The First Team

15

As Summers, the workman, made his way down the length of the North Pier at Hunters Point Naval Shipyard, he carried his box of tools in his right hand. Even as acutely as the enemy personnel watched everything that went on with unrelenting attention, none of them noted the fact that this particular technician had previously always carried his work box the other way. He walked the full length of the pier unchallenged and did not shift his toolbox over until he had to reach inside his work clothes for the pass that would admit him to the closed-off work area which surrounded the Ramon Magsaysay. By the time that he had done that, he had already notified all of those who were directly concerned and who had been able to see him that the decision was Go.

After completing the formalities and allowing himself to be searched for possible concealed weapons or materiel, he opened his toolbox for the customary examination. It was looked at closely as it always was, but nothing was amiss. All this done, he was allowed to cross the short brow onto the deck of the Magsaysay and then down an open hatch into her interior.

In the kit of tools that had passed inspection there was a steel measuring tape which had been substituted for the one he normally had. In appearance and weight it was an exact duplicate; if anyone were to attempt to use it, the tape would unreel a good five feet before it began to bind as though something was jammed in the internal mechanism. It was a beautiful piece of equipment that had been created by Stanley Cumberland. It was also somewhat dangerous. It carried the highest priority; Walter Wagner had brought it with him when he had come to the Coast.

For the twenty-three other members of Operation Low Blow who were employed inside the hull of the submarine it was a very long morning. No tension could be evident in the air; the enemy inspector on board roamed about constantly and was at everyone’s elbow several times during the first few hours. There were others on board too who had no knowledge of Low Blow or any suspicion that it existed. Two of the key personnel knew about the steel measuring tape; Major Pappas left nothing to chance and there was a remote possibility that something might happen to Summers. If that occurred, they would carry on for him.

Everyone, even including the enemy security inspector, came up at noon to eat on the pier. No foodstuffs were allowed on board the Magsaysay or any other ship undergoing work at the yard; that had been the rule long before the enemy had first set foot on American soil. Just before the lunch break was over, the enormous traveling crane which served the North Pier came slowly up, bringing a large electrical unit of some kind for the surface ship tied up at berth seven. When the load had been set down the boom of the crane rose a little higher in the air before the overhead monster moved back in the direction from which it had come. Summers saw it and so did the others who understood; everything was in order and the word was still go.

The apparent chaos of activity characteristic of a major shipyard in operation resumed very shortly after that; the men assigned to the Magsaysay returned to their jobs under the ever watchful eyes of the guards at the brow and the gun crew a hundred feet away. When they were back inside the ship once more, the security inspector haunted them constantly, watching almost every move that they made. He spoke no English and none of the men working under his scrutiny could determine how much he did or did not know about the intricate mechanisms of the nuclear submarine.

On his left wrist Summers wore an inexpensive watch which nevertheless kept excellent time. He looked at it occasionally as most men do who work by the hour, and kept at his task. At six minutes after three in the afternoon he took the steel tape out of his kit of tools and made a short measurement. That done, he put the tape in the pocket of his work clothes and completed the adjustment he was making. Then he began to walk toward the rear of the ship.

When he was not far from the reactor compartment he glanced at one of the men working there who gave him in return an almost invisible nod: the inspector was not in the immediate area. As soon as Summers had passed him, the workman picked up a length of pipe and began to maneuver it up the passageway. It was a simple action, but it formed an effective block that would guarantee Summers at least a few seconds of needed privacy.

Summers moved quickly, but with careful precision. He stepped into a preselected niche and took out the measuring tape. He pulled up on the pin which when depressed activated the rewind mechanism and turned it to the left. The two halves of the tape container fell apart, revealing a small capsule in the center. Summers dropped the capsule carefully into the palm of his left hand and then put the steel tape away. Up to that point he had consumed only eight seconds.

The capsule was made of two sleeve sections; using both hands he pushed them together until he heard a slight sound from the inside of the tiny container. Then he placed it with great care behind a run of exposed piping where it was out of sight and securely wedged into position. His job done, he turned and waited until the passageway was clear. A minute and a half later he was back at his work station, his face impassive as he appeared to concentrate entirely on the job before him. Less than three minutes later the enemy security inspector was looking over his shoulder; he gave the man a cursory glance and then continued with what he was doing. He knew without looking again at his watch that he had just over an hour and a quarter to wait.

