All of the keyboards were designed to register and recognize the fingerprints of the naval officers authorized to control the SNAGS. If, at any time security was breached and the center was about to fall under the physical control of an adversary, small explosive charges were strategically distributed within the walls, floor and inside the computer itself. They were automatically set to go off when anyone other than the men assigned even touched the computer system. An emergency tunnel was easily accessible if the normal exit was blocked. Beneath a section of the floor, where the cables had been rerouted, the tunnel was made of steel and waterproof, leading to the basement of the dry goods shop.
Seven Navy officers, considered to be tops in their fields, had been selected from a list of mathematicians and computer engineers. Each required White House security clearance. They were between the ages of 22 and 33, unmarried, and none had personal responsibilities that could interfere with their demanding assignment. They wore civilian clothes, on and off duty, and carried Social Security Cards and civilian driver's licenses under assumed names. When they weren't on duty, they melded into the civilian community as bank and shop employees. They always stayed within range of their special locating devices, similar to beepers, carried at all times in case of an emergency and there was a recall to the center. However, these devices were installed inside wrist watches, pulsing silently when a signal was received.
A duty roster was instituted to rotate three of the officers every eight-hours. Any longer and it would be counter-productive. There was always the fear that a mistake could ultimately cause a catastrophic event involving the Bronson or the crew in Kodiak; attention to detail was critical.
Eight heavily armed Marines were assigned as security, rotating watches every six hours. When four had completed a 24-hour rotation, they were off the next day in the rotation and the other four took over. They were posted within the 12" thick steel doors, a .45 holstered on their web belts and carrying an M-16 with six clips of 20 rounds. Even though they weren't required to stand at attention during their watches, they were well aware of the criticality of their assignment. Being Marines, one could usually find them at a 'stiff' parade rest.
Lieutenant Commander Jeff Holland sat at the keyboard watching the monitor. He and Lieutenant Commander Bob Little shared responsibility as Operations Officers, in charge overall for surface navigation, guidance, weapons control and interpretation of diagnostics.
Holland had just settled into his watch, having just relieved Little. He sat at the keyboard as the TSC-MK1 processed millions of bytes of data. For the amount of data processing, the idle time still showed at 90 %. "Jesus, this thing still amazes me," he mumbled. He glanced at the three monitors, checked the radar screen, then at precisely 2210 hours he typed in the command for the Bronson to reduce her speed to ten knots. He hit the 'enter' key. The response came back instantly. "Alllriightt! Let's keep playing, baby!" He sent the command for the ship to come left to 315 degrees. The Bronson responded immediately, heeling almost unnoticeably to starboard as she came about to her new course.
On board the destroyer, its only crew member was CIA Agent Tony Mullins, an ex-Navy UDT frogman. His background as a boatswain's mate, familiar with navigation, communications and gunnery was the basis of his qualifications to sit in the 'hot seat', as it was known. But most of the time he merely had to maintain communications with Langley and the Control Center at Kodiak. Mullins would joke that he was just along 'for the ride', when in all actuality, this man, living in solitude, was one of a handful trained to use the SNAGS system, the ultimate offensive/defensive weapon.
During the day at 1000 hours, then again at midnight, Mullins would assume control of the Bronson by flipping the override switch. Once again, encrypted codes were used to release the ship from Kodiak. For three hours he would test the integrity of the controls and gauges. After Kodiak resumed control, he would spend most hours secluded within the bowels of the destroyer, completing paperwork, recording in the log and communicating the day's events with Langley and Kodiak.
Surrounded by layers of reinforced steel, one entrance from above and one emergency escape route, he was secure in his habitat. The escape hatch would have to be used only as a desperation escape. Hanging alongside the hatch was a specially designed, Velcro-edged, wraparound wetsuit and air tank. The hatch opened to a pressurized chamber, giving him less than five seconds to prepare himself before being jettisoned beneath the ship once the watertight door was shut. And if he didn't have the time to shutdown the engines, he'd be fighting for his life in the churning turbulence under the ship. A predicted path would take him dangerously close to being sucked into the rotating screws.
Again, his past experience had helped land him the assignment. Mullins had been a combat swimmer instructor at the Navy Underwater Demolition School where UDT students were trained and prepared for the covert and riverine missions they would face. Mullins' nickname was "Legs”. When his students were put on their backs for the flutter kick exercise to strengthen the abdomen and gluts and build endurance, it was odds on money that every student in class would be winded and spent before "Legs" Mullins even began to think about resting. He goaded new students with, "Remember, ladies… the only easy day was yesterday!" Mullins could swim the seven mile ocean course required for students, and would never use his arms. It was spooky. Yet, he would finish first, even as a student. He and other instructors pushed their students beyond what any student thought was physically and mentally possible of himself. The instructors were often heard to say: "It's mind over matter, gentlemen. If I don't mind, it doesn't matter!" If anyone could propel himself clear of the screws, "Legs" was the best bet going.
Chapter Four
During the night the SSN Bluefin set her course for one eight zero degrees, distancing herself from the carrier. She was a Sturgeon Class, Fast Attack Nuclear Sub built at the Mare Island Naval Shipyard in Vallejo, California, and commissioned in 1970. She was designed partially for reconnaissance, but mainly, she was built for speed. Her outer hull had few deck projections that interrupted the clean, streamlined form. Many of the masts had fairings on top of them to minimize turbulence when they were retracted. Powered by one water-cooled, pressurized nuclear reactor with one turbine, she carried on board MK46 Astor nuclear and conventional torpedoes, and Harpoon anti-ship missiles. Bluefin's immediate assignment, though, would have nothing to do with the launching of torpedoes or recon patrols. This silent hunter-killer was to play what seemed a very minor role in a very major production. She would set the stage for the coup de grace in a sophisticated plot designed to avoid nuclear war.
Hopping up onto the slightly raised periscope stand, the sub's captain issued the order at precisely 0635 hours. "Take her up! Bring her to periscope depth."
"Aye, aye, Captain," answered the OOD. He stood behind the helmsman and reached overhead, hanging on to the support bar. "Helm, five degrees up bubble. Make your depth sixty feet."
The helmsman locked his eyes on the gauges and dials in front of the wheel, watching the bubble displaying the angle of the boat. "Aye, aye, sir, up bubble. Passing 250 feet."
"Conn, we're passing 250 feet," the OOD notified the Captain.
After several minutes, the helmsman called out, "Passing 100 feet, sir… 80 feet… we're at 60 feet, sir."
"Up periscope," the captain ordered. Hydraulics whined as the periscope rose. He draped his arms over the handles, rotating the periscope slowly. "There it is! One three five degrees. Down scope! OOD, make preparations to surface!"