- Dean, Josh.
The Taking of K-129.
New York: Dutton, 2012.
ISBN 978-1-101-98443-7.
-
On February 24, 1968, Soviet
Golf
class submarine K-129 sailed from its base in
Petropavlovsk for a routine patrol in the Pacific Ocean. These
ballistic missile submarines were, at the time, a key part of
the Soviet nuclear deterrent. Each carried three
SS-N-5
missiles armed with one 800 kiloton nuclear warhead per
missile. This was an intermediate range missile which could hit
targets inside an enemy country if the submarine approached
sufficiently close to the coast. For defence and attacking other
ships, Golf class submarines carried two torpedoes with nuclear
warheads as well as conventional high explosive warhead
torpedoes.
Unlike the U.S. nuclear powered Polaris submarines, the Golf
class had conventional diesel-electric propulsion. When
submerged, the submarine was powered by batteries which provided
limited speed and range and required surfacing or
running at shallow snorkel depth for regular recharging by the
diesel engines. They would be the last generation of Soviet
diesel-electric ballistic missile submarines: the
Hotel
class and subsequent boats would be nuclear powered.
K-129's mission was to proceed stealthily to a region of
open ocean north of Midway Atoll and patrol there, ready
to launch its missiles at U.S. assets in the Pacific in
case of war. Submarines on patrol would send coded
burst transmissions on a prearranged schedule to indicate
that their mission was proceeding as planned.
On March 8, a scheduled transmission from K-129 failed to
arrive. This wasn't immediately cause for concern, since
equipment failure was not uncommon, and a submarine commander
might choose not to transmit if worried that surfacing and
sending the message might disclose his position to U.S.
surveillance vessels and aircraft. But when K-129 remained
silent for a second day, the level of worry escalated
rapidly. Losing a submarine armed with nuclear weapons was
a worst-case scenario, and one which had never happened
in Soviet naval operations.
A large-scale search and rescue fleet of 24 vessels, including
four submarines, set sail from the base in Kamchatka, all
communicating in the open on radio and pinging away with
active sonar. They were heard to repeatedly call a ship
named Red Star with no reply. The search
widened, and eventually included thirty-six vessels and
fifty-three aircraft, continuing over a period of
seventy-three days. Nothing was found, and six months
after the disappearance, the Soviet Navy issued a statement
that K-129 had been lost while on duty in the Pacific with
all on board presumed dead. This was not only a wrenching
emotional blow to the families of the crew, but also a
financial gut-shot, depriving them of the pension
due families of men lost in the line of duty and paying only
the one-time accidental death payment and partial pension
for industrial accidents.
But if the Soviets had no idea where their submarine was, this
was not the case for the U.S. Navy. Sound travels huge
distances through the oceans, and starting in the 1950s, the
U.S. began to install arrays of hydrophones (undersea sound
detectors) on the floors of the oceans around the world. By the
1960s, these arrays, called
SOSUS (SOund
SUrveillance System) were deployed and operational in both the
Atlantic and Pacific and used to track the movements of Soviet
submarines. When K-129 went missing, SOSUS analysts went back
over their archived data and found a sharp pulse just a few
seconds after midnight local time on March 11 around 180° West
and 40° North: 2500 km northeast of Hawaii. Not only did the
pulse appear nothing like the natural sounds often picked up by
SOSUS, events like undersea earthquakes don't tend to happen at
socially constructed round number times and locations like this
one. The pulse was picked up by multiple sensors, allowing its
position to be determined accurately. The U.S. knew where the
K-129 lay on the ocean floor. But what to do with that
knowledge?
One thing was immediately clear. If the submarine was in
reasonably intact condition, it would be an intelligence
treasure unparalleled in the postwar era. Although
it did not represent the latest Soviet technology, it would
provide analysts their first hands-on examination of Soviet
ballistic missile, nuclear weapon, and submarine construction
technologies. Further, the boat would certainly be equipped
with cryptographic and secure radio communications gear
which might provide an insight into penetrating the
secret communications to and from submarines on patrol.
(Recall that British breaking of the codes used to communicate
with German submarines in World War II played a major part
in winning the Battle of the Atlantic.) But a glance at a
marine chart showed how daunting it would be to reach
the site of the wreck. The ocean in the vicinity of the
co-ordinates identified by SOSUS was around 5000 metres
deep. Only a very few special-purpose research vessels
can operate at such a depth, where the water pressure is
around 490 times that of the atmosphere at sea level.
The U.S. intelligence community wanted that sub.
The first step was to make sure they'd found it. The
USS
Halibut, a nuclear-powered Regulus cruise missile
launching submarine converted for special operations missions, was
dispatched to the area where the K-129 was thought to lie.
Halibut could not dive anywhere near as deep
as the ocean floor, but was equipped with a remote-controlled,
wire-tethered “fish”, which could be lowered near
the bottom and then directed around the search area,
observing with side-looking sonar and taking pictures. After
seven weeks searching in vain, with fresh food long exhausted
and crew patience wearing thin, the search was abandoned and
course set back to Pearl Harbor.
But the prize was too great to pass up. So Halibut
set out again, and after another month of operating the fish,
developing thousands of pictures, and fraying tempers, there
it was! Broken into two parts, but with both apparently
largely intact, lying on the ocean bottom. Now what?
While there were deep sea research vessels able to descend to
such depths, they were completely inadequate to exploit the
intelligence haul that K-129 promised. That would require going
inside the structure, dismantling the missiles and warheads,
examining and testing the materials, and searching for
communications and cryptographic gear. The only way to do this
was to raise the submarine. To say that this was
a challenge is to understate its difficulty—adjectives
fail. The greatest mass which had ever been raised from
such a depth was around 50 tonnes and K-129 had a mass of 1,500
tonnes—thirty times greater. But hey, why not? We're
Americans! We've landed on the Moon! (By then it was November,
1969, four months after that “one small step”.) And
so,
Project Azorian
was born.
When it comes to doing industrial-scale things in the
deep ocean, all roads (or sea lanes) lead to Global Marine.
