Leviathan: An Event Group Thriller

by David L. Golemon

  The first officer raised his eyebrows and looked at Lofgren.

  “I guess it would have had to have been big to shove aside that much water. Are you sure the object was that deep?”

  Again, the young man was hesitant to answer. “Captain, it was so deep that …” He saw the impatience showing on both officers’ faces. “About fifteen hundred feet at first contact.”

  “Fifteen hundred feet of depth and then it suddenly sprang like a cheetah up to seventy-five knots? I can’t buy that, Cleary. Not even the Russians have anything remotely close to half that,” the first officer said.

  “Write it up, Cleary, and get it to me. We’ll bait the hook and send it out and see if anyone at COMSUBLANT bites.”

  As Captain Lofgren returned to the conn, he half-turned to his first officer.

  “Before you say anything, Dick, we know the attack on the surface happened, and we know Columbia didn’t do it. Therefore, someone else had to have done it. In addition, that someone did it in clear listening range of not only us, but also that Chinese sub they handled with ease. I’ll bet my command that the attacker and Cleary’s strange contact are one and the same.”

  The captain turned and saw the eyes of his crew looking at him. The unknowns being pondered frightened them, and he could see it.

  Every man aboard knew they had something in the water that could outrun and outgun them, and nothing made an American submariner more concerned than an unseen and unknown enemy.

  3

  EVENT GROUP COMPLEX,

  NELLIS AIR FORCE BASE, NEVADA

  Director Niles Compton sat with the sixteen departmental heads of the Event Group, silently watching a briefing delivered to the President of the United States by his national security team from the White House. The council there did not know the Event Group was listening in.

  “With our losses in the sea of Japan five weeks ago, our weakened status dictates that we have to redeploy our forces even more thinly than they are,” the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General Kenneth Caulfield, said as he stood before the large situation board.

  “Ken, we’ll get back to that. What I want to know is what we have on the attacks in Venezuela.”

  Caulfield nodded toward Admiral Fuqua, the naval chief of staff, who opened a file folder and cleared his throat as if he were uncomfortable with what he was about to say.

  “The detonations at sea against the oil tanker, the Greenpeace vessel, and the Chinese attack submarine were nuclear in nature. The yield of each weapon estimated at only five-point-six kilotons. As with the warheads detonated over Caracas, the radiation yield was almost nonexistent. These were the cleanest weapons we have ever come across. Dissipation occurred only hours after the attacks, and there are no lingering effects to air, ground, or sea.”

  “That’s impossible,” ventured the president’s national security advisor. “No one has weapons that clean, we would have—”

  “Andy, what have the boys across the river come up with on where this nuclear material originated?” the president asked CIA Director Andrew Cummings.

  “Well, sir, the samples sent to us by courier from our naval asset in the area support no conclusions as to where this material was bred; they only raise more questions.”

  “Come on, Andy, I’m not going to hold you to it. Give me what your people are thinking.”

  “We have nothing on record as far as a nuclear fingerprint goes. This material may have been spawned by a breeder reactor that has not been identified.”

  “Again, that’s impossible; the Nuclear Regulatory Commission has—”

  “Damn it.” The president slammed his palm down on the tabletop, cutting his security advisor short once more. “I think everyone in this room better have learned by now that there are people out there we know nothing about. The Atlantis incident should have taught you that. Assume we have someone out there that can toss clean nukes around. Let’s concentrate on finding out who and why, not the impossibility of it,” the president said angrily.

  In Nevada, Niles Compton glanced at several of his key people, including Captain Carl Everett of the security department and Virginia Pollock, the assistant director of the Event Group. They both saw Niles nod toward them, indicating they would be assigned the task of efforting the problem of clean nukes on their end, at least historically speaking, to see if any research conducted in the past historical record could be uncovered. Without being ordered to do so, Niles hoped to help his old friend in the White House with something the Event Group might have in their database. The Event Group had vast archives on the discovery, engineering, and manufacture of fissionable materials for their study.

  “We may have a break as to the why part of the equation, Mr. President,” Cummings said in Washington as he opened another red-bordered file folder.

  “Go ahead, Andy, something is better than nothing. I’m tired of finding things out at the last minute and playing catch-up; we’ve been bloodied the past six weeks by groups who have slipped by our intelligence services.” He saw that his comment stung almost every man and woman in the room. Even his best friend in Nevada, Niles Compton, felt the rebuke.

  “Sir, we do know that the supertanker that was hit was banned from every oil pumping station in the world, with the exception of Caracas, for environmental reasons. Venezuela had leased her, and China was the only nation that agreed to allow her to dock at their off-loading facilities in Shanghai.”

  “Okay, we have a starting point. Andy, get with the EPA and get me some exact numbers on the leakage. Knowing Chavez, he’s going to start throwing around accusations, and we’ve been his popular target lately. I do not want another leader of a third world nation saying we did something we did not do. Steve, I want you to head up the relief for Caracas. Get as much food, medical, and other essential material down there as we can spare. Those people need help regardless of who their leader is.”

