Raise the Red Dawn

Chapter Six

Chief of Naval Operations Admiral Benton Garver was wakened out of a sound sleep by the ringing of the phone in his comfortable bedroom at Tingey House in the Washington Navy Yard. He grabbed the receiver off the night table, coming awake fast, wanting to be ready if the news was really bad.

“Garver here.”

It was his chief aide. “They’ve found Red Dawn, sir. Crash briefing in an hour. Code Zephyr Alpha.”

He rubbed his jowly bulldog face to stir the blood. “Right. I’ll be there.”

Twenty minutes later a fully uniformed Garver kissed his sleeping wife good-bye and slipped out of the bedroom. He wanted a cup of coffee desperately, but it would have to wait till he got to the Pentagon. Garver shoved his beefy arms into the sleeves of his overcoat, rammed his cap down over his head, and grabbed his briefcase from the shelf beside the door. He stepped out into the freezing cold with a muttered curse.

His shoes crunched in the icy driveway as he walked to his waiting car. A smoky trail of exhaust spiraled up in the frigid air. Being CNO was the cap on a long and distinguished career, but nobody was going to convince him it wasn’t a damn sight easier to get up facing the tropical sunshine of his former posting at Guantanamo Bay than to deal with this bullshit weather.

The Washington sky was just beginning to lighten, and Garver could see the Pentagon’s gray bulk a few miles away as his car crossed the highway from Virginia to Washington. In a short while tens of thousands of clerks, typists, enlisted men and women, and officers from the five branches of the service — all the way up to the secretary of defense himself — would be streaming into the largest office building in the world. In fact, pedestrian traffic was so congested during the morning and afternoon rush hours that concrete ramps rather than stairs handled the tremendous traffic between floors.

Garver had a few minutes to collect his thoughts. So somebody had located the Red Dawn. Well, it was about time. They’d been looking for that damn sub for over a year, ever since the first reports came in to Central Intelligence. Speculation was rampant. It had a radical new weapon system, some said. It had an ultra-quiet propulsion system. It could fucking fly. Garver snorted. A million theories and no one knew shit.

And that made him angry.

Even after all this time he was still surprised by the infighting among agencies. There was conflict instead of cooperation, turf wars, appropriations battles — it made him sick. But that was the system and strangely enough, it managed to work more often than it didn’t. He smiled, thinking about all the people who would be galvanized into action by the find. Things this morning would be interesting as hell. And the navy was in the catbird seat. If Red Dawn really had been located, then they were going to be managing things and Central Intelligence would have to like it or lump it.

Garver got out at the closest entrance and walked up to his office. He put his briefcase down beside his desk and hung his coat in the closet. Garver blessed his predecessors. The room had rich, conservative furnishings in nautical taste. The other offices in the building were endless variations on Institutional Modern — Formica tables, stainless-steel coffee urns, gray metal desks with bulky Selectric typewriters, fireproof file cabinets, and bulletin boards on green walls announcing blood drives, dances, due dates, and banking hours.

This early the CNO office was deserted but for Garver’s red-haired aide, Captain Ferris. “Meeting’s in ten minutes, sir. I have your papers.”

“Very good, Frank,” Garver said, leafing through them. Times, places, codes, and there was the transmission from Seawolf, signed Captain Peter MacKenzie. Garver grinned. Figured it would be MacKenzie. That son of a bitch had a knack for being in the right place at the right time. “Where’s the meeting, Frank?”

“SECDEF’s office, sir.”

That raised Garver’s thick eyebrows. Red Dawn had sure garnered the “A” treatment. He motioned to Ferris to go. “Let’s not keep him waiting.”

An armed marine was always posted in the corridor outside the office of the secretary of defense when the SECDEF was in attendance. Garver went in wishing he could light the first of his many daily cigars. Customs changed too damn often, he thought sadly. Years ago the air would have been thick with sharp, aromatic smoke. Now it was as clean as a baby’s nursery. Shit.

Garver was the last to arrive. Secretary of Defense Paul Channing was already seated at the head of the mahogany conference table. Admiral Merton, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs was seated on his right, Bob Manson, the national security adviser on his left; white-haired Senator Halstead from the Senate Intelligence Committee next, and then a dark, well-groomed, middle-aged man in a gray business suit whom Garver didn’t recognize but who seemed to be the focus of those present.

