Charles Taylor: Boomer

Then he once again lifted the phone and punched the button for the control room. “Will you kindly inform the officer of the deck to sound battle stations, missile, please.” After hanging up the phone, Buck Nelson put his baseball cap on his head and proceeded the few short steps to control while the general alarm echoed through Florida .

The entire process was conducted on a businesslike basis, just as efficiently as it had been in so many exercises. The countdown was initiated without a hitch. Jeff Sones, the missile-control officer, reported the system cycled for launch. Every member of the crew had a part but, while they were nervous, they were never anything but professional.

The red firing key was inserted.

Target information was keyed into the computer in concert with the inertial navigation system.

Final data were entered into the missile.

The cap opened on the missile tube.

The rumble as the missile departed the tube confirmed every man’s worst dream — they were no longer a deterrent.

Each one in his own way felt the silent prayer that Buck Nelson had experienced in his stateroom moments before.

The four admirals sat around the table in SUBPAC’s office in Pearl Harbor, each deep in his own thoughts. When the door opened and Neil Arrow’s flag lieutenant was framed in the entrance, there was no real need for him to deliver the single-line message that he carried. They knew exactly what it said.

There was a speaker phone in the middle of the table, which was opened on a direct line to the White House by pressing a single button. Ray Larsen spoke for the others. “Florida has successfully launched her missile, Mr. President. She is now proceeding to the surface so there can be no doubt in their minds which ship completed the launch.”

The General Secretary replaced the phone on the receiver, bowing his head momentarily. It appeared to the others that he had stopped breathing. But when he raised his head and spoke, there was a determined look on his face. “The launching platform has indeed been identified as Florida. The President has assured me that only one warhead will detonate. The target is the airbase east of Markovo. You may be sure that no part of that installation, nor any military personnel, will survive. As soon as it takes place, I will personally dispatch aid to any of the native population who may be affected. We are fortunate that such a desolate location was selected.” His eyes moved about the room, settling on each individual. “We will know which submarines were chosen when they fail to return to port.” He bowed his head once more with finality. “I sincerely believe this nightmare is over.”

Two hundred miles southeast of Iceland, USS Jack required just two torpedoes to dispatch a totally unsuspecting Soviet Victor-class submarine. The sounds of the hull imploding came to them before their third weapon detonated in the already sinking wreckage.

USS San Francisco experienced an equally successful mission. She had been trailing an older Russian intelligence-gathering submarine that had been monitoring Japanese naval operations for more than a week. Two torpedoes sank the unsuspecting vessel well off the Japanese coast.

Charlie Newell was more than happy to take the other three kids with him to pick up the pizza. He was sixteen and had just gotten his driver’s license. Every trip in the car was a new adventure.

Myra Newell sipped her martini, looking at it with both pleasure and curiosity. “You know, my husband would definitely disapprove if he were here now.”

“I remember when he used to drink them,” Connie said thoughtfully.

“Once. Ancient history. That was before he became more perfect than he already was.…”

The sun was still above the horizon, but damp clouds in the distance had changed its color. The ships nestled by the distant piers below were cast in a red glow. Hawaii was an island of colors, and each evening seemed to provide a new and unique tint to that scene from the house on the hill.

They talked on about inconsequential subjects to avoid what they had both sensed earlier in the day. Neither of them realized that the car had returned safely nor did they notice when their children spread the pizza out on the kitchen table. They simply knew that there was a reason they had been drawn together that evening for mutual support.

The objective remained distant but ominous until an official Navy car pulled into the driveway. Then it was all too clear. Mark Bennett, his eyes red-rimmed, appeared on the patio in rumpled civilian clothes. He should have been in Washington. They allowed Mark to tell them that Manchester and Pasadena had been lost together in a tragic confrontation with the Soviets and that they should be extremely proud of their husbands, for they had helped to prevent war.

The real story would remain buried forever on the floor of the Pacific.

While I have taken the liberty of employing the names of some very good friends in these pages, there is absolutely no character in this book who bears any resemblance to any individual, living or dead, whom I have ever known. All characters are purely fictitious.

Further, I have never been aware of any commanding officer of any commissioned ship in the United States Navy who was ever suspected of disloyalty, much less any captain who actually attempted to perform a traitorous act with an American ship. On the other hand, I think it is of grave importance to note that our military and our Navy have been successfully penetrated by the intelligence forces of foreign nations at an alarming rate in the past, and there is no reason to believe that this disarming practice is not continuing.

There are still too many angry old men who remember the inhumanity and the slaughter of the mid-20th century and pattern their decisions on those memories — and there are any number of brilliant, well-meaning young men who forget that history has a way of repeating itself. I offer as an example JFK’s inheritance of the Bay of Pigs plan, which he allowed to continue to its inevitable and tragic conclusion. As a result, I am concerned by the complacency and naiveté that believes—”It can’t happen here!” It has. It will again. And there are methods that will be employed by the intelligence arms of foreign nations to penetrate our military and government that none of our current experts have yet devised. The real world of covert operations and the ends individuals and governments will go to achieve superiority are well beyond our imaginations. If it hasn’t happened yet, it will. The impossible of today will become the probable of tomorrow. Eternal vigilance is not a term to be dismissed lightly.

Let us sincerely hope that a Wayne Newell never has the opportunity to achieve a position of such critical command in our military forces. It could happen here.