Master Chief Petty Officer Anson Summers was a man accustomed to responsibility. He held the highest security clearances necessary to his job and had served with distinction in the United States Navy ever since he had enlisted shortly after graduating from high school. He had seen combat action many times. He had served under Sharp, Burke, Johnson, Moorer, and Haymarket, and had known all of them personally. He was a complete professional in his job as well as a family man with five children. Until he had been selected for his latest assignment, the proudest moment in his life had been seeing his eldest son graduate from the Naval Academy.

To all of this he added one more unexpected ingredient — a remarkable natural ability as an actor. That had been discovered on an occasion when some new shellbacks were being initiated and Chief Summers, as King Neptune, had turned in a notable performance. A Marine officer on board, Lieutenant Pappas, had remembered that and stored it away in what later proved to be an encyclopedic memory. For a Navy man of Summers’ dedication to play the part of a not too gifted workman over a period of weeks had been a severe test, but he had carried it off brilliantly.

The hour that lay immediately before him was the hardest of his career. If for any reason the capsule did not work it would be his fault; he accepted that without question. He had done exactly as directed, but there had been no way to check, no procedure to make certain. He kept on at his work, but the minutes crawled by and it was all that he could do to contain himself and maintain an indifferent exterior.

Precisely at four-thirty, almost to the second, Operation Low Blow entered its second phase.

The evidence of a radiation leak initially appeared on an indicator inside the hull on the working bridge. The man who saw it first gave a convincing performance himself as he stared for a frozen second or two and then hit the alarm. The enemy inspector heard it and jerked a small instrument out of his clothing; it began to sputter like an endless chain of miniature firecrackers. Forgetting himself, he shouted an order in his own language.

He did not need to be understood, every man on board knew the meaning of the still-sounding alarm; they literally ran for the hatches and went up the ladders one after the other with frenzied speed, the inspector among them. By the time that the first of them had reached the deck of the submarine, the radiation detector on the dock had already responded and was climbing rapidly toward the danger zone.

Overhead in the crane housing Walter Wagner had been waiting with the icy nerves of the experienced professional agent; he was at this moment uncommitted himself, but he had been greatly concerned for the success of Summers’ mission. He knew that if it had been properly placed the capsule would work; Stanley Cumberland had guaranteed that. When, right on the minute of the projected time, men began pouring out of the submarine far below he felt a surge of elation; he reached to one of the controls of his great machine and watehed the boom move in response slightly to the left.

From the window of his home close to the shipyard a ham radio operator observed the movement through binoculars which he had been patiently holding before his eyes for almost an hour. Moments later he was on the air calling CQ. He was heard at once by sensitive equipment which had been monitoring his frequency, and a waiting signal was relayed immediately to the underground complex that was the headquarters of Thomas Jefferson. The message board in the conference room came alive with letters which quickly spelled out: the isotope has been dropped.

As soon as he had read that, Admiral Haymarket slumped back in his chair. He and as many others as had been able to obtain permission to come in had been waiting for that word, almost all of them aware that for the past several hours the whole operation had narrowed down to one man. The saving factor had been the knowledge that the man in question was almost totally reliable and because of a particular talent was not likely to give himself away.

General Carlton Gifford clasped his hands on the table before him and murmured, “Thank God.” He did not care who heard him.

Lieutenant Colonel Henry Prichard looked at Ed Higbee, the journalist. “Now if they’ll only buy it,” he said.

Higbee nodded his head with the confidence of the totally competent propagandist. “They will,” he answered.

Stanley Cumberland puffed at a cigar and said nothing. As usual his face was a mask, but the admiral knew that he had to be feeling the satisfaction of the developer of something that had worked precisely right.

Only Major Pappas did not take a moment to relax. He carefully laid aside three of the alternate plan sheets before him — they would no longer be required. He would have given anything to have been in Walter Wagner’s shoes at that moment, but it had had to be Wagner and he knew it; if the decision had been his to make he would have called it the same way. The mission was what counted — the mission and nothing else.

Cumberland spoke to the admiral. “Good man you’ve got there.”

Haymarket agreed. “That kind is the backbone of the Navy. Real pros, every one of them.”

“Let’s have some coffee,” Higbee suggested. It was a good idea because they would all be there for some time. A very long night lay ahead.

Far out in northern Pacific waters the fishing vessel Dolly plowed ahead slowly on her course. Already her hold had begun to fill with her catch, but by all visible signs her luck had up to that point not been too good, which was consistent with the relative inexperience of her crew and of the new captain who had taken her over.