“Come on in, Ben,” said Channing. “We’re just about ready to start.”

“Morning, sir. Admiral. Gentlemen,” Garver said, taking his seat. “Hell of a morning, eh?”

“Freeze your balls off out there,” Manson agreed.

“I used to walk five miles to school in weather like this,” declared Senator Halstead. “Used to say it was colder than a witch’s left tit. Damned if I ever knew why the right one was warmer.” He glanced at his watch. “Paul, if we’re all on board…”

Channing put his hands on the table. “Everyone’s here. Let’s get down to business. Gentlemen, this is Arthur Winestock of the Central Intelligence Agency. We’ve got something of a situation up at the North Pole, and Mr. Winestock has taken a major interest in it. Let me bring you up to speed, and then he can take over.

“For over a year our intelligence services have been tracking the progress of a Soviet scientific team headed by Dr. Karl Ligichev, Nobel Prize winner and chief physicist at the Kronsky Naval Institute. Now this is for your ears only. We are running a source close to the project, one of Ligichev’s people. A year ago we got word from our source that Ligichev and his team made a breakthrough and were moving on to the prototype stage.”

“What are they supposed to have accomplished?” asked Halstead.

“They’ve put together the first water jet drive capable of propelling a full-size ship,” said Channing, “and installed it in a test ship, a diesel boat named the Red Dawn.”

Admiral Merton had reservations. “Well, that’s impressive, sure. I mean it’ll give our ASW boys a real headache, but Japan is testing the same kind of system next year, and we could probably field one ourselves in two to three. Less if we run a crash program. If that’s all Red Dawn‘s got, frankly, I don’t see what all the fuss is about.”

“You’re quite correct, Admiral. The propulsion system is secondary. The fuss is about something entirely different.”

Winestock spoke for the first time. “We’re after a part of the system. A new material that makes it work. If I may, Mr. Secretary?”

“Be my guest.”

Winestock leveled his gunsight gaze at Merton. “Intelligence reports that Ligichev has invented a new compound he calls irinium. It’s a perfect superconductor at thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit, several hundred degrees warmer than any other superconductor known to the West at present. We have nothing like it, no idea how to make it, no guess as to what it’s composed of. But if you know anything about electronics, it just about as important as the invention of the transistor, the integrated circuit, and the microchip all rolled up together.”

“We have more high-tech parks in my state than a dog has fleas,” said Senator Halstead, “so I know a little something about superconductors. Christ, a material like that’d make for a revolution in almost every technical field — electronics, computers, telecommunications. Big Cray computers that have to be water cooled would be half the size and able to sort sound like the ASW boys never dreamed of.”

“Dream’s the right word,” Winestock continued. “I’m not usually given to hyperbole, but the implications for our country, maybe even for the entire globe, are staggering. With this stuff you could build power plants a thousand miles from population centers and send the electricity back in superconducting wires without any loss of power. Giant arrays of solar panels on the equator could light the West Coast. You could put nuclear plants in the middle of the desert. And get this. Once the power is generated, superconducting rings could hold it indefinitely without any loss, ready for peak demand.”

Winestock looked at the men around the table, reading their excitement. But he wasn’t finished yet. “It gets even wilder. Miniature superconductor motors could power everything from refrigerators to toothbrushes, and they’d be a tenth the weight. Cars using light, ultra-efficient superconductor motors could be battery-powered, virtually eliminating the need for fossil fuels. Anyone seen the smog in L.A. lately? There’d be no pollution this way. Senator, how’d you like to take that news back to your constituency?”

“Don’t joke. They’d nominate me for president on the spot. But why can’t your source smuggle some of this stuff out or at least deliver the formula?”

“We’ve tried,” Winestock admitted. “And failed. First, there’s only a small quantity of irinium and it’s guarded like the crown jewels. Second, this source absolutely cannot be compromised in any way. You’re going to have to take my word for that.”

“So this Red Dawn situation must have been the answer to your prayers,” said Halstead.

