Charles Taylor - Boomer

A third method of confirmation was also employed at the same time, one primarily designed to infuriate official Washington. It required the efforts of a uniquely trained Soviet commando unit, called Spetznaz, that had been infiltrated into the Puget Sound area the previous year. Their duties ranged from military and industrial sabotage to infiltration, small-unit actions, assassination, and chemical/ biological shock efforts in time of actual war.

Each individual in this particular unit spoke English as well as any student at the University of Washington. They’d arrived individually in the Seattle/Tacoma region with Social Security cards, drivers’ licenses, passports, and a thorough knowledge of the northwest and its lifestyle. Even if their existence had been known, identification would have been almost impossible.

The officer in charge had assumed the name of David Lundgren, and his blond hair and blue eyes complemented his new identity. When he appeared at Chicquita McCarthy’s door, he carried credentials as a reporter for the Seattle Post-Intelligencer. “Good morning, Mrs. McCarthy. I’m Dave Lundgren.” He presented his newspaper photo ID to her. “I hope you might allow me a few moments of your time.”

Chicquita McCarthy had been taught to be wary of newsmen. Her husband Paul had explained when he took command of Alaska that too many considered the wife of the captain of an SSBN to be a shoot-first-ask-questions-later person. Look out for traps, Paul had said. “Just exactly what is it you want, Mr. Lundgren?” she inquired politely.

“Just a few questions for a story we’re trying to get a handle on. It’s nothing—” But the young man halted in midsentence and looked down at his shoes. Then he raised his head and looked into her eyes apologetically. “No, that’s not it. My apologies. I wouldn’t have been honest with you to say that. We’ve picked up some rumors from one of our stringers in Washington, D.C., and my editor wanted nothing to do with it until we could confirm more of it.”

Chicquita could imagine another story critical of the Navy and the men who manned the strategic-missile submarines. “I’m really not at liberty to talk about the ships. Besides, I’m afraid there’s nothing I could tell you that you don’t already know.” She looked down the street nervously. “I really make an effort not to know… and I don’t ask questions.”

The young man was growing increasingly nervous. “No, no, that’s not it, Mrs. McCarthy.” He shook his head sadly. “I don’t like this any more than you do, but it’s my job. I already know how you feel about the media around here … and I guess I can’t blame you.…”

“I’m really sorry I can’t help you.” The reporter’s nervousness was adding to her own uneasiness. “I’m sure the base public-information officer can take care of your questions.”

“Mrs. McCarthy, the base PIO refuses to talk with us. His office won’t return any calls. This isn’t something that any of us at the paper like,” he blurted, “but we’ve got to find out, in fairness to you and the other wives as much as anyone else. We understand one of the submarines — both Alaska and Nevada have been mentioned — is missing on patrol, and we have reason to believe the Navy is withholding information. Can you help me?” Lundgren’s hands hung at his sides, his face a mask of sadness and apology at the same time he seemed to be pleading for help.

Chicquita McCarthy’s mouth opened very slowly. There were no words. Her eyes never left the reporter’s. Very calmly, she folded her hands and raised them until they were level with her chin. She made a steeple out of her index fingers and bent her head until her lower lip touched her fingertips. “No, Mr. Lundgren, I haven’t heard a word.” Her voice was very soft, without expression. “I’m sure if there was the slightest chance of an accident of some kind, I would have been informed immediately.” She dropped her hands to her sides. “And I have nothing to say.”

“I’m sorry, really I am. If I’ve caused any — I mean … Mrs. McCarthy, I really do hate my job in a situation like this. I sincerely hope the rumor is false. I … I’ll leave you alone.” Lundgren turned on his heel and walked down the front walk, turning to his left at the street and heading for a nondescript car that was too distant to read the license plates.

The wife of the commanding officer of Alaska wouldn’t have noticed anyway. Before the blond, blue-eyed reporter had turned from her front walk, she ran into her house for the telephone. She punched out the number for the direct line to the desk of the commander of Submarine Squadron 17. “Bart, I need to know if Paul’s all right….”

A tingle of fear traced down Captain Bartholomew Bookman’s spine as he listened to Chicquita McCarthy’s frantic words. The order from Neil Arrow that preliminary preparation should be made to inform survivors had come less than thirty minutes before. Once they were ready, it would take hours before they were prepared to send the right people to each home. No sooner had he given a lame excuse that he’d check with Pearl Harbor and call her back, then he fielded direct calls from the wife of the captain of Nevada and the wives of the chiefs of the boat in both submarines. It was both hideous and terrifying at the same time. He had no answers!

The nice young men who identified themselves as reporters that day left absolutely no trace of their identity. Those in the military establishment who realized what had taken place now understood the extent of Spetznaz infiltration into the Puget Sound social fabric. There seemed far more to be concerned with than two missing SSBN’s. It seemed that the Russians, by the very fact that their curiosity had gotten the better of them, were giving good reason to the Americans to believe that Moscow was involved in the disappearance of the boomers. In fact, the Soviets were so curious about how effective they had been that they were willing to antagonize. But there was as yet no clue as to how they’d gotten to Alaska and Nevada — nor what their goal might be. Moscow remained silent.

“There’s nothing more to say.” Once Wayne Newell’s mind was made up, his expression was as firm and obvious as his voice. “The country’s at war. Pasadena is right in the middle of it, and I’d argue with anybody right now that we’re the key to swinging the balance in America’s favor. We’re the pivot point. None of us have any idea whether the U.S. is under attack or if our families have survived.” He spoke to his XO in a pronounced tone with an almost religious fervor. He wholeheartedly believed in what he was saying. “When each man on this boat is wondering whether his family is alive, I can’t have someone like Chief Lott magnifying our problems.”

Dick Makin wasn’t happy with what he was hearing and he held the captain’s eyes without responding. He could tell Newell wasn’t finished. The man’s solution to the problem had come as a shock, even though Makin was in agreement that a solution was necessary. It was just that the XO had never heard of any situation where the chief of the boat had been relieved like this. Tommy Lott, he knew, understood exactly what insubordination was — and there couldn’t have been the slightest doubt in the man’s mind that he was undermining his commanding officer’s authority by speaking out about the sonar tapes.

“I want you to have Chief Crowell put Lott under sedation for the duration of our mission. I can’t have him causing more trouble when we could be facing combat any minute. Once he’s quiet, that’ll shut up any others. Close off one of the staterooms in officers’ country as a temporary brig. And I want an armed guard assigned on a twenty-four-hour basis with orders to use his weapon if necessary.” He waved his hand as he changed his mind. “As a matter of fact, I’ll pick out the men I want to guard the brig. I want to make sure they understand my instructions. Tim Sanford will be the new chief of the boat….” Newell paused and tapped his index finger on the tip of his nose as if he were trying to make sure he’d covered everything.