The Taking of K-129

by Josh Dean

  Davis lay there for at least a half hour, until he was certain he could no longer hear footsteps, and then began to kick and struggle with his restraints. The tape on his ankles slipped a little, then a little more, until he had enough space between his legs to stand and hop-slide across the floor, falling several times onto carpet rolls and then flopping back to his feet. He managed to hobble to Kay Glenn’s office, knock a phone off the hook, and dial Harry Watson, the company’s operator on duty that night. It took two calls, using only muffled sounds he could make through his gag, but Davis managed to relay enough information that Watson called for help.

  As Davis sat in Glenn’s chair to await the police’s arrival, he noticed two pieces of loose paper on the floor—papers that were clearly dropped by the burglars in their haste to loot the room.

  • • •

  The LAPD detectives assigned to the case were perplexed from the onset, and things got weirder two weeks later, on June 17, when a man identifying himself as Chester Brooks called Romaine Street looking for Nadine Henley or Kay Glenn. When the man who answered the phone told the caller that neither of the women was in the building, he replied with a set of bizarre instructions straight out of a spy movie. Either Henley or Glenn should proceed to a park across from Hughes’s quasi-secret office on Ventura Boulevard in Encino and look for a white envelope on top of a trash can. Once the envelope had been found, they were to place an ad in the LA Times classified with the message “Apex okay” and a phone number, written backward.

  An LAPD bomb technician retrieved the envelope and found a typewritten memo to Hughes from one of his underlings about the potential purchase of a Las Vegas hotel company. The memo, which was proven to have come from a typewriter at Romaine Street, showed that whoever Chester Brooks was, he had access to stolen documents.

  FBI agents assigned to the case found many things to be fishy. They theorized internally that it could have been an inside job to cover up for Hughes’s connections to Watergate, or alleged SEC violations in the mogul’s recent purchase of Air West. Stranger still, Davis, the guard, refused to take a polygraph exam and was fired by Summa.

  A few weeks later, an unnamed Summa executive notified the FBI that the company had neglected to mention one important thing—that “among the documents stolen was one that related to national security and the CIA.”

  • • •

  Steve Clark, acting security chief at the program office, was at his LA apartment the next morning when Bill Gay called to ask if he could come to Summa’s offices in Studio City immediately to discuss “something of critical interest.” There, Clark was met by Gay and Nadine Henley, who told him about the break-in and explained that this important “something” was a single handwritten memo from Raymond Holliday to Hughes describing the basics of the CIA/Summa ocean-mining operation. She wasn’t certain that the document had been among those stolen, but she hadn’t seen it in some time, and she knew it had been kept in one of the burglarized safes in the past. She was worried enough that she wanted the CIA to be aware.

  Clark briefed Parangosky, who briefed Colby, who made the difficult decision to approach and clear LAPD detectives who were already working on the break-in in conjunction with the FBI.

  Two men claiming to be FBI agents flew out from headquarters in Washington to meet with the LAPD. They told detectives working the case that “a national security document” was among the papers stolen and that if it turned up, “they would recognize it and were to forget they’d ever seen it.” These agents, who might not even have worked for the FBI—speculation later was that they might have been CIA officers posing as federal agents—stayed in Los Angeles and floated the rumor that there was a 1-million-dollar reward for the return of Hughes’s stolen documents.

  When two suspects emerged, by stepping forward to offer the documents for sale, the CIA’s involvement intensified. It took a direct role in the investigation, an action in violation of its charter, which forbade the Agency from spying on US soil. Unknown officers from within the Agency began working directly with the FBI to set up an elaborate ruse. They would use an LAPD informant to introduce the alleged thieves to a fake attorney (an undercover FBI agent) who claimed to represent an interested buyer. The attorney would examine the documents and would be authorized to “negotiate the buy of individual pieces” if he felt his client would find them useful. The FBI authorized the release of one hundred thousand dollars in “show money” that the agent could use to make a buy if necessary, to bait the thieves and negotiate the return of the most important documents—including the Azorian memo.