“Let’s just say a few hours ago I got religion again.” Winestock grew sober. “Look, I’m all for being friendly as hell with the new Soviet Union, but irinium would give them strategic advantage in a dozen vitally important fields. I don’t want anybody to have that. Bob?”

“No. There’s agreement on that.” Bob Manson, the president’s national security adviser, unfolded his hands and leaned forward. “Let me come at it from another angle. Times are changing fast. We have to grapple with what the mission of the U.S. military may ultimately be. Sooner than anyone expects we could be pulling back from force readiness in most areas. Christ, our budget constraints will probably push disarmament faster than peace with the Russians will.”

“Look at it this way,” continued Manson. “In the not so distant future we stand to limit or lose two-thirds of the strategic triad when land-based missiles get treatied away and Stealth bombers get scrapped cause they cost too damn much. Then where will power lie? The answer is obvious— in the oceans. Sea-based forces, SLBMs and cruise missiles are undetectable, survivable, to some extent recallable, and for the most part quite cost-effective. Same thing holds true for the Soviets. In the end, submarine technology may be the key to national security.”

“You know,” said Halstead, “it’s hard to be a hawk when the Warsaw Pact is breaking down before our eyes.”

“Precisely why the Soviet military won’t reduce their own armed forces,” Manning responded. “For the conceivable future, they will remain the most formidable land force in the world. The KGB is more active than ever. So the president has authorized this mission as priority one. We have to have irinium to stay on a level playing field with the Russians.”

“What’s the Soviet response to all this?” asked Garver.

“So far, quiet,” Winestock said. “According to the captain who found Red Dawn, the ballistic missile sub that was escorting her may not even know the real situation. That gives us a head start. And we’d better grab it, because the minute the Russians find out what’s going on up there you better believe they’re gonna send every sub they have under the ice.”

Channing turned to Merton. “I know it’s short notice, but considering what we stand to gain… Can do, Charlie?”

“Just a damn minute here, Paul,” Admiral Merton said testily. He gestured to Winestock. “I don’t mind telling you I am more than a little pissed off. At the DDI’s request we’ve been looking for Red Dawn for almost a year now. We’ve chased everything from trash barges to goddamn dolphins. We’ve used an amazing amount of time and manpower searching the seas, and not once, not for one single solitary moment has the navy been taken into your confidence till now. How the hell do we know this isn’t some Russian ruse to kick our butts up under the ice one more time?”

“There’s the evidence of MacKenzie’s tape,” Winestock said calmly. “And we even think we have an explanation for what happened up there.”

Merton was unmollified. “Which is?”

“Our source informed us there’s a problem with heat buildup when irinium comes into direct contact with sea-water. Our analysts constructed a scenario using this to explain Red Dawn’s penetration into the ice keel and her subsequent silence. See for yourself.” He passed copies of a dark, bound document marked Top Secret to Merton and then to the others.

Merton put down the report. “So we’ve got a Russian sub stuck up to its ass in the North Polar ice cap with some stuff inside that we’d love to get our hands on. We appreciate the briefing a year late so that we could be completely without resources in the area. What do you expect us to do?”

“Simple,” said Winestock. “Raise the Red Dawn and deliver us a sample of irinium. According to the experts, a pound will do quite nicely. And, yes, photographs of the propulsion system would be a pleasant bonus.”

“Is that all? Ben, call Superman and see if he’s busy, huh?”

“Easy, Charlie. We know we’re asking a lot,” soothed Channing. “You’ll have every resource, believe me.”

“At least it’s Seawolf we’ve got up there. How good is your Captain MacKenzie?” asked Manson, the national security adviser.

“MacKenzie is the one bright spot in a tactically murderous situation,” Merton said. “You remember the Kirov incident?”

“The stolen Russian sub? Sure. That was MacKenzie?”

“One and the same,” Garver said. “He’s the best we have. He’s had combat experience and he’s DSRV-qualified. And I’ll tell you right now we’re going to be needing a DSRV up there. Probably one of those new robot subs we built for salvage work, too.”

Halstead looked up. “DSRV?”

“Deep submergence rescue vehicle,” Garver explained. “We’ll probably need it to evacuate Red Dawn and then maybe for some of the close-in work, too.”

“I repeat,” Channing said, “use whatever you need. Get it up there.”

