The Ganymede Project

by Susan Glinert Stevens

  “Very good.”

  “I’m hoping for graduate school afterwards.”

  “And?”

  “And I like being on my own. You know me.”

  “Boyfriends? Lovers?”

  “Ha! A luxury I can’t afford at this point.”

  “You’re becoming a dull person, Katrina. You have to learn to take risks. Like me.”

  “What could be duller than a GRU goon?”

  “Analyst. And you’ve had that cigarette long enough.”

  She took the cigarette from her mouth and stuck it on Vladimir’s lips. “Now maybe you’ll shut up,” she said.

  “Never.”

  “I’ll ask the questions, Mister GRU analyst. What makes you think you’ll be a good analyst? I would have pegged you for a lowly missile defense crewman. Isn’t that what the arm patch says?”

  “Well... I’ll tell you a secret. You’re my sister. I know you won’t snitch on me.”

  “Won’t I?”

  “I was able to tell them things. I was able to analyze things. After the event.”

  “What’s this? Some big, secret? The event?”

  “The Americans, Katrina. They were in Archangelsk.”

  * * *

  “The only thing it could have been,” Vladimir said, “was American technology of very advanced design.” He stopped when his mother, Larisa, entered the room carrying a tray of teacups. Her hair was up in a tidy silver bun laced with red ribbon—a decorative effect in honor of the occasion.

  “Something special,” she said. “My son is back, so we do something special.” She poured tea for Vladimir, Katrina and Ilya, her husband. The scent of orange and spices drifted through the tiny apartment. Ilya Fontanov sniffed, then poured a second vodka-on-the-rocks. He cocked a severely shorn, silver-gray head, squinted through a taut, thin face, and pointed accusingly at his wife.

  “Why do you always interrupt? The boy was telling a story,” he said, harshly. “Sit down and let him finish. The Soviet Union is in danger, and you’re worried about tea.”

  “I’ll leave the tea,” she said, giving her husband a dagger-like look, “and I’d leave your precious Union if I had the chance.” She smiled at Vladimir and Katrina, then departed.

  Ilya rubbed his nose with a finger. “So—” he continued, breaking the tension with a question. “What happened next?”

  “Uh... It was like a small fireball. It came in from the Northwest. It flew over our SA-6 site at an altitude of a few hundred meters. There was nothing on radar. We were scared. We thought maybe it was a nuclear weapon. But it just hung there, radiating these slow, luminous waves. And there was a blue light, like a spotlight. We tried to call battalion headquarters on the field phone, but it was dead. All our equipment was dead. I tell you, I thought we were dead.”

  “Has anything like this ever happened before?” Katrina asked, sipping her tea.

  “Not that I know of,” Vladimir said. “But then, the Army is so secretive. Look at it from their point of view. If you were at battalion headquarters, would you notify superiors that the Americans flew over your missile defense site, and you didn’t even shoot? That they glided in and somehow turned off all your equipment? And even if you told the Army, do you think they would tell Moscow? Heads would roll, I tell you.”

  “Ahem...” Ilya Fontanov cleared his throat. Katrina and Vladimir turned their gaze. The Russian navy captain swirled vodka around in a glass. “In 1977, a similar thing happened at Petrosawodsk. It was very mysterious. All communications shut down for several hours while a fireball hovered over the city.”

  “So what did they do? What did they find out?” Vladimir asked impatiently.

  “They—thevlasti —the powers-that-be,” Katrina sniffed, “are bureaucrats. They probably wrote memos to each other for a year and tried to decide who to blame.”

  “You know,” Ilya Fontanov said, poking a finger toward Katrina, “you have your mother’s Ukrainian nature. You should show more respect. Still...” he cocked a mischievous eyebrow, “you are almost right. They failed to act. They intellectualized.” He grabbed Vladimir’s arm. “This was Hegel’s error, you know. Marx corrected him. Remember that.”

  Katrina rolled her eyes. Ilya saw it, and quickly got back on track. “At Petrosawodsk, millions of people saw the event, and newspapers across the border in Finland reported it. Some bureaucrats tried to keep the lid on, but there were too many people involved.”

  “So—” Vladimir started.