In the small communication room the executive officer of the U.S.S. Dolly listened intently to a news broadcast from the States. It was as sterile and controlled as all such broadcasts had been for the past several weeks, but Lieutenant James Morton was not unduly concerned about that. When the sports part of the newscast came he leaned forward pressing his palms against the tabletop that held the equipment. Almost three thousand miles away the announcer supplied the principal game scores and then turned to the results of local interest. On the last item he fluffed, then he corrected himself and reversed the figures he had just given.

Lieutenant Morton could not help letting out a short yelp of joy; then he contained himself and hurried toward the impromptu wardroom. When he arrived there his face told the story before he could speak. “Sir,” he said addressing the captain, “Low Blow is under way. The isotope has been successfully dropped.”

The skipper looked at him. “Morton, you look ill. Do you feel all right?”

Morton straightened up. “Sir, I feel just fine.”

Lieutenant Hanson, the Japanese language officer, corrected him. “No you don’t, you look terrible. Come to think of it, I don’t feel very well myself.”

“The whole crew looks sick to me,” the captain continued. “I wish that we had a medical officer on board. But since we don’t, I am going to prescribe medicinal spirits all around.”

“I didn’t want to mention it, sir,” Morton redeemed himself, “but I have been feeling faint lately.”

“In that case we are within Navy regulations; we can’t afford any general illness now.”

“Absolutely not, sir,” Hanson agreed. “I’ll break out the prescription immediately.*

All hell broke loose within the shipyard in a matter of minutes. By the hundreds the workmen dropped their tools and fled toward the gates. The enemy who were present knew that this exodus could not be stopped and were not at all sure that it should be. Of all of the people in the yard, the commander seemed for the moment to be the only one who knew immediately and correctly what to do; as soon as the report was confirmed, which was within a matter of seconds, he seized the direct-line phone to Mare Island and demanded the commander there on emergency priority. The startled operator responded and cut into a conversation that was in progress.

“Ed,” he barked as soon as the line was clear, “Bent Spear! We’ve got a radiation leak from the Magsaysay.”

The Mare Island commander reacted at once. “How bad?”

“Don’t know yet, but the Geigers are going mad; we’re evacuating.”

“I’ll get the nukes to you as fast as humanly possible. Hang on.”

He hung up long enough to issue urgent orders; two minutes later he was back on the line. “Any change?”

“No new reports. I’ll give you anything I get as fast as it comes in.”

“Right. I’m after helicopters. A land party will depart ASAP. Ten minutes at the outside. Motorcycle escort. Clear for choppers if I can get any. Set up the gate clearances.”

“Wilco. How many are coming?”

“Eighty to one hundred.”

“Right.” The Hunters Point commander hung up. He had barely done so when his enemy overseer demanded his attention.

“What is nukes?” the man asked.

“Nuclear specialists; no one else can handle this stuff.”

“They must be examined and searched; it will take hours.”

The commander lost his temper. “God damn you, man, this place can be blown sky-high together with half of San Francisco in the next ten minutes! That includes you and me. Don’t you know what a nuclear pile can do!?”

“Yes, but…”

“Take your ‘buts’ and shove them right up your ass. If those nukes don’t get this under control, they’ll find your balls hanging on a cherry tree somewhere in the state of Oregon. Now get the hell out of my way!”

To talk like that to an occupying officer meant immediate execution, that had been made clear. Because the commander had forgotten that vital fact in his excitement and worry, the overseer read his concern as genuine; he also had no desire to meet a sudden nuclear death himself. “They can do nothing,” he declared.

The commander answered, “Maybe that’s right, if it is we’re dead men right now. But if anyone can handle it they can and you can thank God that they’re willing to try.”

“They have their orders.”

“Monkey face, there’s something you don’t know. In this country we don’t order men to kill themselves. Those men are all volunteers and you’d better believe it. They’re the best technicians on nuclear material in the world and they don’t know what fear is.”

He had no more time for the overseer; he picked up two more nel who hoped that the radiation level was not yet high enough to endanger them.

Two hundred feet short of the end of the pier the buses pulled up and the men inside them began to pour out. In the first beginnings of twilight they looked like invaders from some hostile planet; the heavy decontamination suits that they wore transformed them into anonymous, unrecognizable creatures who were superficially human, but who clearly lived on another plane.

Awaiting them was an enemy officer who stepped forward and demanded, “Who is leader?”

