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Espionage in an American high-level research program leads to a nuclear confrontation in the Pacific toward the end of the Cold War.

he Soviets suffered many setbacks during the Cold War in their ability to deploy effective countermeasures to the formidable American Fleet Ballistic Missile submarines. The well publicized 1989 tragic end of the Soviet missile submarine Komsomolets in the Norwegian Sea, plus the not well known end of the rogue Red Star submarine in its alleged attempt to surreptitiously launch a nuclear missile toward Honolulu, are just two of the estimated nine submarine losses to the Soviet nuclear missile fleet. Another eight confirmed major disasters severely incapacitated other Soviet missile submarines. Over the same span of years, the Americans lost two boats, the Thresher and the Scorpion.
Rapid development and deployment of the Polaris Fleet Ballistic Missile boats followed by the Poseidon and Trident class boats provided the United States with an ultra reliable, secure second strike capability. One that ensured an ability to reduce the Soviet world to a nuclear wasteland even as the United States sustained a mortal blow from a massive Soviet first strike ““ an effective implementation of the Mutually Assured Destruction, (MAD) policy.
In 1989, Forty-five years into the Cold War, Soviet espionage at highest levels in top-secret U.S. government research leads to the possibility that the Soviets may overcome the Trident second strike advantage. Dramatic Soviet encounters with submerged Trident boats launch the American investigation, Operation Wildcard.

Chapter One
5:55 A.M. Friday, January 27, 1989

“Good morning, Admiral. You’re here early today.” The security guard at the laboratory entrance desk, said.
“Yes, I thought I’d take advantage of the early hour and look over things before everyone else arrives.”
“That’s fine, Sir. I’ll have Jimmy take you up to the lab. He’s new, just got out of the hospital after getting himself back in one piece after his tour in “˜Nam.”
“Well, I’m glad to see he made it.”
“Hey, Jimmy. Take this gentleman up to the lab, and don’t let the civies fool you. This is retired Admiral Berria. He’s seen a lot of action in his time, goes all the way back to the big one.”
Leading the way, they took the freight elevator to the second floor where Jimmy said, “t’s certainly been nice meeting you, Admiral. Perhaps we can share some war stories when you have time. Here we are. Just a moment, while I get the door open. Security is big here, some of the best I’m told.”
He opened the door and a gust of foul smelling gas pushed it’s way out into their faces.
“My God, it’s gas!” Admiral Berria yelled as he reached past Jimmy to close the door again.
Too late. A blinding burst of light flashed through the open door toward them. A kaleidoscopic blur might have registered before their eyes burned out. A massive amount of gas ignited as a fireball exploded out of the laboratory. Its powerful force picked up the two men and slammed them into a wall. They died on impact ““ skulls smashed and broken bodies burning.
An unstoppable series of disasters, spawned by exploding gas, devastated all in its path. Laboratory walls blew out, the roof caved in, crushed the main-frame computers beneath it, ruptured pipes gushed water everywhere, and the relentless, rapid spread of fire consumed all that could burn.
Emergency evacuation signals screeched from klaxon horns and commanded attention of everyone who heard them. A silent priority-one alarm went directly into the National Executive Security Organization (NEXSO) Headquarters. Emergency standby security forces responded and raced toward the laboratory.
Few people in the building other than normal security personnel limited the casualty toll to three others besides Bill Berria and the security guard. Smoldering circuit boards and wire insulation generated thick smoke and noxious fumes that impeded access to the dead and injured.

The old, gray-stone government building, typical of those along Constitution Avenue, housed a laboratory that had received a complete renovation in 1985. A powerful data processing and number crunching state-of-the-art Cray super-computer complex ,designed to simultaneously process many mathematically intensive problems, had been installed. Pentagon planners used it to conduct top-secret strategic studies. NEXSO used it to developed classified sonar systems.