  The plot unraveled when one of the thieves, a struggling actor and screenwriter, was interviewed by cops and made a series of demands, including total immunity in writing. When the CIA learned that he had an extensive criminal record, the Agency changed its stance and quietly backed away from the case. It also urged that the FBI do the same, explaining that further attention would be harmful to national security.

  And that, it seemed, was the end of it.

  48

  Let’s Go Fishing!

  LONG BEACH, JUNE 1974

  Shortly after midnight on June 20, the Hughes Glomar Explorer backed away from Pier E and headed to sea under cover of darkness, not because of secrecy but because of the need for a high tide to make sure the giant ship, fully loaded with gear for its mission, wouldn’t get hung up in the shallow channels off Long Beach. After more than five years of preparation, and numerous near cancellations, the crew now had only three thousand miles and a week or two of waiting before attempting the most daring intelligence mission in history.

  Before the Explorer could depart for the target site, though, there was one last task to complete. As soon as the ship had cleared US waters, twelve nautical miles from port, it stopped and waited for the arrival of a large chartered helicopter, which left the program office shortly after dawn and landed on the Explorer’s helipad thirty minutes later, disgorging a gaggle of VIPs representing all of the major contractors. The largest group, by far, was from Hughes’s Summa Corp. Out popped Bill Gay, Chester Davis, Jim LeSage, and Paul Reeve, as well as Nadine Henley. Chuck Goedecke represented Lockheed, Pat O’Connell and Dick Abbey came for Honeywell, and Curtis Crooke and Dave Toy were there on behalf of Global Marine. Finally, there was the day’s host: Walt Lloyd, director of Azorian’s Commercial Operations Division, and the event was both an important moment for the cover and a clever fix for a pesky problem that developed while the ship was docked in Long Beach.

  For months, Los Angeles County tax assessor Philip Watson had been badgering Global Marine and Summa about the status of the Hughes Glomar Explorer. Back on February 24, he’d sent a letter to Summa Corporation’s ocean-mining division requesting that the company complete and return a statement about the Explorer’s ownership. More than a month later, on March 29, V. C. Olson, VP and controller of Summa, wrote back, stating that the “subject vessel is registered in the state of Delaware, and is not based in California.”

  Watson wasn’t buying it. He had papers that contradicted Olson’s reply. Every vessel that arrives in a port has to be registered, and when the Explorer pulled into the Port of Long Beach, on October 2, the captain filed documents with the US Coast Guard stating that Summa had sole ownership of the vessel, on a contract to conduct research—documents that Watson had obtained. In his view, this giant ship, owned by one of the country’s wealthiest men, was dodging taxes, and it was his responsibility to collect them. He threatened legal action and kept after the matter until Global Marine’s project attorney, Dave Toy, finally sought backup. It became Lloyd’s responsibility to get Watson off their back.

  Lloyd recruited the support of the CIA’s general counsel, Larry Houston, and arranged a meeting with Watson in the office of the deputy district attorney for Los Angeles a few days before the Explorer’s departure. The plan was to present a formidable show of government force, to show the county
tax assessor who he was really dealing with, and to convince him to desist. But when Lloyd, Houston, Toy, and—because nobody went anywhere without a security officer—Paul Evans arrived at the DA’s office downtown, Watson wasn’t even there; he’d sent his attorney instead. This infuriated Lloyd, who dressed the attorney down, demanding that he pass a message to the tax assessor: The ship was engaged in “government activity” and Watson didn’t have any claim.

  The lawyer’s reaction took them all aback. He asked, rather sheepishly, if they might at least offer some small sum—maybe three thousand dollars—so that Watson could feel as if he’d won something.

  This only inflamed the situation. “We represent the federal government and the taxpayers of the United States and the expenditure of their money, and you’re asking us to give you something just because you want to feel good!” Lloyd snarled.