“We know Captain MacKenzie,” said Winestock. “He’s a superior field commander. In fact, this is remarkably good fortune for reasons I’ll explain in a minute.”

“What’s our position legally?” asked Manson. “Do we have a right to salvage?”

“No, not actually,” Winestock admitted. “The lawyers say government vessels are not subject to right-of-salvage. Remember when they discovered the Bismarck a few years back? Couldn’t touch her. It’s still up to the Germans. The Titanic was a merchant ship. That made her fair game.”

“So even if we raise the sub we’ll have to give it back?” asked Halstead.

Winestock’s tone was cordial, like a snake before a bite. “Of course. And recognizing the new relationship between the two countries our hope is that your rescue attempt will succeed so Red Dawn and her surviving crew can be returned to our Russian friends”—Winestock’s face lost its amiability and the man’s steel core showed through— “minus one pound of irinium.”

“I want one thing clear,” Merton stated flatly. “If we go for Red Dawn this will be a navy operation. I don’t know if we can do it or not, but one thing I won’t stand for is a bunch of amateurs waving security directives at us while we’re trying not to freeze our asses off or drown or whatever else there is to run into up there.”

“We want liaison,” insisted Winestock. “We have an interest.”

“You have bullshit!” Merton exploded. “What the hell do you know about raising a downed sub?”

“Regardless, I want someone up there trained in intelligence matters running that part of the show,” Winestock demanded.

Merton was ready to erupt again, but the CIA man held up his hand in a conciliatory gesture. “I think I have someone. A specialist, one you’ve both worked with before. Believe me, it all fits together quite nicely.”

“Who’s your man?”

“You’re behind the times. It’s a feminist world. If it’s acceptable to you, we’d like to use Justine Segurra.”

“MacKenzie’s wife?” Garver exclaimed.

“That’s right,” responded Winestock. “She’s one of us and we thought, well, given her relationship, she’d be acceptable to you.”

“If I remember the Kirov situation correctly, the woman’s a guerrilla fighter,” said Merton.

“Among other things,” Garver interjected. “Like having been, of all things, a concert pianist.”

“It’s a long way from the jungle to the Arctic, Mr. Winestock,” said Senator Halstead.

“True, but Ms. Segurra moved out of Operations and into Policy when she married Captain MacKenzie. She’s been at Langley for over a year. She’s got the rank and broad experience. What do you say, Admiral?”

The choice was a curve ball, but it seemed to sit well with Merton. “Do we agree the salvage is a navy operation?”

Winestock nodded. “Agreed.”

Merton thought it over. “Ben?”

Garver’s response was immediate. “Sir, I was at their wedding. I know Justine well and I trust her completely. She’s a fighter, she has a working knowledge of subs, and she isn’t going to get caught up in bureaucratic bullshit.”

Merton nodded. “I accept the olive branch,” he said to Winestock.

“Good,” pronounced the secretary of defense. “It’s settled, then.”

Garver had heard enough. Compromises were the order of the day. Winestock had his agent in place, but it was a navy operation — the only way to guarantee professional management. Privately, Garver wondered if Merton was hoping that bedroom politics and Justine’s being a navy wife would outweigh her Agency loyalty. He smiled. Clearly Merton didn’t know Justine Segurra very well. But it wasn’t his concern anymore. The objective was clear and urgent. MacKenzie’s report said Red Dawn could be critically short of air and power. They had to get moving.

“Excuse me, sir,” Garver addressed Merton directly. “I could probably be more useful getting things going…”

“Go ahead, Ben. I’ll be there shortly.”

“Gentlemen.” Garver saluted and left the room. He was sure Merton would keep pressing till he got something for being kept in the dark. A couple of IOUs. Additional appropriations. Well, that was how the system worked.

He was already planning details of the operation as he walked back to his office. It was going to be terribly difficult. Under most circumstances raising a submarine was next to impossible, but at the North Pole in the dead of winter? He shuddered. Besides, the book on how to get a sub out of solid ice hadn’t been written yet.

“Sure, raise the Red Dawn. Just like that,” he snapped his fingers, muttering as he walked. A thought hit him. “You know, I should’ve asked Winestock. Maybe the goddamn CIA’s got Superman’s number.”