  Steve Haskins of Emergency Management nodded and made notes.

  “Ken, Admiral Fuqua: best guess, who could have done this?”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, with the exception of the Directors of CIA, FBI, NSA, the Secretary of Defense, and the National Security Advisor and the Joint Chiefs, would you please excuse us. Mr. President, I don’t know who’s on the other end of that camera, but I advise shutting it down,” General Caulfield said, suspecting that the answer lay in the strange little man who had assisted in the Atlantis operation a few weeks before, part of the president’s private think tank.

  “I’ll leave it on for now, Ken. With the exception of those named, please excuse us.”

  The rest of the cabinet and council filed quickly from the room.

  When the room cleared, Caulfield nodded toward Admiral Fuqua, who stood and pulled down a viewing screen as the lights dimmed.

  “Mr. President, we have information we received from the attack boat USS Columbia, one of our newest Los Angeles class subs. She is the asset I spoke of earlier. She may have picked up a glimmer of something else, maybe the attacking force, we’re not sure. As you see, this is a tape of her sonar.”

  On the screen was the waterfall display from the BQQ passive sonar display on Columbia. It was a series of lines running downward on the screen, and these lines represented the water around the sub. As they watched, there was nothing out of the ordinary on the display screen. Then a shadow of darkness presented itself for a split second and vanished.

  “This object was thought at first to be a glitch in the sonar, but we have learned the object was solid, and we caught it only because of the burst of speed it displayed when it started diving away from the attack area. It’s three and a half miles off Columbia‘s bow. The estimate of its size is close to a thousand feet in length, and it went from a static, or zero buoyancy, position to over seventy knots.”

  Several men started speaking at once while the president sat in his chair looking at the sonar display.

  “This object was verified by a depth chart graph showing the keel of Columbia
raised eight feet in depth as whatever this thing is passed beneath her—and that is substantiated. So with this strange blip on sonar, coupled with the massive water displacement, there’s little doubt we have one hell of a problem out there,” Fuqua added.

  Far beneath Nellis Air Force Base, the conference room was silent. The events the department heads had been witness to while attached to the department would never allow for surprise at any one thing they were shown. Unlike the military and intelligence people at the White House, they were at least accustomed to holding their opinions until all the details could be brought out into the open. As Niles watched the Group, he saw Virginia Pollock was deep in thought, biting her lower lip.

  “I don’t believe anything can travel that fast,” the president said from the White House.

  “Columbia is due home this afternoon, sir. We have a team on standby ready to board her and take that sonar system apart. But as it stands right now, we may have something in the sea that will prevent us from securing the sea lanes,” Fuqua answered, returning to his seat as the lights came up.

  “Okay, thank you. Get me the information as soon as you can. I have a phone meeting with the president of China in fifteen minutes, so excuse me for now, gentlemen.”

  After everyone had left, the president picked up the phone and hit a small button.

  “So, Bookworm, what do you think of that?”

  Niles Compton looked around, embarrassed at the use of the president’s nickname for him. There were smiles all around as the department heads started gathering their notes to leave. Niles quickly snapped his fingers and got Everett’s attention, gesturing him back down into his seat.

  “What I think is irrelevant at this point. If the navy is worried, it doesn’t do much to spark confidence in myself, especially as weak as we are at the moment.”

  “You have people out there that can outthink anyone I have. Get someone on this and find out if history says we may have a problem here. Technology like this couldn’t have sprung up overnight. The research for it may be somewhere in your vast files.”

  “Already on it,” Niles answered.

  “I hate using you as a crutch here, Niles, but—well, do your thing for me. Now, how’s the Group doing?” the president asked with concern.

  “Losing Jack and his people—well, we were never really geared for these kinds of losses, but we’re moving on.”

  “Okay, Mr. Director, I have to go and speak with the Chinese about their destroyed sub.”

  “Yes, sir,” Niles said as he terminated the call and turned toward Everett. “You seem to be someplace other than here, Captain.”

  “Is it that obvious?” he asked as he rubbed his tired eyes.

  “Are you getting any sleep?” Alice Hamilton, the director’s assistant since 1945, asked.

  Virginia didn’t say anything as she looked down at her notepad.

  “Have you spoken with Sarah since she went home?” Alice asked.

  Everett smiled at Alice’s question. She always knew how to get directly to the point, and did it with a modicum of grandmotherly censure that didn’t make you feel like a thief of her time.

  “She’ll heal. She is tougher than she thinks—hell, we all are.”

  Niles nodded his head, and then brought the team back to the business at hand.

  “Virginia, get some expertise on naval functions from Captain Everett, and also start investigating these clean nukes. Somewhere in our files we have information on those who have come close to making such weapons. Not much, but that’s where we’ll start.”

  Niles saw Virginia nod her head once, but she remained silent as she took her notepad and left without acknowledging anyone.