  What bothered Lloyd more than the meddling of an ambitious local official was the notion that his program was dodging tax regulations. This was a man who took the law, and accountability, very seriously. And it wasn’t the first time he’d had to handle a tax problem. Back when Clementine was still under construction, Lockheed notified Parangosky that its local tax collector, in San Mateo County, was agitating about sales tax, too. So Mr. P called Lloyd. “We’re having tax problems, Walt,” he said. “Figure out what we do.”

  Lloyd gathered attorneys from all of the major contractors, and after several hours of debate they’d yet to agree on a solution, when one of them mentioned that his company wasn’t required to pay taxes on an item shipped out of state. Lloyd perked up. “That’s the answer,” he said.

  It was why, on the day the Explorer left Long Beach, the ship paused to receive a helicopter full of dignitaries—to put on a public show for the nation’s tax collectors, as well as a photographer who took official photos of the transfer of ownership documents from Global Marine to Hughes Tool.

  Had this transfer occurred within US territorial waters, the Agency would have been on the hook for 7 percent sales tax, which is no small number on a ship worth a reported 150 million dollars. Instead, it paid none, and it did so legally—a fact verified by the state tax authority’s general counsel, who’d agreed to the plan in advance, when Lloyd and Toy went to see him.

  • • •

  Once the dignitaries had lifted off for their return to the mainland, the crew could finally, after nine months in Long Beach, put this ship and its systems to the test that many in Washington were still convinced would fail. The sky over the Pacific was “leaden,” according to one of the CIA officers, but “the crew had spirits that were as bright as polished silver.”

  The ship’s skipper, a former tuna boat captain named Tom Gresham, set a course west-northwest, pointed directly to the target site. With an average speed of eight knots, the trip was expected to take roughly thirteen days, meaning that they should arrive on July 4, a date that stood out to some of the CIA men as an auspicious one—a sign that after so many stumbles and bumbles the actual mission might have good luck. Not that “thoughts of jinxes” were on the minds of the crew, one officer later wrote in his journal. “We could do anything. Let Headquarters give us a last-minute change of targets—with this crew and this beautiful ship, no task was too difficult. Mission impossible? Nonsense! ‘Impossible’ was not in our vocabulary. Moments like this must contain the true meaning of team spirit, that extra ingredient that hardware will never possess. To experience it once is enough for a career.”

  On the second day at sea, Mission Director Dale Nielsen called a meeting for all of the CIA officers in the boardroom. The subject: What to do if any Soviet vessels interfered with or even boarded the Explorer. According to Nielsen, the options were limited. The first and primary goal for anyone was to stop any Soviets from getting on board. The captain would take whatever evasive action he could take. Fire hoses could be used to fend off men who might try to climb up the side, SEALs could be sent into the sea to meddle with boats or divers, and the security staff had already told any crew who might be nearby to move crates and boxes onto the helicopter pad to prevent any unwelcome choppers from touching down.

  If all else failed, and a boarding party managed to get onto the ship, the security staff was to avoid the mistake made by the crew of the USS Pueblo. They were to destroy all the classified material immediately. A system was designed to make this emergency process as simple as possible—all classified documents were stored in a single location, in the control center van, in drawers made of steel mesh (except for the few that were hidden in Charlie Canby’s fake pipe, which was a secret to most of the crew). If and when the order was given, those drawers would be pulled and dropped into a chute that went straight to the ocean, and once they were in the water, they’d be lost forever, headed three miles down to the bottom.

  There was also a plan for the worst-case scenario—if the ship were to be taken by force, like the USS Pueblo, and was unable to communicate. Prior to leaving Long Beach, the security staff bought twelve three-gallon buckets of fluorescent green paint and handed them out to certain key crew members, who were instructed to keep them under their bunks. If the ship were to be seized, anyone who was able to get a paint can out of his stateroom should run to the highest point available to him—the helipad, for instance, or the roof of the bridge—and paint a symbol that would then be seen by the next surveillance plane or satellite to fly overhead.

