Mission Critical

Chapter Two

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.

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.

Making 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 differences, 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.

"Tomcats are coming in from the west, sir," the Air Boss reported.

Leaning toward Radarman Summers, Donovan remarked, "Keep an eye on them, 'Scopes'." He patted Summers on the shoulder, his way of showing confidence in the young petty officer. Summers was good, able to juggle an entire task force.

Donovan went over near the Air Boss, leaning toward the window, scanning the water. "Has the Sea King lifted off?" The rescue chopper was always the first aircraft to leave the deck before flight ops ever began and hovered close by till the last plane was launched or returned.

"Yes, sir," Dodson answered, pointing in the direction of the angle deck before he walked back to the Roost.

A Grumman F-14 Tomcat, its landing lights in view, rode the wind rushing beneath its outstretched wings, the fighter resembling a majestic bald eagle floating on the air currents above the Rockies. Inside the cockpit, with one hand on the throttle and the other on the flight stick, the pilot gingerly maneuvered his aircraft, lining it up with the ship.

The pilot, Lieutenant William Fitzsimmons, checked in with the LSO (Landing Safety Officer) then checked his gauges and called in his name, speed and fuel weight. The tension on the arresting wires were immediately adjusted, set to match the weight and speed of the Tomcat.

The arresting wires were forty feet apart, but 'Wired Willy' had a special knack for always catching the number four wire, the last wire. The farthest from the fantail, number four was the pilot's final shot at a safe capture. Missing it meant he'd have to bolter, in other words, hit the afterburners and hope there was still enough deck in front of him. Bets were on throughout the ship. CAG Morehouse had been unsuccessful in curtailing the bets or Willy's number four wire capture.

With full power on, Fitzsimmons' 61,000 pound, missile-laden aircraft slammed onto the deck, his tailhook catching number four wire. But as nerve-wracking as Willy's landings were, he'd never once been given a 'wave off' or missed number four wire.

The arresting wire slithered backward along the deck, recoiling like a massive anaconda, until again stretched tightly, port and starboard sides. The four arresting wires waited for their next capture, and every forty-five seconds, they could expect another.

A black, delta-winged aircraft, its two turbo-ramjet engines spewing orange flames, accelerated down Runway 19. Disappearing into a torrent of pelting rain, the giant 'bird' rose from the earth, pulling effortlessly away from gravity, its afterburners turning white hot. Reaching 25,000 feet, the aircraft immediately linked up with a tanker for in-flight refueling. Since the outer shell was made of titanium, it expanded under extremely high temperatures during flight. The fuel tanks were designed so they would leak until the aircraft was airborne, and then they would continue to expand until completely sealed. Because of this, the fuel was nearly expended by the time the aircraft was airborne.

With refueling completed, the fastest manned, highest flying reconnaissance plane, the SR-71 Blackbird reached farther into the heavens. Within minutes, it was cruising at 2,000 mph, at an altitude of nearly 72,000 feet. This multi-million dollar aircraft, equipped only with a sophisticated camera, radar and infrared systems, feared no one or nothing. Missiles or guns for self-defense were a mute issue. The 'Bird' was designed specifically to fly extremely high and with blinding speed. Even anti-aircraft missiles were useless against it, as witnessed by pilots during the Vietnam conflict. They reported seeing Soviet-made SAM2 missiles being fired at the Blackbird, but being unable to reach the altitude, they ultimately "fell from wends they came."

Sitting in the forward pilot's seat was Air Force Colonel Greg Dumont, with Captain David McMillans, Reconnaissance Systems Officer occupying the rear seat. Looking more like astronauts than pilots, both men were dressed in pressure suits and connected to life support systems. Their present mission, CIA authorized, would take them on a high-speed flyover of the China and North Korea borders. With their speed and altitude, it was possible for them to photograph 100,000 square miles in just one sixty-minute flyover. But today, they'd only need eight minutes to get the pictures requested.

