Grant ran the back of his hand along his chin, realizing he needed a shave, and positive Morelli noticed. "Guess I'll ask the obvious question, sir. Is the Bronson part of the task force?"
Morelli nodded. "She is now. She joined up with them two days ago."
Grant turned and looked at Phillips. "When did you get the China news?"
"About three weeks ago. We only got confirmation from the Russkie side yesterday."
Grant glanced at the folder then up at Morelli. "Any place special you want me to start, Admiral?"
"SecDef and the Joint Chiefs are meeting tomorrow at 1030 hours. I'd like you to have something ready to present to them. Can you be there, too?" he asked Phillips.
"I can be," Phillips answered. He unwrapped a stick of Wrigley's Spearmint gum, folded it into thirds, and then popped it into his mouth.
"Good. It's settled then," Morelli stated.
Grant's thoughts were traveling at warp speed, the intensity in his brown eyes making it obvious to the Admiral that a scheme was already in the works.
Morelli flicked the ash from the stub of the cigar into an ivory ashtray. He walked to the window, staring across the nearly deserted parking lot, paying little attention to the snow accumulating on the fourth story window ledge. He absent-mindedly drew a zigzag pattern with his finger across the moisture forming on the glass, and with urgency-laced words he said, "I've got all night, Commander."
Grant immediately recognized his old friend's deep concern just from the sound of the word "Commander."
Morelli turned, took a deep breath, and then stared directly at Grant. "Now, I know you've already got something on your mind. Let's hear it."
Chapter Two
Off The Northeast Coast of Japan
Cruising at zero four five degrees, 2,500 yards off the carrier's starboard bow, the USS Bronson, DDGR-1, was making her first deployment under extraordinary circumstances. She never got a customary shakedown cruise after her maiden voyage...she was needed now. Her 4,000 tons and 325 foot length sliced through the water with a pronounced bow measuring 49 feet above the surface of the water. Her mean draft, 22 feet under the waterline, was impressive. Most ships delve deeper--she was built for speed. She had a cruising speed of 24 knots and a top speed that no one talked about, unless they belonged to the proper group. It was said, though, that she could do in excess of 45 knots. Out of 102 commissioned destroyers in service during 1975, she was the smallest and sleekest, but the most advanced destroyer in the world. The Bronson possessed capabilities beyond the imagination. This one ship had the ability to deal with and defeat any nation's arsenal of weapons, whether airborne, landlocked, or underwater, conventional or nuclear. Then, to add insult to injury, she could launch either a conventional or nuclear response within seconds of detecting a threat. All the missiles she carried on board were undetectable. She was rigged to confuse, avoid, deter, destroy, and survive. Once her power was officially published, her very existence would forever instill the fear of God into any aggressor. Everyone realized this cruise might be when she would have no choice but to let her power be known.
What also made this a remarkable display of modern technology was that the USS Bronson had no crew, except for one. Her "crew members" were thousands of miles away, in Kodiak, Alaska. The secure network that allowed the Bronson and Kodiak to communicate was a scrambled, modern system that changed codes every hour. At an exact, predetermined time, encoded cards, the size of credit cards, were inserted into a panel, one on the Bronson, the other at Kodiak. No one, no modern equipment could decode or intercept the signals. This security for the Bronson was extraordinary because she possessed a weapon that was described only as the ultimate enforcer, far too advanced for its time, the most lethal weapon the world had ever known.
The concept had been around for more than three decades, the initial idea conceived by Dr. Forrest Wentfield, one of the physicists who had been recruited for the Manhattan Project and the development of the atomic bomb. Although a brilliant individual, his love of science fiction bordered on fanatical. It was from the stories of the futuristic heroes, Buck Rogers and Flash Gordon, that Wentfield developed his ideas while teaching physics at Georgetown University. He learned how the basics for capturing and using nuclear energy should be designed. From this the Satellite Neutron and Gamma System (SNAGS) was born, and the driving force for the development of the Bronson.