Fire and police officials on the scene cooperated with the military forces and deferred to the four-star rank of Admiral Arnold Morrison, Chief of NEXSO, who arrived minutes after his security force.
The security guard who signed Admiral Berria in, hurried over and said, “Admiral Morrison, it was horrible! I watched it happen on closed circuit TV. The lab exploded. I saw Admiral Berria and Jimmy our new security guard thrown across the hall at the lab’s entrance just before the monitor stopped working. Oh, my God, it was so awful.”
“Admiral!” His aide said, “Sir, are you all right? You don’t look good. Here, please sit down.”
“˜Oh . . . perhaps I’d better. Thanks, Lieutenant. This is terrible. I, I can’t believe it.”The admiral said as he settled his sagging body on a low wall. Somehow, he steadied himself and forced the feeling to pass ““ but not before droplets of sweat formed on his forehead as he thought, Bill Berria . . . my dearest friend, we were like family. An image from the past swept into his mind . . . Bill’s fighter plane, strafed from engine cowling to tail section ““ crash-landing on the carrier deck ““ Bill, walking away smiling without so much as a scratch . . .
The image faded as the admiral looked around and saw the enormous devastation that now confronted him and blotted out the wartime phoenix image of Bill.
Four Marines, under the direction of a tough looking sergeant, carried two shrouded stretchers out of the ruins. The sergeant saluted the admiral and said, “Sir, we recovered these, Sir.”
The admiral reluctantly took a soot-covered set of dog-tags, wiped away the thick black covering from the scorched metal and read ““ William Victor Berria. He bowed his head, turned away to shield the grief that distorted his face and gasped for breath. He raised his hand to wipe cold perspiration from his forehead and smudged soot from the dog tags as he did so.
He struggled to maintain his composure and looked again at the marine-sergeant, who could see the admiral’s agony now plainly visible. The wizened old-sergeant saluted again and said, “Sir, I won’t remove the covers, Sir. With your permission, Sir, we’ll send the remains to the forensic experts for positive identification, Sir.”
The admiral quietly said, “Thank you, Sergeant. Please arrange to have Forensics forward their report directly to me.”
His adrenalin now flowing, overcame his grief. He turned to his aide and said, “Lieutenant, please see to all necessary details for securing this area and commence a full scale investigation. I want to know every thing about what happened here, and get a full report on Admiral Berria’s movements for the last twenty-four hours.”
He turned to leave but stopped and said, “One thing more, please arrange to have a special detail assigned to guard Mrs. Berria around the clock, starting immediately. I want it maintained until I personally order otherwise.”
“Aye, aye, yes, Sir.” The young lieutenant said as he too fumbled his words and nervously responded to the admiral’s order. The admiral, a gentleman in all respects, issued his orders politely and never with intimidating overtones. Admiral Morrison was an officer from the old school.

Lydia Morrison, following her normal morning routine working in her study, had been leafing through draft-pages of her just completed gourmet cookbook. Somewhere between Veal Bollanaise and Veal Parmigiana the phone rang loudly and interrupted her thoughts and she said, “Oh, must be Arnie, he’s early. I guess there’s a change of plans.” She picked it up, cradled it on her shoulder and continued sorting through the cookbook’s pages.
Lydia, married to Arnold Morrison for nearly forty-seven years ever since he graduated from The Naval Academy in 1942, said, “Hello,” and immediately sensed something unusual had happened. She lost all thoughts of her cookbook when she heard her husband’s uncharacteristic struggle to control his voice. She gripped the phone tightly, as if to squeeze the words out of her obviously bereft husband and said, “Arnie, what! What is it?”
Arnie, barely able to speak the unspeakable words, just managed to say, “Lydia . . . Bill . . . Bill Berria was killed this morning in an explosion.” Hearing his wife gasp into the phone, he paused a moment to regain his own composure and somehow managed to take control of the situation. “‘m on my way over to see Gabriella ““ I’d like to pick you up ““ have you with me.”
Lydia inhaled a deep breath, swallowed hard and responded softly. ” . . . I’ll be outside waiting.” She could say no more.

Gabriella, working in a kneeling position in the garden on the side of the brick, two-story Georgian home, looked up to see a car as it came to a stop not far from where she worked. The black staff car, with a flag showing four stars had pulled slowly into the driveway. She got to her feet and said, “Who could this be?” A feeling of foreboding that had enveloped her earlier returned as she then said, “Arnie, Lydia, it’s so early.” as she thought, they look upset. Then she said, “Oh my, something’s happened. What, what is it, Arnie?”
Gabriella listened in disbelief and stared wide-eyed at the admiral as Arnie said, “Gabriella, Bill, Bill was killed this morning . . . there was an explosion.” Gabriella shuddered. Admiral Morrison caught her as she fainted. Lydia ran ahead, opened the door and the admiral carried Gabriella into the house as he ordered his driver to summon an ambulance.
Admiral Morrison cradled Gabriella in his arms as Lydia applied smelling salts to help her regain consciousness. As the realization of the words that Bill was dead took hold of her, Gabriella began to sob and cried out while she weakly beat her fist on the admiral’s chest. “Why, why, Arnie! Please tell me it’s not true. Arnie, I need to see Bill!” Her blows became weaker as she lost consciousness and started to shake in what appeared to be a prelude to convulsion.
The sound of an approaching siren droned down toward silence and served notice that the ambulance had arrived. A military police car’s ominous, emergency strobe-lights flashed in all directions as it too arrived right behind the ambulance.
A young navy doctor rushed into the house, wasted no time on formalities, did a quick evaluation of the unconscious, shuddering woman lying on the sofa, rubbed her right arm with an alcohol swab and injected a strong sedative. Lydia placed a hand-made afghan over the trembling woman while the doctor and the admiral held her hands until she stopped shaking and slipped into a merciful sleep.
The doctor looked directly at the admiral and said, “Sir, I think it’s advisable we take Mrs. Berria to the hospital.”
” I understand. I would like my wife to accompany her.”
“Yes, Sir. Please come with me, Mrs. Morrison.”
The medics placed the unconscious woman on a stretcher and carried Gabriella out to the waiting ambulance as Lydia and the doctor walked alongside.
The siren wailed a warning for all to clear the way, and the ambulance raced off to the hospital.
As the flashing lights sped away, another car pulled into the circular driveway and came to a stop behind the admiral’s staff car. Frank, the older of the two Berria boys, arriving for a long weekend stay, had just stepped out of his car when Admiral Morrison met him in the driveway.

Copyright 2008 Larry Martines. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

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