Colonel Dumont put a last minute trim on the flaps and touched up the throttles to make the cruising speed and altitude. He adjusted the oxygen mask. "Dave, we have the latest weather out of Travis?"

"Yes, sir. It looks smooth all the way to Elmendorf."

"Great. Keep an eye out for the weather link off Seattle." Dumont checked his geographic display for positioning and corrected for a freak forty knot jet stream. He checked both panel displays located just forward of his knees and settled back to log his observations after putting the Bird on 'George', the auto pilot. "We're on 'George', Dave… hands off."

"Roger, skipper."

They flew silently for several minutes, which wasn't unusual. There was plenty to do when the Blackbird was up. But they'd flown many missions together in the SR-71, and after a while, one seemed to know what the other was thinking. McMillans smiled when he heard Dumont's voice in his headset.

"It'll get better over the water, Dave. We've just got the radar checkpoint in Adak, and then—"

McMillans continued making his notes and calculations as he finished the sentence, "… we're outta here!"

Secretary of Defense Thomas Allington pointed to the aide, motioning for him to open the double doors then said, "Come in, Commander, Agent Phillips," he motioned, then with a condescending glance, said to his aide, "I'll be awhile." The aide immediately left. The solid wooden doors were securely closed, and a Marine guard, with a Smith & Wesson .45 strapped to his side, moved to take his position directly in front of them.

Allington assumed the role of Secretary of Defense with the election of President Samuel McNeely and Vice President Harold Shurmann in 1972. A twenty-year Navy veteran, Allington was assigned to the Judge Advocate General's Office the last six years of his military service, after which he began his own law practice. He began loosening his tie and stared at the uniformed men. "Gentlemen, you might as well get comfortable. Today has 'long day' written all over it."

Seated at the long, rectangular, mahogany table were four military officers making up the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The military brass shifted in their seats, brief smiles acknowledging the SecDef's remark. That's as comfortable as they would get. The austere military traditions of all the Armed Forces just didn't provide for a "time for loosening one's tie."

Four-star Army General Allan Sherwood, Chairman of the JCS, was the embodiment of a military officer who had learned early the lessons of the power of manipulation and the term "sucking up." For nearly thirty years, every move he made was meant to feed his ego and setting his goal and career path to becoming the youngest Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. He turned the normally placid meetings into the proverbial circus. The inside joke was that before anyone entered the room, they first threw in a thermometer just to check the temperature.

General Victor Norwood, USAF, Chief of Staff, had come to the Joint Chiefs directly from his assignment as head of the Strategic Air Command (SAC). Norwood was one of the first to fly the new B52A's delivered to the Air Force in 1954, and in 1959, he was part of NASA's X15 project, carrying the X15A beneath the B52's underbelly. He possessed the insight and judicious reasoning that would safeguard the aircraft from being replaced by newer bombers.

Admiral Carl Maxwell, USN, Chief of Naval Operations (CNO) and JCS Vice Chairman, had the most time-in service of all the Joint Chiefs. He, like Gene Morelli, had come up through the ranks. He had been a troubled sailor during the early part of his career, having gone through two marriages in less than six years, and known for his confrontations with the Shore Patrol on numerous occasions. Maxwell learned that drinking wasn't the way to win friends and influence people. So when he cleaned up his act and reached deep down inside himself to set a new course for his life, it guided him down a path to become CNO. Knowing both sides of the fence had made him a sailor's sailor. Even during the sad times of dishing out punishment to sailors, he was lenient and was jokingly, but fondly referred to as "Brother Maxwell" because of his sermons to the wayward sailors he had chastised.