The ship carried no special launch technology topside that would arouse curiosity. Kept below deck was a simple reflecting communication's dish. Located just forward of the bridge, the launcher rails, once used for the supersonic surface-to-air TARTAR missile, were now used to raise and point the SNAGS. As SNAGS rose up on the rails, the on board operator had the capability to aim it no more than a distance of eight miles. For longer ranges, the Alaska unit controlled the energy burst and satellite tracking vectors, sending the coordinates to the Bronson. The operator on board simply had to pull the trigger once the dish was pointed at the satellite.
The SNAGS could radiate gamma and neutron rays captured from a nuclear reactor system in a separate array of filters that could reflect and traverse the particles and rays of radiation into a narrow beam. These would be funneled through an advanced accelerator that allowed the small satellite dish to pulse a solid beam of energy loaded with neutron and gamma rays. This refined beam would be sent through the dish. Its use could be 'line of sight' or bounced off a satellite deep in space. Its gamma and neutron energy would be reflected from the satellite to a surface target and the combined radiation would penetrate anything. All living organisms would be killed, but inanimate objects would remain intact. Ships would become aimless, meandering hulks; populated buildings would instantly become silent structures. Its line of sight was so sophisticated that it could pick out a single individual up to eight miles away. It could destroy a whole harbor's inhabitants by expanding the adjustable ray nozzle to various size openings and adjust the radiation level accordingly. With its captured radiation, the advantage was that nothing outside of the beam was contaminated or rendered harmful. A living organism touched by the beam would die from a massive overdose of concentrated radiation, reducing it to a small puddle of condensed steam.
The Americans intentionally allowed a rumor to leak out about the Bronson. It may have been just a trickle, but it was enough. After all, this was the Cold War, and the order of the day was to scare the living hell out of the other guys. This mere trickle, though, opened up the floodgates within the Communist world. With orders from the General Secretary, the Office of the KGB and Internal Affairs Office of the Kremlin had formed a special task unit of their most talented and cerebral individuals. Their assignment was to organize plans for the capture of the Bronson and her technology. A few select Party members knew the Bronson to be more than just rumor, and leaving their options open, let the decision that had been made go forward. The Communist leadership had no other alternative but to activate Russia's mole, and the USS Bronson would be his objective.
*
Friday, January 24, 1975
2130 Hours
The nuclear carrier USS John Preston, a Kitty Hawk Class ship, carried with her 2,800 crew members, an additional 2,500 men from the five air wings out of North Island Naval Air Station, Marine aviators from Twenty-Nine Palms, and 72 Marines. Her after flight deck, starboard deck, and hangar bay were covered with diverse types of aircraft grouped in tight formation: F-14 Tomcats; A-6 Intruders; EA-6B Prowlers; F-4 Phantoms, and A-7 Crusaders. Four Navy E-2-C Hawkeyes were disbursed above and below deck, along with a variety of helicopters, including: CH-53 Sea Stallion Marine assault helos; SH-3G Sea King rescue choppers, and LAMPS' SH-2F ASW choppers. All these accounted for the 80 aircraft aboard the Preston.
Air crewmen and plane captains wandered through the rows to ensure the aircraft were ready for flight. With flight deck space as much at a premium as property in Malibu, aircraft wingtips were folded upward or arranged one over the other.
Makin
g a visual inspection of the flight deck one last time from "Vulture's Row", Commander Dean Morehouse, CAG (Commander of the Air Group), gulped down the last, cold mouthful of his second cup of coffee. He stepped back into the Roost, the cramped area jutting out of the superstructure on the port side, just aft of the bridge. It was from this vantage point that he, the Air Boss and Assistant Air Boss watched and directed launches and landings. He tossed his worn leather flight jacket over the arm of the swivel chair, then rolled down the neck of his yellow pullover jersey, the three inch black stenciled letters "CAG" visible across the back and chest.
"Colder than hell, huh, CAG?" Marty Whitney clattered his teeth together and grinned. On his first cruise as Assistant Air Boss, Whitney still proudly displayed his yellow jersey with the words 'Li'l Boss.'
"Damn right, it is," Dean shivered, "colder than a witch's tit. Expect it's gonna be colder before daybreak."