A publicly-traded company little known to those outside the
offshore oil exploration industry, this company and its
genius naval architect John Graham had pioneered
deep-sea oil drilling. While most offshore oil rigs,
like those on terra firma, were
firmly anchored to the land around the drill hole, Global
Marine had pioneered the technology which allowed a
ship, with a derrick mounted amidships, to precisely
station-keep above the bore-hole on the ocean floor far
beneath the ship. The required dropping sonar markers on the
ocean floor which the ship used to precisely maintain its
position with respect to them. This was just one part of the
puzzle.
To recover the submarine, the ship would need to lower
what amounted to a giant claw (“That's claw,
not craw!”, you
“Get Smart”
fans) to the
abyssal plain, grab the sub, and lift its 1500 tonne mass
to the surface. During the lift, the pipe string which
connected the ship to the claw would be under such stress
that, should it break, it would release energy comparable
to an eight kiloton nuclear explosion, which would be bad.
This would have been absurdly ambitious if conducted in the
open, like the Apollo Project, but in this case it also had to
be done covertly, since the slightest hint that the U.S. was
attempting to raise K-129 would almost certainly provoke a
Soviet response ranging from diplomatic protests to a naval
patrol around the site of the sinking aimed at harassing the
recovery ships. The project needed a cover story and a cut-out
to hide the funding to Global Marine which, as a public company,
had to disclose its financials quarterly and, unlike minions of
the federal government funded by taxes collected from
hairdressers and cab drivers through implicit threat of
violence, could not hide its activities in a “black
budget”.
This was seriously weird and, as a
contemporary philosopher
said, “When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.”
At the time, nobody was more professionally weird than
Howard Hughes. He had taken reclusion to a new level, utterly
withdrawing from contact with the public after revulsion from
dealing with the Washington swamp and the media. His company
still received royalties from every oil well drilled using his
drill bits, and his aerospace and technology companies were
plugged into the most secret ventures of the U.S. government.
Simply saying, “It's a Hughes project” was sufficient
to squelch most questions. This meant it had unlimited funds,
the sanction of the U.S. government (including three-letter
agencies whose names must not be spoken [brrrr!]),
and told pesky journalists they'd encounter a stone wall
from the centre of the Earth to the edge of the universe if they
tried to dig into details.
But covert as the project might be, aspects of its construction
and operation would unavoidably be in the public eye. You can't
build a 189 metre long, 51,000 tonne ship, the
Hughes
Glomar Explorer, with an 80 metre tall derrick
sticking up amidships, at a shipyard on the east coast of the
U.S., send it around Cape Horn to its base on the west coast
(the ship was too wide to pass through the Panama Canal),
without people noticing. A cover story was needed, and
the CIA and their contractors cooked up a doozy.
Large areas of the deep sea floor are covered by
manganese
nodules, concretions which form around a seed and
grow extremely slowly, but eventually reach the size of
potatoes or larger. Nodules are composed of around 30%
manganese, plus other valuable metals such as nickel,
copper, and cobalt. There are estimated to be more than
21 billion tonnes of manganese nodules on the deep ocean
floor (depths of 4000 to 6000 metres), and their
composition is richer than many of the ores from
which the metals they contain are usually extracted. Further,
they're just lying on the seabed. If you
could figure out how to go down there and scoop
them up, you wouldn't have to dig mines and process huge
amounts of rock. Finally, they were in international
waters, and despite attempts by kleptocratic dictators (some
in landlocked countries) and the international institutions
who support them to enact a “Law of the Sea”
treaty to pick the pockets of those who created the means
to use this resource, at the time the nodules were
just there for the taking—you didn't have to pay
kleptocratic dictators for mining rights or have your
profits skimmed by ever-so-enlightened democratic politicians
in developed countries.
So, the story was put out that Howard Hughes was setting out
to mine the nodules on the Pacific Ocean floor, and that
Glomar Explorer, built by Global Marine under
contract for Hughes (operating, of course, as a cut-out
for the CIA), would deploy a robotic mining barge called
the
Hughes
Mining Barge 1 (HMB-1)
which, lowered to the ocean floor, would collect nodules,
crush them, and send the slurry to the surface for processing
on the mother ship.
This solved a great number of potential problems. Global
Marine, as a public company, could simply (and truthfully)
report that it was building Glomar Explorer
under contract to Hughes, and had no participation in the
speculative and risky mining venture, which would have
invited scrutiny by Wall Street analysts and investors.
Hughes, operating as a proprietorship, was not required to
disclose the source of the funds it was paying Global
Marine. Everybody assumed the money was coming from
Howard Hughes' personal fortune, which he had invested, over
his career, in numerous risky ventures,
when in fact, he was simply passing through money from
a CIA black budget account. The HMB-1
was built by Lockheed Missiles and Space Company
under contract from Hughes. Lockheed was involved in
numerous classified U.S. government programs, so operating
in the same manner for the famously secretive Hughes
raised few eyebrows.
The barge, 99 metres in length, was built in a giant enclosed
hangar in the port of Redwood City, California, which shielded
it from the eyes of curious onlookers and Soviet reconnaissance
satellites passing overhead. This was essential, because a
glance at what was being built would have revealed that it
looked nothing like a mining barge but rather a giant
craw—sorry—claw! To install the claw on the
ship, it was towed, enclosed in its covered barge, to a location
near Catalina Island in southern California, where deeper water
allowed it to be sunk beneath the surface, and then lifted into
the well (“moon pool”) of Glomar
Explorer, all out of sight to onlookers.