General Orvis Black, USMC, Commandant of the Marine Corps, was a man of impeccable integrity and deep-reaching faith. With his clear blue eyes and close-cropped silver butch haircut, he was a Marine poster just waiting to be printed. During Vietnam, Black was Commanding General of the 5th Marine Division for I Corps in DaNang. Along with a Silver Star and Purple Heart that he earned during Korea, Black received the Distinguished Service Medal for cleaning up the northern cities of Hue and Phu Loc during the Tet Offensive. His loyalty to his men propelled him through the ranks, twice being deep selected in rank. In six months, General Black is scheduled to retire from the Marine Corps.

The Secretary nodded in the direction of Grant Stevens and Sam Phillips. "As you all know, Agent Phillips is representing the CIA, and Commander Stevens is here from NIS at the recommendation of Admiral Morelli."

"Big goddamn deal," General Sherwood muttered without turning around, rapping the tip of his pen on the table.

For the moment, almost everyone ignored the sarcastic remark made by the chairman, that is, everyone but Grant. Sherwood hadn't changed. He drilled his stare into the back of the chairman's head, a head that seemed balanced somewhat precariously on what Grant once described to Morelli as a "grizzled turkey neck."

The SecDef gestured toward the two-page agenda resting on the manila folders set before each of them. "You've had an opportunity to review the documents in front of you. Let's discuss the situation. General Norwood, do you have anything to report?"

Norwood pushed his chair back then walked somewhat tentatively to the map projected onto the screen. It was obvious the arthritis in his left hip was acting up, his limp more prominent. He looked up at the map. "Our first flyover by satellite shows the Chicom massing, right about here in Ji'an and here, Dandong." He circled the two areas with a black-tipped wooden pointer. "About three hours after the satellite's pass, we had the Blackbird shoot the photos you have in your folders."

The 'Bird' did good work again, Grant thought, as he shuffled through the series of glossy, black and white photos.

"Analysis confirms those two sites," Norwood said as he tapped the screen, "and Nampo, right here on the northeast coast of North Korea. Each has missile launchers in position." He hesitated momentarily, looking up at the details of the map before he turned around, tapping the pointer against his palm. "All the missiles have been confirmed as launch-ready, with more stockpiled at each site."

"Are you planning more flyovers?" asked the secretary as he lit another Marlboro, then went into a coughing fit, holding his handkerchief in front of his mouth, trying to muffle the disturbing sound.

Norwood replaced the pointer in the tray then returned to his chair. Looking at his watch, he answered, "The satellite should be making another pass as we speak."

Grant sat quietly in the background, absorbing every word, instinctively calculating and planning, compiling a mental list of questions and options that would decide life or death, perhaps his own. Every now and then he'd glance at the display that pinpointed every ship in the task force sailing off the northeast coast of Japan.

"We got a report from the long-range recon SEAL team, Tango Alpha, out of Japan," piped up the CNO.

Grant's attention immediately turned to the Admiral, even more so when hearing that the SEALs were involved, although, he would have been more surprised if they weren't. They were usually the first ones in. They were the Navy's 'silent option', a phrase coined by Stubby Brooks. SEAL Team 2 adopted it as their motto. Without thinking, Grant touched the 'Budweiser' above the rows of ribbons on his service dress blues jacket. Until that moment, he didn't realize how much he missed it, missed the Teams. Being stationed in D.C. and involved in intel activities kept him sharp, sensitized. But it just wasn't the same as being part of an operational team.

Admiral Maxwell ran a hand over the top of his balding head, then leaned on the edge of the table as he said, "The SEALs did a show and tell when they got back and reported seeing stacks of mortar rounds at the site in North Korea. Hell, they even got close enough to read the printing on the casings!" he said, his boastful tone unmistakable. "But this is where it gets baffling. According to the SEALs, the Chinese symbol on those mortars indicates they're only exercise rounds. I called WARCOM (Special Warfare Command for SEAL teams) in San Diego just to confirm that point after reading the Team's dance cards." He looked at each attentive face staring back at him before adding, "None of them are loaded with live ammo." He looked to his left, staring directly at Grant as he spoke those words, waiting for a reaction. Then he spotted something in Grant's eyes, the expression on his face revealing he already had an idea. "Your thoughts, Commander, can you add something at this point?"