The past three days the 'Siberian Express' had been blasting across the North Pacific, but luckily this night saw calm seas with little surface wind, which was uncharacteristic for the Pacific in January. But it was a good night for flying.
Morehouse glanced upward at a golden moon and partly cloudy sky. Reality told him the peacefulness around him was a facade--all was not well with the world.
"Another cup of coffee, Mr. Morehouse?" asked Navy Steward Mindina, as he held up the Wardroom's sterling silver coffeepot. Mindina was noted for being the most meticulous steward ever stationed aboard the Preston. His white uniform jacket was always impeccable. Most of his lessons came early on in life. Growing up in Manila with a household filled with nine children, he being the oldest, his mother and father ensured that all of them were prepared for life.
"Thanks, Edward," CAG smiled as he held out his white ceramic cup. The steam from the hot coffee briefly fogged up his steel-rimmed glasses as he took a sip of the hot brew. The natural oil from the beans floated on the surface of the dark brown liquid, and he stared into the cup. "Good stuff, Edward," he chuckled as he turned away, mumbling to himself, "That's some ass-kickin' shit!"
Morehouse walked forward to the bridge, glancing at the Air Boss Captain (Select) Craig Dodson, who was being his usual, jittery self. Morehouse smiled. Dodson was acting more and more like a grandmother nervously watching over grandchildren left in her care. As Air Boss he was the key safety officer, the flight controller, ultimately having final responsibility for the launching and receiving of all aircraft. One sleeve of Dodson's yellow jersey was pushed up to his elbow, revealing a white grease pencil tucked under the stainless steel band of his Rolex.
CAG admitted it was times like these when he felt the same nervousness. With just the sheer number of men and aircraft, the experienced sailor knew that the likelihood of an accident was probable, loss of life likely. Every ninety seconds a plane is launched off each of the four cats. In the blink of an eye, it would only take one mistake, oversight, or a moment of carelessness, and a life would be snuffed out. A careless sailor, not paying attention, would end up 'hamburger meat' in the intake of a jet aircraft or blown over the side by powerful engine blasts. The strong current surging against this 1,000 foot vessel, all but assured certain death.
And to pilots flying at 10,000 feet, a four-acre, rolling, pitching flight deck looks like a postage stamp. The odds of an accident increases during night traps, as pilots lose their visual references because of their inability to see the horizon or the ocean. The only visible lights are tiny white lights, recessed in the deck and spaced apart every eight feet, lighting up the center of the landing area, with yellow lights running down each side. Pilots can only see the lights once they approached the carrier from the fantail. A miscalculation can send a multi-million dollar jet aircraft careening into the fantail, or "ass end" in Navy talk.
Morehouse sipped at his coffee as he returned to the Roost. Tapping his grease pencil against the window, he looked toward the horizon, waiting for any sign. That corner of the glass was clean now, all previous black marks removed, marks that helped him keep track of the earlier flights; he knew the exact position of his 'birds', the F-14 Tomcats. He thought about all the planes, all the flights he'd been associated with. There was pride and satisfaction knowing that he never lost a plane or crew member since reporting for duty aboard the Preston a year and a half ago. Four months of the cruise were already gone. He couldn't believe his tour was almost over, and in Navy terms, that meant he was getting short.
He remembered another carrier, four years earlier, when planes and men were lost daily, never to return from Southeast Asia. His recollections of that time brought back feelings of failure. He failed at his job, failed his men, unable to bring all of them home. Four years seemed like a lifetime ago.
Now, he was 2,400 miles from the waters off Vietnam and cruising fifty miles off the northeast coast of Japan, waiting for final orders that would send the fleet into the Sea of Japan. This time, instead of fighting in a war, the Navy was trying to prevent what could turn out to be a nuclear holocaust. The tension associated with the crisis was impossible to ignore, as it touched every man in the task force in one way or other.
Snapping to attention, a boatswain's mate announced the Captain's arrival. "Captain's on the bridge, sir!"
Captain Mike Donovan nodded, "Gentlemen." Donovan's Marine escort followed closely behind, immediately taking his position next to the door, standing at attention.