  LITTLE ROCK, ARKANSAS

  Second Lieutenant Sarah McIntire sat in her darkened bedroom and stared at the wall. She absentmindedly reached up with her right hand and lightly rubbed her shoulder, which was still in a sling. The music she was listening to was as dark as her room, and her thoughts. The Moody Blues had been one of Jack’s favorites, and Sarah now found that she couldn’t get enough, particularly of the dark melody emanating from the small speakers in the corner. “Nights in White Satin,” their most haunting song, sank deep into Sarah’s soul and burned itself into her psyche.

  A single tear built in her left eye and then slowly traveled down her cheek as she absently wiped it away. She was still weak from the bullet she had taken in the battle for the sunken city of Atlantis, and she knew that because of losing Jack, her recovery was lagging.

  The door opened and her mother, not hesitating as she had done the past week, stepped inside, flipping on the light switch. Her next move made Sarah wake up as the stereo was turned off abruptly.

  “From what you told me of this fella Jack, I don’t think he would care for you sittin’ here in the dark, moping around and feeling sorry for yourself. You need to get up and work some of this despair out of your system.”

  Sarah looked up at her mother. The woman was almost an older version of Sarah herself. Short at five feet, and with the same dark hair, only eight inches longer. She was thin and had none of the Arkansas homemaker demeanor about her. She faced her daughter with hands on hips and a frown on her pretty face.

  “You tell me, is this any way for an officer in the army to act? I’m sure soldiers have lost friends before. Are you something special—the rules don’t apply to you?”

  Sarah looked from her mother to the far wall of her room, which hadn’t changed one bit since she left home after joining the army six years before.

  “Did it hurt you when Daddy left us?” Sarah asked, not able to look into her mother’s eyes.

  Becky McIntire half-smiled, sad attempt though it was, and then sat on the edge of Sarah’s small bed.

  “Oh, I hurt something fierce. Having you was what kept me from straying from the course of your upbringing. Without you, I doubt I would have been much good to myself. You were all I had.” She smiled and touched her daughter’s leg. “But you? Why, your letters to me tell of the people you work with, the way they all respect you, and the way you explained Jack in those letters, well, let’s just say he didn’t leave you like your daddy left me, honey. He was taken—and that is a world of difference. You know the folks you work with are hurtin’ too. Maybe they need you back there at your base—just maybe they need help from you to make sense of this. You go on and hurt, but sooner or later you’re going to get up out of that chair and do what your colonel expects of you.”

  “And what is that, Mother?” Sarah asked, knowing her mom’s humor was about to be exposed for the first time in the week she had been home.

  “To get your ass out into my garden and do some weeding, of course! Or get on a plane and go back to work. They need you more than I do.”

  For the first time since she awoke to find Jack Collins gone from her life, Sarah smiled, and then cried hard with her head in her mother’s lap.

  The next morning, Sarah boarded a plane bound for McCarran Airport in Las Vegas. She needed the men and women there because now she knew she could never heal without them. Second Lieutenant Sarah McIntire, with her arm still in a sling, was going home to heal among her friends at the Event Group.

  TWO HUNDRED NAUTICAL MILES

  OFF THE COAST OF WASHINGTON, D.C.

  The room was dark and the man still slept his unnatural sleep. The doctor sat at his desk watching the comatose patient’s breathing, and became worried at its shallowness. He heard the door to the infirmary open and then silently close with a pneumatic hiss. He knew who stood just inside the doorway, tucked into the shadows.

  “We cannot keep him like this much longer. His breathing is shallow and his vitals, although stable for right now, are showing signs of deterioration.”

  “We will have need of him soon. He is vital for our assault; he will limit the possible response by their security for the second part of our response. You may start to bring him out of it if you wish.”

  “I read the file on this man that
your spy sent us, Captain. You’re right, he’s a very dangerous individual,” the doctor said as he finally turned his chair toward the darkness by the door.

  “Yes,” said the voice. “I will have security relieve you of him as soon as he is conscious. Is it possible to have him ready to travel within twenty-four hours, Doctor?”

  “Possibly, with a shot of adrenalin and a vitamin B-12 booster after he’s conscious, but I wouldn’t recommend it.” The doctor turned and saw the captain’s eyes were heavily dilated. “Are you feeling all right, Captain? The prescription I gave you should have run out by now…. You … you are not abusing doctor’s orders, are you?”

  Silence was his only answer. The doctor looked at the clock on the wall and saw that it was only 0440. The combination of sleeplessness and her narcotic addiction worried him. In this condition she seemed docile and adverse to the harshness of her earlier orders. The captain stepped into the light, and he saw that she looked, at least for the moment, as if she were now more awake. Even the eye dilation was settling, allowing her pupils to shrink back to normal size. The heroin was wearing off.

  “We are striking at the U.S. facility today—without a warning to the president being delivered beforehand.” The dark shape of the captain’s hand reached up and rubbed at the right temple area and then at the back of the head. “This will get the attention of the United Nations before we make our announcement to the world.”

  “Captain, let me at least give you something for sleep.”

  As he reached for the large bottle of pills he kept on his desktop, the door opened and allowed a momentary flash of light from the companionway outside the infirmary to enter. Then the door closed and the captain was gone.