Grant nodded, then stood by his chair, laying the folder and photos on the seat. "Sir, what if this isn't a plan to attack, or even to invade Korea at all? It has all the earmarks of the Patton diversion used in England, Admiral, when they planted dummy materials and troop movement."

Gene was right about this kid, thought the CNO, as he leaned back, intrigued, waiting to hear more.

The secretary pulverized his cigarette in the ashtray, dropping it next to several extinguished butts, a thin haze of smoke hovering above the table. "Go on, Commander."

Grant rubbed the back of his neck as he formulated his thoughts. All eyes were on him while he slowly walked over toward the viewing screen in the corner of the room. Minute particles of dust seemed suspended within the projector's light beam. He broke the beam as he passed in front of it, a portion of the map visible on the back of his dark uniform jacket.

He glanced up at the map before turning to look at the Joint Chiefs and SecDef. "The report on this by the CIA points out the traffic they've intercepted between Russia and China has mentioned the USS Bronson. Suppose this is just some type of subterfuge, designed specifically to… ?"

Chairman Sherwood wasn't about to wait for an explanation. With nostrils flaring, and a beet red face, he tore into Grant. "What the hell are you talking about? Subterfuge? You think this is some kind of goddamn game, Stevens?" The redness in his face slowly crept upward like the infamous Red Tide, plainly showing through his thinning gray hair.

Without even blinking, Grant answered the chairman calmly. "No, sir. I can assure you I'm well aware this isn't a game. I've spent my career separating the authentic from the fraudulent… sir."

Admiral Maxwell didn't even attempt to hide his amusement, impressed that Grant wasn't rattled by the outburst and had even managed to politely 'slap back.' The other Joint Chiefs had grown accustomed to seeing this from the chairman. Maxwell wished he could give Commander Stevens a 'thumb's up' sign, and with a tight smile, drilled his stare right through the angered Sherwood.

No love had been lost between these two, Sherwood and Maxwell. They had served together on the JCS for nearly three and a half years of their four-year appointment, always going head-to-head about every point of interest that approached the JCS offices. He turned back to Grant. "Proceed, Commander."

"Yes, sir. As I was saying, suppose this was designed specifically to draw in the Bronson?" Grant's shadow projected against the screen as he reached up and traced his finger along the outline of the map. "Here we have the coast of Russia, North Korea and the Chinese border… " He repeatedly jabbed his index finger against the screen, pointing to an area east of Japan, then he intentionally stared at the red-faced Chairman. "And here we have the USS Bronson." Making eye contact with each of the Joint Chiefs and the SecDef, he continued: "It isn't just the Bronson, sirs; it's the microchip for the SNAGS we have to be concerned about. One chip in the hands of the Russians, then one chip is duplicated, and then the Chinese have it. The Free World could be brought to its knees. I submit to you that the Korean scenario is a ruse, and the Bronson is their true target."

General Black got up and walked to the double doors, eyeing the Marine sergeant's impeccable uniform, but not really examining it. He turned and stared at Grant. "We all know about the SNAGS, Commander, and what would happen if it fell into the wrong hands."

Grant cleared his throat. One quick look at CNO Maxwell's expression reinforced the fact that he got carried away trying to get an unnecessary point across.

Black stood behind his chair, resting his hands on the leather back, as he said, "What we want to know is if you have anything at all to substantiate what you're implying?"

"No, sir, I don't," answered Grant, "but the coincidence is too great. Our intel, along with the CIA's, reported that the Russians have known there was more to the Bronson than what's already been leaked. We know how badly they want what's on board, and it's becoming apparent they're willing to do anything to get it."

Agent Phillips nodded, then stood slowly, everyone shifting their eyes to him. "The commander seems to reflect my feelings, gentlemen, and according to the bits of information from our radio intercept stations at Adak and Kamisaya, it appears that Korea is the Commander's 'Patton.'"