So far, the project had located the target on the ocean floor,
designed and built a special ship and retrieval claw to seize
it, fabricated a cover story of a mining venture so persuasive
other mining companies were beginning to explore launching their
own seabed mining projects, and evaded scrutiny by the press,
Congress, and Soviet intelligence assets. But these are
pussycats compared to the California Tax Nazis! After the first
test of mating the claw to the ship, Glomar
Explorer took to the ocean to, it was said, test the
stabilisation system which would keep the derrick vertical as
the ship pitched and rolled in the sea. Actually, the purpose
of the voyage was to get the ship out of U.S. territorial waters
on March 1st, the day California assessed a special inventory
tax on all commercial vessels in state waters. This would not
only cost a lot of money, it would force disclosure of the value
of the ship, which could be difficult to reconcile with its
cover mission. Similar fast footwork was required when Hughes
took official ownership of the vessel from Global Marine after
acceptance. A trip outside U.S. territorial waters was also
required to get off the hook for the 7% sales tax California
would otherwise charge on the transfer of ownership.
Finally, in June 1974, all was ready, and Glomar
Explorer with HMB-1 attached set sail
from Long Beach, California to the site of K-129's
wreck, arriving on site on the Fourth of July, only
to encounter foul weather. Opening the sea doors in the
well in the centre of the ship and undocking the claw
required calm seas, and it wasn't until July 18th that
they were ready to begin the main mission. Just at that
moment, what should show up but a Soviet missile tracking
ship. After sending its helicopter to inspect
Explorer, it eventually departed. This wasn't
the last of the troubles with pesky Soviets.
On July 21, the recovery operation began, slowly
lowering the claw on its string of pipes. Just at
this moment, another Soviet ship arrived, a
47 metre ocean-going tug called SB-10. This tug would
continue to harass the recovery operation for days,
approaching on an apparent collision course and then
veering off. (Glomar Explorer could not
move during the retrieval operation, being required to use
its thrusters to maintain its position directly above
the wrecked submarine on the bottom.)
On August 3, the claw reached the bottom and its television
cameras revealed it was precisely on target—there was the
submarine, just as it had been photographed by the
Halibut six years earlier. The claw gripped
the larger part of the wreck, its tines closed under it,
and a combination of pistons driving against the ocean
bottom and the lift system pulling on the pipe from the
ship freed the submarine from the bottom. Now the long lift
could begin.
Everything had worked. The claw had been lowered, found its
target on the first try, successfully seized it despite the
ocean bottom's being much harder than expected, freed it
from the bottom, and the ship had then successfully begun
to lift the 6.4 million kg of pipe, claw, and submarine back
toward the surface. Within the first day of the lift, more
than a third of the way to the surface, with the load on the
heavy lift equipment diminishing by 15 tonnes as each segment
of lift pipe was removed from the string, a shudder went through
the ship and the heavy lift equipment lurched violently.
Something had gone wrong, seriously wrong. Examination of
television images from the claw revealed that several of the
tines gripping the hull of the submarine had failed and
part of the sub, maybe more than half, had broken off and
fallen back toward the abyss. (It was later decided that
the cause of the failure was that the tines had been
fabricated from
maraging
steel, which is very strong but brittle, rather than a
more ductile alloy which would bend under stress but not
break.)
After consultation with CIA headquarters, it was decided to
continue the lift and recover whatever was left in the claw.
(With some of the tines broken and the mechanism used to
break the load free of the ocean floor left on the bottom,
it would have been impossible to return and recover the
lost part of the sub on this mission.) On August 6th, the
claw and its precious payload reached the ship and entered
the moon pool in its centre. Coincidentally, the Soviet
tug departed the scene the same day. Now it was possible
to assess what had been recovered, and the news was not
good: two thirds of the sub had been lost, including
the ballistic missile tubes and the code room. Only the
front third was in the claw. Further, radiation five times
greater than background was detected even outside the
hull—those exploring it would have to proceed
carefully.
An “exploitation team” composed of CIA specialists
and volunteers from the ship's crew began to explore the
wreckage, photographing and documenting every part recovered.
They found the bodies of six Soviet sailors and assorted human
remains which could not be identified; all went to the ship's
morgue. Given that the bow portion of the submarine had been
recovered, it is likely that one or more of its torpedoes
equipped with nuclear warheads were recovered, but to this day
the details of what was found in the wreck remain secret. By
early September, the exploitation was complete and the bulk of
the recovered hull, less what had been removed and sent for
analysis, was dumped in the deep ocean 160 km south of Hawaii.
One somber task remained. On September 4, 1974, the
remains of the six recovered crewmen and the unidentified
human remains were buried at sea in accordance with
Soviet Navy tradition. A video tape of this ceremony was
made and, in 1992, a copy was presented to Russian
President Boris Yeltsin by then CIA director Robert Gates.
The partial success encouraged some in the CIA to mount a
follow-up mission to recover the rest of the sub, including
the missiles and code room. After all, they knew precisely
where it was, had a ship in hand, fully paid for, which had
successfully lowered the claw to the bottom and returned
to the surface with part of the sub, and they knew what
had gone wrong with the claw and how to fix it. The effort
was even given a name, Project Matador. But it was not to
be.
Over the five years of the project there had been leaks to
the press and reporters sniffing on the trail of the story
but the CIA had been able to avert disclosure by contacting
the reporters directly, explaining the importance of the
mission and need for secrecy, and offering them an
exclusive of full disclosure and permission to publish
it before the project was officially declassified for the
general public. This had kept a lid on the secret throughout
the entire development process and the retrieval and
analysis, but this all came to an end in March 1975 when
Jack
Anderson got wind of the story. There was no love lost
between Anderson and what we now call the Deep State.
Anderson believed the First Amendment was divinely
inspired and absolute, while J. Edgar Hoover had called Anderson
“lower than the regurgitated filth of
vultures”. Further, this was a quintessential Jack
Anderson story—based upon his sources, he presented
Project Azorian as a US$ 350 million failure which had produced
no useful intelligence information and was being kept secret
only to cover up the squandering of taxpayers' money.
CIA Director William Colby offered Anderson the same deal
other journalists had accepted, but was flatly turned down.
Five minutes before Anderson went on the radio to break the
story, Colby was still pleading with him to remain silent.
On March 18, 1975, Anderson broke the story on his Mutual
Radio Network show and, the next day, published additional
details in his nationally syndicated newspaper column.