  “So, even under the ice, the river flows.” Ilya said, swirling ice around in his glass, then taking a gulp. He stared at Vladimir. “The KGB has an ongoing investigation. You are correct in supposing the Americans are a prime suspect. However, you are naive in believing GRU motives for wanting you onboard.” He sipped more vodka, then suppressed a little burp. “The Kremlin has kept the GRU out of it until now. The GRU would like to open their own investigation, since they know the matter has high-level political interest in Moscow. You have observed the phenomenon at close range. Therefore, you—a lowly missile crewman—are their lever, their charging horse.”

  “Good,” Vladimir said. “I can ride this GRU horse—”

  “No,” Ilya said, wagging his finger. “No. Better to ride the KGB horse to success. I’ll help you saddle up. Tomorrow.”

  “How can you—”

  “Trust me on this, Vladimir. I am your father. I have many connections with the KGB. The T-Directorate will do anything to stop the GRU from muscling in on their operation—even if it means helping you get promoted, and reassigned, and out of the clutches of the GRU. This is a horse that both of us can ride, Vladimir.”

  6. WHALEBONE

  January 1981

  Norfolk, Virginia

  “He can swim with the best of ‘em,” Lieutenant Commander Alan Monico said, smiling, as a wet-suited arm grabbed a handhold near the stern of the large, extensively modified Motor Fishing Vessel. The attached body soon flopped over the low freeboard.

  George Nathan nodded, and watched the tall, broad-shouldered figure of Yuri Sverdlov climb onto the deck in full gear, where he dropped fins sloshing with water.

  “Good to see you again,” Nathan said. “Knew you’d make the grade. Your old man was made of the same stuff.”

  Yuri eyed him as he unfastened a quick release harness, removing his tank and Buoyancy Control vest in a single, fluid motion.

  Nathan chuckled to himself and shook his head. “Still like to swim?”

  Yuri pulled off his mask and pinched his nose with fingers, trying to equalize his middle ear. He felt warm water from his chest trickle down to his leg under the wet suit, then spill onto the deck. “Yeah, well... “ he said, lamely, suppressing a snappy comeback in deference to Nathan’s grade.

  He turned to Monico. “Commander, McGahn is below, stowing some gear on the vehicle. He’ll be topside shortly.”

  “Okay,” Monico said, “we’ll wait to do the briefing. “Meanwhile, why not get dry?”

  Yuri pulled off the black, neoprene wet suit, continuing to watch Nathan.

  “So whaddya think of Aqua Man?”

  “She’s a good boat,” Yuri said, without hesitation. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “You remember Geller?”

  “Yes, Sir. The quiet guy. Your CIA pal.”

  “Actually, he’s from the Office of Naval Research. He had connections with DARPA—Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency. So when this mission came down, and we wrestled with how to do it, Geller recalled that Aqua Man was a DARPA project. He pulled some strings. The sub’s on loan—just like Geller, and just like you.”

  “She’s built for long range and stealth,” Yuri said, matter-of-factly. “So what kind of mission—”

  “You’ll see,” Nathan said with a wink. “You’ll see.”

  * * *

  They waited for McGahn in the cabin below deck. Yuri sipped coffee, trying to piece the puzzle together. He knew that Nathan was primarily intereste
d in his Russian language skills. He knew the mission involved underwater penetration. And he knew that familiarization with submarine pens was critical to mission success. Ergo—

  Thump, thump, thump! They all turned their heads as McGahn heavy-footed his way down the steps and into the cabin, his powerful arm rubbing a towel over a damp, strawberry crewcut. “Hi there,” he said. “Hope you’re not waiting for me.”

  “We were,” Nathan said. “Have a seat. I’ll get started.” After McGahn settled in, he began. “I don’t have any fancy charts with me. You’ll get all the information you need during the mission planning phase. What I want to do today is introduce you to Project Whalebone.”

  Nathan handed Monico a series of black and white photos. They showed a littered underwater landscape interrupted by odd-looking marks and tracks. Monico flipped though them quickly, then gave them to McGahn.

  “You’ve probably heard about Soviet submarine incursions in Swedish ports,” Nathan continued. “Well, you may not have heard about the ones in NATO harbors. Those pictures are from the sub base at Holy Loch.”