"So, why get the Chinese involved?" asked Allington as he rubbed his reddened eyes. "Why aren't the Russians just running the show themselves and trying to take it all?"

Grant walked over to the end of the table, grinding his fist into his palm. "My guess is they knew we'd go all out to protect Korea by sending our best. What better way to fire us up then to get China involved, too? And with the technology that's at stake, I'm sure the Chicoms were anxious to be willing participants."

The CNO swung his chair around, folding his arms across his barrel chest. "Commander Stevens, let's assume your theory is correct. How do you propose they would go about getting their hands on this technology? We've got a whole damn fleet out there with the Bronson, not to mention the Bronson herself."

"Right now, Admiral, I honestly don't know what their plan is. But my first guess is that they're counting on us not to unleash anything until they make the first decisive move, if they make a move at all, sir. And… " Grant took a deep breath, knowing the reaction his statement was going to receive, "I believe that this will all come about with the assistance of a Russian mole."

"What! Are you out of your freakin' mind?" shouted Allan Sherwood as he flew out his chair.

Allington had had all he could take and brought his fist down hard on the table. "For Christ's sake, Allan!" His voice tore through the room as he pointed at Sherwood. "Sit down before you have a goddamn heart attack!" He didn't take his eyes from the Chairman until Sherwood was settled in his seat, then he turned back to Grant. "Go on, Commander." He gave Sherwood a quick glance.

"Yes, sir. The CIA and NIS have suspected for a long time that there was a mole somewhere in our military, in the Navy more specifically. What better time for him to surface?"

Admiral Maxwell pushed his chair back then got up and walked toward Grant. Even though he was a few inches shorter than the younger officer, his very presence could be intimidating, with eight rows of ribbons, piercing brown eyes, and a commanding attitude. That is, intimidating to anyone else but Grant, who was always respectful, but never intimidated. Maxwell rested his hands on his hips, rocking back and forth on his heels, staring down at his highly polished black Navy shoes, and mulling over what had just been put on the table. Finally looking up at Grant through narrowed eyes, he asked, "Commander Stevens, do you have any opinion as to when they'll try to carry this out?"

Grant paused a moment before responding. "I suspect the time is getting closer, Admiral, especially with the reports and photos showing the troops and missiles in the positions they're in. There's not much left for them to do." He slapped the back of his hand into his palm. "Look, they made their threats against South Korea knowing we'd send a fleet to protect it. They counted on us sending the Bronson. They've had a little more than three months to finalize their plans, and they got their troops and artillery into position faster than hell." The right side of his mouth curved up. "But I guess they didn't count on a SEAL team taking a sneaky peak, Admiral."

Maxwell nodded approvingly, a hint of a smile appearing. "I have another question, Commander. Wouldn't it be prudent for us to confront them now, tell them about the exercise rounds, in other words, call their bluff?"

Grant shook his head. "The exercise rounds only affect the mortars, sir, not the missiles, and they've got a helluva lot of troops out there."

Maxwell glanced at the SecDef then back at Grant. "And… ?"

"While you were negotiating, you could be giving them the time they needed to go for the Bronson. I believe we need to move forward and prevent it from happening, and hopefully, uncover the mole." Maxwell detected the concern showing in Grant's eyes. "I know that's an extreme risk, Admiral, but one I feel we've got to consider taking. And getting back to your earlier question, sir, as far as how they plan on carrying it out, I don't know, sir, at least… not yet. But I do have an idea on how we can find out, sir," he said with a broad grin.

Maxwell saw the look, the excitement in the eyes of Grant Stevens, and he smiled inwardly, wishing he still possessed that same enthusiasm. He shook his head and smiled, saying over his shoulder as he went back to his chair, "Somehow, I thought you might, Commander. I thought you just might."