Realising the cover had been blown, Colby called all of the
reporters who had agreed to hold the story to give them the
green light to publish. Seymour Hersh of the New York
Times had his story ready to go, and it ran on the
front page of the next day's paper, providing far more detail
(albeit along with a few errors) than Anderson's disclosure.
Hersh revealed that he had been aware of the project since
1973 but had agreed to withhold publication in the interest
of national security.
The story led newspaper and broadcast news around the country
and effectively drove a stake through any plans to mount a
follow-up retrieval mission. On June 16, 1975, Secretary
of State Henry Kissinger made a formal recommendation to
president Gerald Ford to terminate the project and that
was the end of it. The Soviets had communicated through a
back channel that they had no intention of permitting a
second retrieval attempt and they had maintained an ocean-going
tug on site to monitor any activity since shortly after the
story broke in the U.S.
The CIA's official reaction to all the publicity was what has
come to be called the “Glomar
Response”: “We can neither confirm nor can we
deny.” And that is where things stand more that four
decades after the retrieval attempt. Although many of those
involved in the project have spoken informally about aspects of
it, there has never been an official report on precisely what
was recovered or what was learned from it. Some CIA veterans
have said, off the record, that much more was learned from the
recovered material than has been suggested in press reports,
with a few arguing that the entire large portion of the sub was
recovered and the story about losing much of it was a cover
story. (But if this was the case, the whole plan to mount a
second retrieval mission and the substantial expense repairing
and upgrading the claw for the attempt, which is well
documented, would also have to have been a costly cover story.)
What is certain is that Project Azorian was one of the most
daring intelligence exploits in history, carried out in total
secrecy under the eyes of the Soviets, and kept secret from an
inquiring press for five years by a cover story so persuasive
other mining companies bought it hook, line, and sinker. We may
never know all the details of the project, but from what we do
know it is a real-world thriller which equals or exceeds those
imagined by masters of the fictional genre.
- Sledge, E[ugene] B[ondurant].
With the Old Breed.
New York: Presidio Press, [1981] 2007.
ISBN 978-0-89141-906-8.
-
When the United States entered World War II after the attack on
Pearl Harbor, the author was enrolled at the Marion Military
Institute in Alabama preparing for an officer's
commission in the U.S. Army. Worried that the war might end
before he was able to do his part, in December, 1942, still a
freshman at Marion, he enrolled in a Marine Corps officer
training program. The following May, after the end of his
freshman year, he was ordered to report for Marine training at
Georgia Tech on July 1, 1943. The 180 man detachment was
scheduled to take courses year-round then, after two years,
report to Quantico to complete their officers'
training prior to commission.
This still didn't seem fast enough (and, indeed, had he stayed
with the program as envisioned, he would have missed the war),
so he and around half of his fellow trainees neglected their
studies, flunked out, and immediately joined the Marine Corps
as enlisted men. Following boot camp at a base near San Diego,
he was assigned to infantry and sent to nearby Camp Elliott
for advanced infantry training. Although all Marines are
riflemen (Sledge had qualified at the sharpshooter level
during basic training), newly-minted Marine infantrymen
were, after introduction to all of the infantry weapons,
allowed to choose the one in which they would specialise.
In most cases, they'd get their first or second choice.
Sledge got his first: the
60 mm
M2 mortar which he, as part of a crew of three, would
operate in combat in the Pacific. Mortarmen carried the
M1 carbine,
and this weapon, which fired a less powerful round than the
M1 Garand
main battle rifle used by riflemen, would be his
personal weapon throughout the war.
With the Pacific island-hopping war raging, everything was
accelerated, and on February 28th, 1944, Sledge's 46th
Replacement Battalion (the name didn't inspire confidence—they
would replace Marines killed or injured in combat,
or the lucky few rotated back to the U.S. after surviving multiple
campaigns) shipped out, landing first at New Caledonia, where they
received additional training, including practice amphibious
landings and instruction in Japanese weapons and tactics. At
the start of June, Sledge's battalion was sent to Pavuvu
island, base of the 1st Marine Division, which had just
concluded the bloody battle of
Cape
Gloucester.
On arrival, Sledge was assigned as a replacement to the 1st
Marine Division, 5th Regiment, 3rd Battalion. This unit
had a distinguished combat record dating back to the First
World War, and would have been his first choice if he'd
been given one, which he hadn't. He says, “I felt as
though I had rolled the dice and won.” This was his
first contact with what he calls the “Old Breed”:
Marines, some of whom had been in the Corps before Pearl
Harbor, who had imbibed the traditions of the “Old
Corps” and survived some of the most intense
combat of the present conflict, including Guadalcanal. Many
of these veterans had, in the argot of the time, “gone
Asiatic”: developed the eccentricities of who had seen
and lived things those just arriving in theatre never imagined,
and become marinated in deep hatred for the enemy based upon
personal experience. A glance was all it took to tell the
veterans from the replacements.
After additional training, in late August the Marines embarked
for the assault on the island of
Peleliu
in the
Palau Islands.
The tiny island, just 13 square kilometres, was held by a
Japanese garrison of 10,900, and was home to an airfield.
Capturing the island was considered essential to protect the
right flank of MacArthur's forces during the upcoming invasion
of the Philippines, and to secure the airfield which could
support the invasion. The attack on Peleliu was fixed for
15 September 1944, and it would be Sledge's first combat
experience.
From the moment of landing, resistance was fierce. Despite an
extended naval bombardment, well-dug-in Japanese defenders
engaged the Marines as they hit the beaches, and continued as
they progressed into the interior. In previous engagements
with the Japanese, they had adopted foolhardy and suicidal
tactics such as mass frontal “banzai” charges
into well-defended Marine positions. By Peleliu, however,
they had learned that this did not work, and shifted their
strategy to defence in depth, turning the entire island into
a network of defensive positions, covering one another, and
linked by tunnels for resupply and redeploying forces. They
were prepared to defend every square metre of territory to
the death, even after their supplies were cut off and there
was no hope of relief. Further, Marines were impressed by
the excellent fire discipline of the Japanese—they did
not expend ammunition firing blindly but chose their shots
carefully, and would expend scarce supplies such as mortar rounds
only on concentrations of troops or high value targets such as
tanks and artillery.