  Every day at five P.M., there was a staff meeting, and the holders of the green paint cans were to attend. Honeywell’s Hank Van Calcar, the simulator architect, was one of those selected to stash a can, and during the initial days of the mission, he was looking for ways to mess with one particular security staffer, a former Navy officer who took everything way too seriously. At the end of a meeting, the room was opened to questions, and Van Calcar raised his hand. “Does anyone have any more of that green paint?” he said. “That damn bedroom of mine is so dull that I painted the walls to make it more homey and now I’m out.”

  Everyone in the room laughed, except for the Navy officer.

  Even Jack Poirier was amused. The ship’s security chief was beloved by the crew, and by the CIA staff who depended on him to protect the mission. He was an “absolutely wonderful guy,” said one, who suggested he should be “consecrated” for his work. But with time to kill in the mission’s early days, he, too, wasn’t above being pranked.

  About a week into the trip, some of the crew huddled up and asked a boyish Honeywell computer engineer whom few people knew very well if he’d be willing to participate in a prank. They shaved his beard, cut his hair, put him in a suit and tie, and handed him a suitcase, with instructions to report to the mess hall at lunch and seek out Poirier as if he had just arrived. The young man put on his most naive face and approached Poirier, asking if he was the purser. Poirier stared at the unfamiliar face, appearing suddenly after days at sea, and said yes.

  “I’m here for my berthing assignment,” the man said. “I just came aboard!”

  And if anyone in the room had been able to hold his laughter, Poirier might actually have bought it for a few minutes.

  • • •

  The crew manifest had been set for weeks by the time the Explorer sailed, but there were a few last-minute additions. One of the most notable was John Parsons. John Graham’s son-in-law was never supposed to go to sea, but he had proven to be such an adept engineer, useful to most any job that required extra hands, that Curtis Crooke recommended to Sherm Wetmore that he go out as a floater on the Global Marine engineering staff. Parsons could keep an eye on the air lines and hydraulic pumps, as well as numerous other pieces of systems that were too small to have been of concern unless the ship was at sea, and the Explorer needed someone there to fix them. And Parsons knew every valve on the ship.

  Personally, he was conflicted about the mission. The prospect of contributing to an operation unlike anything that had ever been attempted w
as obviously exciting, but he’d be leaving behind a pregnant wife and a terminally ill mentor and boss who was also his father-in-law.

  Shortly before the mission was to set out, Graham asked if he could come over to Parsons’ house to have dinner with the family. His doctor, Graham said, had told him that there was nothing more they could do for him. The cancer had reached his brain and he was unlikely to live more than a few months. If he was lucky, he’d be alive to see the Explorer complete the mission, but he also might die while it was at sea, and he’d accepted this.

  John Parsons and Jenny, however, weren’t really ready for that news. They knew Graham was losing his fight with cancer, but they’d stayed hopeful and thought that maybe his intense pride in the Explorer could carry him a little longer—at least until the mission’s end.

  Instead, Parsons left Long Beach knowing that, in all likelihood, he would never see John Graham again, and he wouldn’t be there to comfort Jenny if her father died during the mission. This bothered Jenny, with good reason, and she let that be known. But what bothered her more was the possibility, however remote, that this ridiculous ocean-mining trip could drag on long enough that her husband would also miss the birth of his second child. And in that case, she told John, he could just not come home at all, since she’d have made it fine on her own.

  Others on the ship felt Graham’s absence, too. The man had deeply influenced everyone who worked with him, and his absence caused a small but inescapable dark cloud to hover over the Explorer as it sailed out to make history, or at least try. “He was a great man to us,” the electrical engineer John Owen explained. “We all appreciated what John led us through. To know that he was vulnerable, as we all are, was just another part of what we had to deal with.”