Before he got an answer the first of the suited nuclear specialists, a piece of electronic gear in his hand, strode across the brow and swung himself down the hatch into the submarine’s pressure hull.

The commander appeared on the scene, shadowed by his overseer. “What’s the problem?” he asked of the enemy officer.

The man turned to him. “I am Kepinsky, nuclear expert. I check everything.”

“Get a suit, then,” the commander answered.

“I inspect all equipment.”

“Go right ahead.”

The efficiency with which the nukes went to work was obvious to the enemy personnel; it answered any questions as to whether or not they were the experts they were supposed to be. On the pier a short conference was held between the enemy security head and the three enemy personnel who had come down from Mare Island, one on each bus. The commander could hear them, but he could not understand a word. When the brief huddle broke up, he noted that those concerned seemed to have been satisfied, at least about something.

Kepinsky took his place at the end of the brow and examined each piece of gear briefly for a few seconds. One he held out and put aside, refusing to permit it on board until it was opened up before him and he could see the interior. “I know this not,” he said.

“New; classified,” the man said who was carrying it.

“All right.”

Floodlights came on the pier, lights which had been installed by the enemy to allow inspection at any hour. The crew manning the 105-mm fieldpiece was relieved and replaced by three fresh men, who put on their helmets and took up their position as though nothing whatever had happened.

More equipment arrived; a group of trucks under escort came heavily out onto the pier. One of them, a huge flatbed vehicle with multiple wheels on its rear axle, carried a large piece of electronic gear which appeared to weigh three or four tons. The crane was summoned; on instruction the operator picked it up gently and set it down close to the end of the brow. Kepinsky looked it over for a full minute and then said, “You may use it.”

Other gear was placed by hand until the end of the pier was comfortably filled with equipment, barring only the forbidden circle painted around the rapid-fire field gun. Everyone seemed to know about that and kept clear.

After some minutes one man came up out of the submarine, motioned to Kepinsky, and then joined the commander. As soon as the enemy nuclear expert was with them he reported, “There’s a leak in the reactor, it seems to be expanding slowly. She’s freshly fueled, which doesn’t help. Radiation level inside the hull is well above toleration limits, so keep everybody out who isn’t suited and doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

“How long to fix it?” the commander asked.

“If we’re lucky, several hours. It could be days. Keep the area clear of all unnecessary personnel, for God’s sake; if it ruptures, then anything can happen.”

“Have you enough men?”

“I think so. It’s too early to be sure but there’s only room for so many, of course. We work in short shifts to keep the exposure down.” He turned to Kepinsky. “I know you probably want to go on board, but right now it’s hell down there. Of course you can do what you want.”

Kepinsky once more read the radiation detector which was standing a few feet away and for the moment appeared to be satisfied. “I see everything,” he instructed. “You tell me everything.”

“All right.”

In the underground headquarters of Thomas Jefferson the message board had been busy. Plates of food had been placed on the table, but they had been generally ignored. The conference room was filled to near capacity by the many men who had worked for so long on Operation Low Blow and who were almost desperately anxious for every bit of incoming news.

When the word came through that the nukes from Mare Island had been admitted to the base without delay of any kind, General Gifford allowed himself the luxury of a smile. That end of things had been his particular responsibility; he also happened to be a lodge brother of the yard commander who obviously had done a completely convincing job. The enemy personnel were almost fanatic in their suspicion of everyone and everything; faking out such men called for much more than ordinary talent and total effort.

The admiral very much wanted to know if word of the events at Hunters Point had been passed to Colonel Rostovitch. That relentless, ruthless, and eternally questioning man might well see through the whole thing in a flash and if he did, that would be the end of everything. Rostovitch was too intricate a plotter himself not to recognize the signs, and he had a fearsome reputation in counterintelligence. The admiral had considered the idea of trying to get to Rostovitch to insure that he would be fully engaged at the time of Low Blow_A but none of the assembled intellects comprising the First Team, or their almost equally bright back-up personnel, had been able to suggest anything that had a reasonable hope of working. Also there was the strong possibility that the colonel would read out any attempts at himself, as he had done many times before, and would be immediately alerted. The admiral had wisely decided to leave Rostovitch alone for the time being. He could be dealt with later on.

Major Pappas laid aside two more contingency plans which would no longer be needed. So far the show was right on the road, but that was no guarantee that it would remain that way. Too many very tricky gambits lay immediately ahead.