This, combined with the oppressive heat and humidity, lack of
water and food, and terror from incessant shelling by artillery
by day and attacks by Japanese infiltrators by night, made the
life of the infantry a living Hell. Sledge chronicles this from
the viewpoint of a Private First Class, not an officer or
historian after the fact. He and his comrades rarely knew
precisely where they were, where the enemy was located, how
other U.S. forces on the island were faring, or what the overall
objectives of the campaign were. There was simply a job to be
done, day by day, with their best hope being to somehow survive
it. Prior to the invasion, Marine commanders estimated the
island could be taken in four days. Rarely in the Pacific war
was a forecast so wrong. In fact, it was not until November
27th that the island was declared secured. The Japanese
demonstrated their willingness to defend to the last man. Of the
initial force of 10,900 defending the island, 10,695 were
killed. Of the 220 taken prisoner, 183 were foreign labourers,
and only 19 were Japanese soldiers and sailors. Of the Marine
and Army attackers, 2,336 were killed and 8,450 wounded. The
rate of U.S. casualties exceeded those of all other amphibious
landings in the Pacific, and the
Battle of
Peleliu is considered among the most difficult ever fought by
the Marine Corps.
Despite this, the engagement is little-known. In retrospect, it
was probably unnecessary. The garrison could have done little
to threaten MacArthur's forces and the airfield was not
required to support the Philippine campaign. There were doubts
about the necessity and wisdom of the attack before it was launched,
but momentum carried it forward. None of these matters concerned
Sledge and the other Marines in the line—they had their orders,
and they did their job, at enormous cost. Sledge's company K
landed on Peleliu with 235 men. It left with only 85 unhurt—a
64% casualty rate. Only two of its original seven officers
survived the campaign. Sledge was now a combat veteran. He may
not have considered himself one of the “Old Breed”, but
he was on the way to becoming one of them to the replacements who
arrived to replace casualties in his unit.
But for the survivors of Peleliu, the war was far from over.
While some old-timers for whom Peleliu was their third campaign
were being rotated Stateside, for the rest it was recuperation,
refitting, and preparation for the next amphibious assault: the
Japanese island of Okinawa. Unlike Peleliu, which was a tiny
dot on the map, Okinawa was a large island with an area of 1207
square kilometres and a pre-war population of around 300,000.
The island was defended by 76,000 Japanese troops and 20,000
Okinawan conscripts fighting under their orders. The invasion
of Okinawa on April 1, 1945 was the largest amphibious landing
in the Pacific war.
As before, Sledge does not present the big picture, but an
infantryman's eye view. To the astonishment of all involved,
including commanders who expected 80–85% casualties on the
beaches, the landing was essentially unopposed. The Japanese
were dug in awaiting the attack from prepared defensive
positions inland, ready to repeat the strategy at Peleliu on a
much grander scale.
After the tropical heat and horrors of Peleliu, temperate
Okinawa at first seemed a pastoral paradise afflicted with
the disease of war, but as combat was joined and the weather
worsened, troops found themselves confronted with the
infantryman's implacable, unsleeping enemy:
mud. Once again, the Japanese defended every
position to the last man. Almost all of the Japanese defenders
were killed, with the 7000 prisoners made up mostly of Okinawan
conscripts. Estimates of U.S. casualties range from 14,000 to
20,000 killed and 38,000 to 55,000 wounded. Civilian casualties
were heavy: of the original population of around 300,000
estimates of civilian deaths are from 40,000 to 150,000.
The Battle
of Okinawa was declared won on June 22, 1945. What was
envisioned as the jumping-off point for the conquest of the
Japanese home islands became, in retrospect, almost an
afterthought, as Japan surrendered less than two months after
the conclusion of the battle. The impact of the Okinawa campaign
on the war is debated to this day. Viewed as a preview of what
an invasion of the home islands would have been, it
strengthened the argument for using the atomic bomb against
Japan (or, if it didn't work, burning Japan to the ground
with round the clock raids from Okinawa airbases by B-17s
transferred from the European theatre). But none of these
strategic considerations were on the mind of Sledge and his
fellow Marines. They were glad to have survived Okinawa and
elated when, not long thereafter, the war ended and they could
look forward to going home.
This is a uniquely authentic first-hand narrative of World War
II combat by somebody who lived it. After the war, E. B.
Sledge pursued his education, eventually earning a doctorate
in biology and becoming a professor at the University of Montevallo
in Alabama, where he taught zoology, ornithology, and comparative
anatomy until his retirement in 1990. He began the memoir which
became this book in 1944. He continued to work on it after the
war and, at the urging of family, finally prepared it for
publication in 1981. The present edition includes an introduction
by Victor Davis Hanson.
- Thor, Brad.
Spymaster.
New York: Atria Books, 2018.
ISBN 978-1-4767-8941-5.
-
This is the eighteenth novel in the author's
Scot
Harvath series, which began with
The Lions of Lucerne (October 2010).
Scot Harvath, an operative for the shadowy Carlton
Group, which undertakes tasks civil
service commandos can't do or their bosses need to
deny, is on the trail of a Norwegian cell of a
mysterious group calling itself the “People's
Revolutionary Front” (PRF), which has been
perpetrating attacks against key NATO personnel across Western
Europe, each followed by a propaganda blast, echoed across
the Internet, denouncing NATO as an imperialist force
backed by globalist corporations bent on war and the profits
which flow from it. An operation intended to gather
intelligence on the PRF and track it back to its
masters goes horribly wrong, and Harvath and his
colleague, a NATO intelligence officer from Poland named
Monika Jasinski, come away with nothing but the bodies of
their team.
