a warning,” came the reply from the pilots simultaneously.

  “Hey. What gives?” The normal ‘blips’ have definite shapes that indicate the detected type of threat. A diamond for an enemy plane, large green square indicating a radar installation and so on. The number inside the blip indicates the type of radar being emitted. This was not what was going on. An irregular green shape with no defined edges was starting to bleed across their indicators.

  “I....it.....opy?”

  They were losing transmission between the individual

  aircraft.”

  “...o....tactic....”

  They had all heard enough to interpret the words to mean, to go tactical.

  They were braking formation and spreading out. Without communications they would need to keep each other in line of sight. The pilots were straining to get a glimpse of the bogey.

  “I have it,” Red Leader yelled into the mic, but the others were not receiving.

  He bumped on his afterburner to the second stage and started to pull ahead. He wiggled his wings so that they would look in his direction. One by one they realized what he was trying to signal and fell in a V stack. He pointed his aircraft toward the bogey and the rest followed. They could all see the object now. It was enormous in size. Its shape was almost impossible to describe. It was sort of like a contact lens except it had several protrusions and what appeared to be antenna sticking out the front and sides.

  The bottom had a rectangular attachment. It was very hard to see. The object was almost translucent or so it appeared. It was descending out of 25,000 feet at an incredible rate. The fighters turned and headed down with the object. In a dive, they were at 650 knots with speed climbing quickly but the craft they were pursuing was traveling at a fantastic speed, easily outdistancing them. They stayed on target.