CAG turned and walked back onto the bridge. "Evening, Captain." Air Boss Dodson nodded with his typical unsmiling fashion, "Captain." He resumed his pacing.
Mike Donovan glanced at the stocky-framed Air Boss, thinking back when he held that same position and how much he had despised the ulcerous assignment. Yet, here he was with his first command of a carrier. The only other person on the carrier that was senior to him was Admiral Stanton Hewlett, whose only assignment was to ensure the task force completed its mission. It was Admiral Hewlett's flag the carrier was flying on this cruise.
Donovan was responsible for several air wings and twenty or more ships assigned to the task force. Cruisers, destroyers, supply ships made up part of the armada, disbursed sometimes up to hundreds of miles away from the carrier. Others stayed close by, leading, following and surrounding the Preston. They were there on an individual, and an integrated mission.
Donovan slid his hands into his back pockets. "How are things going, Craig? All the 'birds' back on deck?"
"Not yet, sir," answered the Air Boss. "Still have four 'felines' making their way in. CIC (Combat Information Center) reported them about 100 miles out. We should have them on the approach radar any time now."
Donovan walked over to the high-backed captain's chair, swiveling it back and forth. His authoritative voice suddenly boomed: "Everyone on station, Mr. Crawley?"
OOD (Officer of the Deck) Lieutenant Frank Crawley answered Donovan with quick precision as to the nautical "where-at" of each vessel. "Just need to check on the tanker, sir."
"Very well."
Crawley stepped outside the bridge, going to the starboard polaris used to take a ship's bearings in relation to the carrier. Making a notation, he came back to the quartermaster's station on the bridge. As he scanned his report, he unconsciously rubbed the bump on the bridge of his nose. In the Wardroom his fellow officers kiddingly called him 'Speedbump'.
"Captain, all vessels have correctly taken their stations."
Donovan nodded as he hiked up his khaki trousers, his protruding stomach more prominent lately. His sweet tooth just kept pushing him to too many desserts. "Excellent dinner tonight, Edward!"
"Thank you, Captain," Edward Mindina answered proudly.
Donovan turned toward XO Masters. "I noticed your plate was wiped clean, XO!"
"Yes, sir. We're lucky to have Edward with us," Executive Officer Masters smiled.
Wayne Masters and Mike Donovan served together previously aboard the Kitty Hawk during the Vietnam conflict. It was a known fact among the officers that the two had their differ
ences, especially when it came to disciplinary action with the crew. Donovan's hard-line attitude didn't set well with Masters, even though he admitted to his fellow officers that there were very few problems among the men. He folded his arms across his chest, watching out of the corner of his eye as Donovan wandered over to the radar repeater.
The Captain's total concentration was on the screen as he eyeballed the green blips and checked his vector board. "Where's that pain in the ass trawler?" he barked softly.
"There it is, skipper, right there." Radarman Second Class Jack Summers rested his elbow on the lip of the table, tapping his grease pen on the screen. He gave a sideways glance at Donovan and frowned, his dark eyebrows resembling thick pieces of rope being drawn together by block and tackle. "But something's weird, sir."
"What's weird, 'Scopes'?" Donovan asked as he leaned closer to the screen, resting his hand on the countertop.
The young radarman avoided glancing at the twisted little finger on Donovan's right hand, a constant reminder of a returning flight to Cecil Field in Florida, when the landing gear of his Phantom collapsed. "Well, sir, he's been movin' around a lot the past couple of hours, never staying on the same course." Summers traced a route on the screen with his pen. "First he was at two seven zero degrees, now he's come around to starboard, heading one four five degrees." He went quiet for a second, then shook his finger in the air, a logical explanation popping into his mind. "Ya know, sir, I bet they're keeping tabs on the Bronson now that she's joined us." He pointed to the screen, "And there's the Bronson, sir. Expect they've lost their interest in us."
Russian trawlers were a common sight, always 'dogging' the American fleet, prowling the waters. Sporting huge quarter length Marconi-type antennas and other intercept designed military-type antennas, radar, and communication gear, they electronically 'eavesdropped' on the Americans and filmed their flight ops. They still didn't have a carrier--they wanted one.
Mission Critical Page 2