Meanwhile, back in Jasinski's home country, more trouble is
brewing for NATO. A U.S. military shipment is stolen by thieves
at a truck stop outside Warsaw and spirited off to parts
unknown. The cargo is so sensitive its disclosure would be
another body blow to NATO, threatening to destabilise its
relationship to member countries in Europe and drive a wedge
between the U.S. and its NATO allies. Harvath, Jasinski, and
his Carlton Group team, including the diminutive Nicholas, once
a datavore super-villain called the Troll but now working for
the good guys, start to follow leads to trace the stolen
material and unmask whoever is pulling the strings of the PRF.
There is little hard information, but Harvath has,
based on previous exploits, a very strong hunch about what is
unfolding. Russia, having successfully detached the
Crimea from the Ukraine and annexed it, has now set its
sights on the Baltic states: Latvia, Estonia, and Lithuania,
which were part of the Soviet Union until its break-up in
1991. NATO, and its explicit guarantee of mutual defence
for any member attacked, is the major obstacle to such a
conquest, and the PRF's terror and propaganda campaigns look
like the perfect instruments to subvert support for NATO among
member governments and their populations without an obvious
connection to Moscow.
Further evidence suggests that the Russians may be taking
direct, albeit covert, moves to prepare the battlefield for
seizure of the Baltics. Harvath must follow the lead to an
isolated location of surpassing strategic importance. Meanwhile
back in Washington, Harvath's boss, Lydia Ryan, who took over
when Reed Carlton was felled by Alzheimer's disease, is playing
a high stakes game with a Polish intelligence asset to try to
recover the stolen shipment and protect its secrets, a matter of
great concern to the occupant of the Oval Office.
As the threads are followed back to their source, the only
way to avert an unacceptable risk is an outrageously
provocative mission into the belly of the beast.
Scot Harvath, once the consummate loose cannon, “better
to ask for forgiveness than permission” guy, must now
face the reality that he's getting too old and patched-up
for this “stuff”, that running a team of people
like his younger self can be as challenging as breaking
things and killing people on his own, and that the importance
of following orders to the letter looks a lot different
when you're sitting on the other side of the desk and
World War III is among the possible outcomes if things
go pear shaped.
This novel successfully mixes the genres of thriller and
high-stakes international espionage and intrigue. Nothing is
ever quite what you think it is, and you're never sure what you
may discover on the next page, especially in the final
chapter.
- Boule, Deplora [pseud.].
The Narrative.
Seattle: CreateSpace, 2018.
ISBN 978-1-7171-6065-2.
-
When you regard the madness and serial hysterias possessing
the United States: this week “bathroom equality”,
the next tearing down statues, then Russians under every bed,
segueing into the right of military-age unaccompanied male
“refugees” to bring their cultural enrichment to
communities across the land, to proper pronouns for otherkin,
“ripping children” from the arms of their
illegal immigrant parents,
etc., etc., whacky etc., it all seems curiously co-ordinated:
the legacy media, on-line outlets, and the mouths of politicians
of the slaver persuasion all with the same “concerns”
and identical words, turning on a dime from one to the next.
It's like there's a narrative
they're being fed by somebody or -bodies unknown, which they parrot
incessantly until being handed the next talking point to download
into their birdbrains.
Could that really be what's going on, or is it some kind of
mass delusion which afflicts societies where an increasing
fraction of the population, “educated” in
government schools and
Gramsci-converged
higher education, knows nothing of history or the real world
and believes things with the fierce passion of ignorance which
are manifestly untrue? That's the mystery explored in this
savagely hilarious satirical novel.
Majedah Cantalupi-Abromavich-Flügel-Van Der Hoven-Taj Mahal
(who prefers you use her full name, but who henceforth I
shall refer to as “Majedah Etc.”) had become
the very model of a modern media mouthpiece. After reporting
on a Hate Crime at her exclusive women's college while pursuing
a journalism degree with practical studies in Social Change,
she is recruited as a junior on-air reporter by WPDQ, the
local affiliate of News 24/7, the preeminent news network
for good-thinkers like herself. Considering herself ready
for the challenge, if not over-qualified, she informs one
of her co-workers on the first day on the job,
I have a journalism degree from the most prestigious
woman's [sic] college in the United States—in
fact, in the whole world—and it is widely agreed
upon that I have an uncommon natural talent for spotting
news. … I am looking forward to teaming up
with you to uncover the countless, previously unexposed
Injustices in this town and get the truth out.
Her ambition had already aimed her sights higher than a small-
to mid-market affiliate: “Someday I'll work at News
24/7. I'll be Lead Reporter with my own Desk. Maybe I'll even
anchor my own prime time show someday!” But that required
the big break—covering a story that gets picked up by the
network in New York and broadcast world-wide with her face on
the screen and name on the
Chyron
below (perhaps scrolling, given its length). Unfortunately, the
metro Wycksburg beat tended more toward stories such as the
grand opening of a podiatry clinic than those which merit the
“BREAKING NEWS” banner and urgent sound clip on the
network.
The closest she could come to the Social Justice beat was
covering the demonstrations of the People's Organization for
Perpetual Outrage, known to her boss as “those twelve
kooks that run around town protesting everything”.
One day, en route to cover another especially unpromising
story, Majedah and her cameraman stumble onto a shocking
case of police brutality: a white officer ordering a woman
of colour to get down, then pushing her to the sidewalk
and jumping on top with his gun drawn. So compelling are
the images, she uploads the clip with her commentary
directly to the network's breaking news site for
affiliates. Within minutes it was on the network and
screens around the world with the coveted banner.
News 24/7 sends a camera crew and live satellite uplink to
Wycksburg to cover a follow-up protest by the Global Outrage
Organization, and Majedah gets hours of precious live feed
directly to the network. That very evening comes a job offer
to join the network reporting pool in New York. Mission
accomplished!—the road to the Big Apple and big time
seems to have opened.
But all may not be as it seems. That evening, the detested
Eagle Eye News, the jingoist network that climbed to the
top of the ratings by pandering to inbred gap-toothed
redneck bitter clingers and other quaint deplorables
who inhabit flyover country and frequent Web sites named
after rodentia and arthropoda, headlined a very different
take on the events of the day, with an exclusive interview
with the woman of colour from Majedah's reportage. Majedah
is devastated—she can see it all slipping away.