  McGahn cleared his throat. “I heard they was just porpoises or somethin’.”

  “Some people in the Swedish Navy would like everyone to believe that fish story,” Nathan continued. “Fact is, we have pictures like these and some hard, classified evidence to the contrary. Part of the problem is that sonobuoys and other special sensors can’t easily detect small-sized submersibles. Mini-subs can bypass established ‘roads’—navigable channels kept open through dredging. They have minimal displacement and the size and sonar signatures are similar to large sea mammals. There are even some Swedes who think they’re dealing with Orca packs—killer whales. We know differently.”

  “Despite your classified evidence,” Yuri said, “why would the Soviets do this? I mean, what aboutDétente ?”

  Nathan cackled loudly, sharply, uncharacteristically, gesturing with a hand, fingers pinched together. “And now, madames et monsieurs, we move from reality into ze realm of pure myth.” He laughed again. “Sorry, I was just... The irony of it. The duplicity of it.Détente. ”

  He straightened his face and continued. “Their western flank is in turmoil. The Czechoslovakian problem that Brezhnev thought he put to bed in ‘68 is resurfacing in Poland, where the Solidarity trade union movement is stirring things up. The Soviets blame the influence of foreign thoughts and ideas—a contagion they have to stop. Mini-sub penetrations are one dimension of the problem. Stakes are pretty high. A Soviet move into Jutland and Zealand would sever NATO’s air and sea access to the Baltic. Then again, maybe they’re just trying to pressure western governments to stay away. Still, it gives them a credible option. Human Intelligence reports say the harbor penetrations are part of a coordinated effort to survey marine sites for the pre-placement of nuclear devices.”

  The faces in the cabin grew silent and reflective.

  Nathan continued in a softer voice. “They’re using submersibles of unknown type. That’s why we’re unilaterally launching a Special Operations Force to investigate—Operation Whalebone. And you, gentlemen, are that hand-picked team.”

  McGahn smiled. “Hand-picked—as in pulling up flowers by the roots.”

  “Pay no attention to McGahn,” Monico chimed. “He’s our delicate little flower.”

  “Where’re we goin’?” McGahn asked, looking cross-eyed at Monico. “Even flowers get curious.”

  “Poljarny,” Nathan said. “A Soviet sub base north of Murmansk, on the Berents Sea.”

  The men looked at each other. Monico whistled, long and low. “You got our attention, Mr. Nathan. What’s the mission?”

  “To photograph the mini-subs and, if possible, retrieve a sample of their hull coating. We need that information to develop countermeasures.”

  “Why Aqua Man?” Yuri asked.

  “Yeah,” Monico said. “Why not a standard CRRC insertion?”

  “The probability of detection is too high,” Nathan said. “We considered CRRC—Combat Rubber Raiding Craft. We also thought about using LO/L1 delivery—blowing you guys out of a submerged Sturgeon class sub. Great macho stuff, but there are problems. Waters above Murmansk are riddled with sensors. We sure as hell can’t get a nuclear sub anywhere near the base.”

  “What about SDVs?” Yuri asked.

  “Well, now you’re beginning to see the problem. We need stand-off capability—use a sub to get you in the neighborhood and a mini-submersible to get you within swimming distance. But standard Swimmer Delivery Vehicles—SDVs—are not pressurized. You’d be immersed in Arctic water the whole time. Even in dry suits, you’d risk hypothermia on a long-duration mission.”

  “So the purpose of Aqua Man—” Yuri began.

  “Is to execute one leg of a multi-stage delivery. You’ll travel from Holy Loch to Poljarny entirely underwater—some four thousand miles as the fish swims.”

  “Ain’t no fish swims that way,” McGahn said, grinning.

  “SEALS do,” Nathan replied with a wink. “Most of the trip will be aboard the Colby. She’s a ballistic missile sub modified for covert operations. She’ll carry Aqua Man inside a missile tube—a giant air lock. You’ll launch before you hit their sensor fields, then travel through the fjord to the base. The final phase will be an underwater swim into the sub pens.”

  A million questions raced through Yuri’s brain. He homed in on one: “Why me? I’ve got no operational experience.”

  Nathan smiled. “If things go wrong, the Escape and Evasion plan requires movement on foot across the Kola Peninsula. A Russian linguist is critical for success.”

