Alexandria, Virginia
November 18, 2017
Sandy Matthews lived in the northern part of Alexandria in an old shingled colonial home on the Potomac River. Developers had been eyeing the site for years, visioning high end condos that would feature unobstructed water views and the convenience of a boat slip in their front yard. Sandy bought the house from a Georgetown Political Science professor that he’d gotten to know early in his Navy career. The two had become good friends when Sandy attended the National Defense University where he’d earned a Masters’ Degree in Strategic Studies and National Security Affairs, a largely Political Science curriculum designed for military officers with a career that would be helped along by an advanced degree. They’d kept in touch and saw each other from time to time after Sandy left the Navy.
During one long evening at the house years ago, the two talked over a bottle of small batch Kentucky bourbon. For decades, the professor had applied himself vigorously to the study of bourbon and considered himself a self-taught connoisseur. He smacked his lips loudly and declared emphatically that this single barrel was the best the distillery had produced in the last fifty years.
“Sandy, I’m hanging it up at the end of this academic year and moving out near Gettysburg. You know that I’ve been working on my last book about the Civil War for twenty years and figure I’ve got maybe five years to finish it. I could stretch that to ten years if I could stop drinking bourbon and smoking these Cuban cigars, but bad habits are hard to break, and I’m too old to change.”
“Come, on,” Sandy teased, “You’ve got more energy than most of your grad students and are stronger than a draft horse. I’ll bet you’ll live to 100.”
The old man laughed and shook his head. “No, my days are numbered, and I’d like to finish this project before heading to the happy hunting ground. Anyway, I wanted to see if you’d be interested in buying my little house?”
Sandy looked around the familiar living room at the bookcases and filing cabinets and replied, “It’s certainly more appealing than my condo but I can’t afford this place. It’s way out of my league.”
“I’ve got no one to will it to, and the idea of having this place go on the market and being razed to make room for some high rise is not what I want to do. Money’s not the issue. I’d be willing to sell you the house in exchange for the price of a small place in Gettysburg. And I can tell you that the real estate out in Pennsylvania farm country is a bargain compared to Alexandria. What do you think?” He continued, “This house is full of history that will vanish if someone like you doesn’t take it. Before you answer, let me show you the lower level.”
“What lower level?” asked Sandy, “I’ve been here in the living room and in the kitchen and used the bathroom a few times. I assume that you’ve got a small bedroom or two on the second floor, but you’re too close to the water for a basement.”
The professor moved to one of the bookcases and unlatched a side panel. The bookcase opened smoothly to reveal a black hole.
“Put down your glass and let’s go.”
The professor switched on a light and Sandy watched his head move lower and disappear. He crossed the living room and followed a staircase down to join the professor on a thick-planked platform that overlooked a huge stone-walled bay that extended the ground-level foundation by twenty feet. The two continued down an adjoining set of stairs until they reached a catwalk made of heavy granite blocks that surrounded the floor of what appeared to be the bay of an old dry-dock. In the middle of the bay, a miniature submarine made of cast iron rested on a short keel block in a heavy wooden cradle that extended up the sides of the hull. Black like a seasoned frying pan, the shell of the submarine had been sealed with a protective coating that kept the exterior free from rust. It looked like something that belonged in a museum.
“Is this what I think it is?” asked Sandy.
“Yes,” exclaimed the professor, “If you believe that it is a vintage submarine. But that is only the obvious part of the story. Actually, two miniature submarines were secretly commissioned by the Department of the Navy soon after Lincoln’s inauguration and were put into service near the middle of the Civil War. What you are looking at is the vehicle designed to carry the President to safety if Washington were ever overrun by the Confederate Army. The bay would be flooded and the sub would clear the cradle and head out into the Potomac. I’m told that there used to be a covered boat house at the Navy Yard where the primary sub was berthed if the President had to be extracted. This was the back-up. Actually, the stonework started in the 1820s as a commercial dry dock. The project went belly-up after several floods scared off the investors. The man that built this house took advantage of all the foundation work and lived here until the War Department took over the house as a secret armory. With the looming prospect of a southern assault on the city itself, the bay was re-purposed as an escape route for the President. The Navy Yard boat house is long since gone, and no one seems to know what happened to the other submarine. As you can imagine, the controls are very primitive, and it’s designed to be propelled by three people turning a chain driven direct gear train. One revolution of the hand crank equates to a single turn of the propeller.”
“Why isn’t this in the Smithsonian? I would have never guessed that civil war contingency planning developed to this extent. And no one knows about it. What’s in the crate?” asked Sandy, pointing his hand in the direction of a large, modern-looking packing crate positioned on one side of the submarine.
The professor slapped the outside of the ten foot by twenty foot packing crate and replied, “Believe it or not, this place is still on the Presidential contingency plan—it’s got to be near the bottom of the list, but this was delivered about five years ago in the dead of night. The Secret Service told me that it holds a modern submersible that was designed to evacuate the President and two others in the event of some attack on Washington if he couldn’t get airborne. It’s incredible that a plan like this is still on the books. And every year, they come down and service it. Our hard earned tax dollars at work!”
The professor walked to the Potomac side of the bay and pointed out the large, riveted iron door that kept the water out. Along either side were heavy machined metal rails that guided the door to flood the bay from the Potomac. In the background, Sandy could hear the low hum of some motor-driven pumps that were taking care of any seepage of water past the mating surfaces of the door and the rails. The sea wall itself showed no evidence of leaks.
As they climbed back up the stairs to the main floor, the professor pointed out the workshops, offices and sleeping quarters that ringed the bay, built to accommodate President Lincoln if he needed to stay for any length of time.
He said, “Every year I have to get briefed into this plan by the Secret Service and promise not the reveal this location or its contents. Other than them, you are the first person who’s seen this space, and I guess you have no choice other than buying the place now, for National Security reasons.”
“Well,” said Sandy, “I’d be lying if I told you that I wasn’t intrigued by the house before you showed me the catacombs. Now, I’m hooked. As long as we can work out something financially that I can afford and leaves you whole, I’ll buy it. Do we have to get the Secret Service’s permission?”