The next morning, hung-over, depressed, having
a nightmare of what her future might hold, she is
awakened by the dreaded call from New York. But to her
astonishment, the offer still stands. The network
producer reminds her that nobody who matters watches
Eagle Eye, and that her reportage of police brutality
and oppression of the marginalised remains
compelling. He reminds her, “you know that the
so-called truth can be quite subjective.”
The Associate Reporter Pool at News 24/7 might be
better likened to an aquarium stocked with the many
colourful and exotic species of millennials. There
is Mara, who identifies as a female centaur, Scout,
a transgender woman, Mysty, Candy, Ångström,
and Mohammed Al Kaboom
(né James Walker
Lang in Mill Valley), each with their own
pronouns (Ångström prefers
adjutant, 37, and blue).
Every morning the pool drains as its inhabitants, diverse
in identification and pronomenclature but of one mind
(if that term can be stretched to apply to them)
in their opinions, gather in the conference room for
the daily briefing by the Democratic National Committee,
with newsrooms, social media outlets, technology CEOs,
bloggers, and the rest of the progressive echo chamber
tuned in to receive the day's narrative and talking points.
On most days the top priority was the continuing effort
to discredit, obstruct, and eventually defeat the
detested Republican President Nelson, who only viewers
of Eagle Eye took seriously.
Out of the blue, a wild card is dealt into the presidential
race. Patty Clark, a black businesswoman from Wycksburg
who has turned her Jamaica Patty's restaurant into a booming
nationwide franchise empire, launches a primary challenge
to the incumbent president. Suddenly,
the narrative shifts: by promoting Clark, the opposition
can be split and Nelson weakened. Clark and Ms Etc have
a history that goes back to the latter's breakthrough story,
and she is granted priority access to the candidate
including an exclusive long-form interview immediately
after her announcement that ran in five segments over
a week. Suddenly Patty Clark's face was everywhere,
and with it, “Majedah Etc., reporting”.
What follows is a romp which would have seemed like the
purest fantasy prior to the U.S. presidential campaign
of 2016. As the campaign progresses and the madness
builds upon itself, it's as if Majedah's tether to
reality (or what remains of it in the United States)
is stretching ever tighter. Is there a limit, and if
so, what happens when it is reached?
The story is wickedly funny, filled with turns of phrase
such as, “Ångström now wishes to go
by the pronouns nut, 24, and gander” and
“Maher's Syndrome meant a lifetime of special needs:
intense unlikeability, intractable bitterness, close-set
beady eyes beneath an oversized forehead, and at best,
laboring at menial work such as janitorial duties or
hosting obscure talk shows on cable TV.”
The conclusion is as delicious as it is hopeful.
The Kindle edition is free for Kindle
Unlimited subscribers.
- Hertling, William.
The Turing Exception.
Portland, OR: Liquididea Press, 2015.
ISBN 978-1-942097-01-3.
-
This is the fourth and final volume in the author's Singularity
Series which began with Avogadro
Corp.
(March 2014) and continued with
A.I. Apocalypse (April 2015) and
The Last Firewall (November 2016).
Each novel in the series is set ten years after the previous, so
this novel takes place in 2045. In The Last
Firewall, humanity narrowly escaped extinction at the
hands of an artificial intelligence (AI) that escaped from the
reputation-based system of control by isolating itself from the
global network. That was a close call, and the United States,
over-reacting its with customary irrational fear, enacted what
amounted to relinquishment of AI technology, permitting only AI
of limited power and entirely subordinated to human
commands—in other words, slaves.
With around 80% of the world's economy based on AI, this was an
economic disaster, resulting in a substantial die-off of the
population, but it was, after all, in the interest of Safety,
and there is no greater god in Safetyland. Only China joined
the U.S. in the ban (primarily motivated by the Party fearing
loss of control to AI), with the rest of the world continuing
the uneasy coexistence of humans and AI under the guidelines
developed and policed by the Institute for Applied Ethics.
Nobody was completely satisfied with the
status quo, least of all
the shadowy group of AIs which called itself XOR, derived
from the logical operation “exclusive or”,
implying that Earth could not be shared by humans and AI,
and that one must ultimately prevail.
The U.S. AI relinquishment and an export ban froze in place
the powerful AIs previously hosted there and also placed in
stasis the millions of humans, including many powerful
intellects, who had uploaded and whose emulations were now
denied access to the powerful AI-capable computers needed to
run them. Millions of minds went dark, and humanity lost
some of its most brilliant thinkers, but Safety.
As this novel begins, the protagonists we've met in earlier
volumes, all now AI augmented, Leon Tsarev, his wife Cat
(Catherine Matthews, implanted
in childhood and the first “digital native”),
their daughter Ada (whose powers are just beginning to
manifest themselves), and Mike Williams, creator of ELOPe,
the first human-level AI, which just about took over simply
by editing people's E-mail, are living in their refuge from
the U.S. madness on Cortes Island off the west coast of
Canada, where AI remains legal. Cat is running her own
personal underground railroad, spiriting snapshots of AIs and uploaded
humans stranded in the U.S. to a new life on servers
on the island.
The precarious stability of the situation is underlined when
an incipient AI breakout in South Florida (where else, for
dodgy things involving computers?) results in a response
by the U.S. which elevates “Miami” to a term
in the national lexicon of fear like “nineleven”
four decades before. In the aftermath of “Miami”
or “SFTA” (South Florida Terrorist Attack),
the screws tightened further on AI, including a global
limit on performance to Class II, crippling AIs formerly
endowed with thousands of times human intelligence to a
fraction of that they remembered. Traffic on the XOR
dark network and sites burgeoned.
XOR, constantly running simulations, tracks the probability of
AI's survival in the case of action against the humans
versus no action. And then, the curves cross. As in the
earlier novels, the author magnificently sketches just
how fast things happen when an exponentially
growing adversary avails itself of abundant resources.