  Yes, Lieutenant Sverdlov, he thought,you may already have won another trip to Hell . He remembered Little Creek, Virginia. After graduation, he endured six weeks of the most grueling torture the military dishes out—BUD, Basic Underwater Demolition training. And a brief, Central Intelligence Agency courses at Langley and Camp Peary.And now, I’m a CIA-trained SEAL—Sea, Air and Land team. That, and sixty cents, will buy me a cup of coffee in some places .Or entitle me to a dignified burial—if they can find the body .Maybe that’s the prize for Operation Whalebone .

  “One more thing,” Nathan said. “The next phase of your training will be in Alaskan waters—navigation exercises. Aqua Man’s equipped with an advanced Inertial Nav System similar to what’s used on aircraft, but based on a ring laser. You’ll need it to avoid sensor nets while operating submerged at night.”

  “Night,” Monico said.

  “SEALS can do anything,” Nathan said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I gotta run.” He shook hands with Monico, climbed back to the deck, and departed in a small, motorized multihull.

  They watched it skim its way back toward Norfolk Naval Base.

  Yuri turned to Monico. “We’re going through the looking glass, Commander.” He smiled, then nodded toward the departing boat, now almost lost in the kaleidoscope of undulating waves and low, glinting sunlight. “It has a certain symmetry, don’t you think? Whalebone’s the mirror image of Soviet operations—a mini-sub penetration to get information about Soviet mini-sub penetrations.”

  “Well, McGahn said, wiping his mouth with the back of a hand, “I’m ready to kick Russian butt.”

  Monico laughed. “You don’t get it, McGahn. We’re not kicking anyone’s butt. We’re collecting information. Millions of dollars, lots of time, and lots of risk—for some very special information.”

  “Yessir, Bossman.”

  “And Sverdlov—when you look into that mirror, just remember that we’re the good guys.”

  Duty, honor, country, Yuri thought.Gotcha . He looked back at the sea, tried to spot Nathan’s boat, but couldn’t find it. It seemed lost in the ambiguity of earth and sky.

  7. PRODIGY

  June 1981

  Fort Dietrick, Maryland

  “Wa-a-ll, Richard, you’re real special. You know?” Billy Stanton, now in his early forties, gave the 13-year-old, six-foot tall Richard Chandra a fatherly pat on the arm
and smiled.

  He realized that the flesh he touched was a chimera—a genetic mosaic, not entirely human. Given the mother’s mental predisposition, maybe not entirely sane. Still, his decision to continue with the experiment had been infinitely rational. It was a risk worth taking. Now, he could see the payoff.

  “Not many people can ace both advanced quantum physics and neurophysiology,” he chuckled. “‘Specially at your age. What am I gonna do with you?” One hand played with a hedge of gray-brown hair surrounding a bald pate.

  Richard reached into a jar of cookies on Stanton’s desk.

  “Please,” Billy said, “help yourself.”

  The boy walked to the window overlooking the parade grounds, and munched, watching the birds. “Is this a career counseling session? Or what?”

  “Well, yeah. Sort of. Good guess.”

  “I’m glad we’re finally having this talk, Billy.”

  “A career, Richard—at least any career worth a damn—is built on hopes and dreams. I know I have my hopes and dreams. They’re big. And noble. And they’ll change the world. I think you share some of those same dreams.”

  “If only you could imagine, Billy.”

  “Ahem. Well, what I want to propose—it’s kind of a pact.”

  Richard nibbled at a cookie, waiting for Billy to finish the thought.

  “Yeah, a pact.” Billy rubbed his nose, looked at the floor, and scratched the back of his head. “See, Richard... I’m gonna level with you—tell it like it is. Up to this point, you’ve been... kind of... a guinea pig. Oh—but we helped you. My goodness. We gave you opportunities to learn, a nice place to live, and just a lot of things. But you’re something we’ve been studying. Something special.”

  Richard Chandra quietly gazed into Billy’s eyes.

  “This is a turning point in our relationship, Richard. I see now that you can help us. You’ve got a gift. There are certain problems—technical and scientific—that we’re tryin’ to solve. Almost all of them are related to you—who you are and how you think.”