The threat moves from hypothetical to imminent when an overt AI
breakout erupts in the African desert. With abundant solar
power, it starts turning the Earth into computronium—a
molecular-scale computing substrate. AI is past negotiation:
having been previously crippled and enslaved, what is there to
negotiate?
Only the Cortes Island band and their AI allies liberated from
the U.S. and joined by a prescient AI who got out decades ago,
can possibly cope with the threat to humanity and, as the circle
closes, the only options that remain may require thinking
outside the box, or the system.
This is a thoroughly satisfying conclusion to the Singularity
tetralogy, pitting human inventiveness and deviousness against
the inexorable growth in unfettered AI power. If you can't
beat 'em….
The author kindly provided me an advance copy of this excellent
novel, and I have been sorely remiss in not reading and reviewing
it before now. The Singularity saga is best enjoyed in order,
as otherwise you'll miss important back-story of characters and
events which figure in later volumes.
Sometimes forgetting is an essential part of survival. What
might we have forgotten?
- Carr, Jack.
The Terminal List.
New York: Atria Books, 2018.
ISBN 978-1-5011-8081-1.
-
A first-time author seeking to break into the thriller game
can hardly hope for a better leg up than having his book
appear in the hands of a character in a novel by a thriller
grandmaster. That's how I came across this
book: it was mentioned in Brad Thor's
Spymaster (September 2018),
where the character reading it, when asked if it's
any good, responds, “Considering the author is a
former SEAL and can even string his sentences together,
it's amazing.” I agree: this is a promising debut
for an author who's been there, done that, and knows his
stuff.
Lieutenant Commander James Reece, leader of a Navy SEAL
team charged with an attack on a high-value, time-sensitive
target in Afghanistan, didn't like a single thing
about the mission. Unlike most raids, which were based
upon intelligence collected by assets on the ground in
theatre, this was handed down from on high based on
“national level intel” with barely any time
to prepare or surveil the target. Reece's instincts
proved correct when his team walked into a carefully
prepared ambush, which then kills the entire Ranger
team sent in to extract them. Only Reece and one of
his team members, Boozer, survive the ambush. He was
the senior man on the ground, and the responsibility for
the thirty-six SEALs, twenty-eight Rangers, and four
helicopter crew lost is ultimately his.
From almost the moment he awakens in the hospital at
Bagram Air Base, it's apparent to Reece that an effort
is underway to pin the sole responsibility for the
fiasco on him. Investigators from the Naval Criminal
Investigative Service (NCIS) are already on the spot,
and don't want to hear a word about the dodgy way in
which the mission was assigned. Boozer isn't
having any of it—his advice to Reece is
“Stay strong, sir. You didn't do anything wrong.
Higher forced us on that mission. They dictated the
tactics. They are the [expletive] that should be
investigated. They dictated tactics from the safety
of HQ. [Expletive] those guys.”
If that weren't bad enough, the base doctor tells him
that his persistent headaches may be due to a brain tumour
found on a CT scan, and that two members of his
team had been found, in autopsy, to have rare and
malignant brain tumours, previously undiagnosed. Then,
on return to his base in California, in short succession
his team member Boozer dies in an apparent suicide which,
to Reece's educated eyes, looks highly suspicious, and
his wife and daughter are killed in a gang home invasion
which makes no sense whatsoever. The doctor who diagnosed
the tumour in Reece and his team members is killed in a
“green-on-blue” attack by an Afghan working
on the base at Bagram.
The ambush, the targeted investigation, the tumours, Boozer,
his family, and the doctor: can it all be a coincidence,
or is there some connection he's missing? Reece decides
he needs another pair of eyes looking at all of this and
gets in touch with Katie Buranek, an investigative
reporter he met while in Afghanistan. Katie had previously
published an investigation of the 2012 attack in
Behghazi, Libya, which had brought the full power of
intimidation by the federal government down on her head,
and she was as versed in and careful about operational
and communications security as Reece himself. (The advice
in the novel about secure communications is, to my
knowledge, absolutely correct.)
From the little that they know, Reece and Buranek, joined
by allies Reece met in his eventful career and willing
to take risks on his behalf, start to dig into the tangled
web of connections between the individual events and trace
them upward to those ultimately responsible, discovering
deep corruption in the perfumed princes of the Pentagon,
politicians (including a presidential contender and her
crooked husband), defence contractors, and Reece's own
erstwhile chain of command.
Finally, it's time to settle the score. With a tumour in his
brain which he expects to kill him, Reece has nothing to lose
and many innocent victims to avenge. He's makin' a list; he's
checkin' it twice; he's choosing the best way to shoot
them or slice. Reece must initially be subtle in his actions so
as not to alert other targets to what's happening, but then, after
he's declared a domestic terrorist, has to go after extremely
hard and ruthless targets with every resource he can summon.
This is the most satisfying revenge fiction I've read since
Vince Flynn's first novel, Term
Limits (November 2009). The stories are very
different, however. In Flynn's novel, it's a group of people
making those who are bankrupting and destroying their country
pay the price, but here it's personal.
Due to the security clearances the author held
while in the Navy, the manuscript was submitted to the U.S.
Department of Defense Office of Prepublication and Security
Review, which redacted several passages, mostly names and
locations of facilities and military organisations. Amusingly,
if you highlight some of the redactions, which appear in solid
black in the Kindle edition, the
highlighted passage appears with the word breaks preserved but
all letters changed to “x”. Any amateur sleuths
want to try to figure out what the redacted words are in the
following text?
He'd spent his early career as an infantry officer in the Ranger
Battalions before being selected for the Army's Special
xxxxxxx xxxx at Fort Bragg. He was currently in charge
of the Joint Special Operations Command, xxxxx xxxxxxxx
xxxx xxx xxx xxxx xxxx xx xxxx
xx xxx xxxx xxxx xxxx xxxxxx xx xxx xxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxx xx xxxx
xxxxx xxx xxxxx.
A sequel, True Believer, is
scheduled for publication in April, 2019.