Operation Golden Dawn

by George Wallace

  Admiral Suluvana stopped yelling at the helpless junior officer. The effort would be lost on Balewegal. The man had no real intelligence, he served only as a pawn in this great game. But a loyal one; and loyal pawns are to be valued.

  Suluvana turned away to gaze toward the submarine. He smiled slightly. Out there a few thousand meters was the answer to all his problems. These new KILO class boats were amazing. They could silently sneak close enough to Indonesia’s finest, most modern ships; and deliver a coup-de-grace with impunity. Even the Americans feared their stealth and torpedoes. With enough of them, he could control all of Southeast Asia. With the four he had, and with skillful placement, he could easily command all the sea-lanes passing through Indonesia.

  “Signal JAHIDIR that the exercise is completed,” Suluvana said. “Let us return to port and celebrate our successes. Between JAHIDIR’s uncontested command of the undersea and Salawal’s prowess on the surface, our naval forces are supreme. No one will dare contest our control of the sea lanes that traverse our sovereign waters.”

  Captain Balewegal nodded in agreement with the Admiral. He added, “And, my Admiral. With this technology in your able hands, we will be victorious in our quest.”

  Suluvana glowered at the man. He growled, “You truly are an idiot! Did your mother drop you on your head when you were a baby? How dare you mention such a thing! I should toss you over the side and pretend you never existed.”

  “But, my Admiral,” Balewegal sputtered. “We have planned for so long. The time is now near. Why?”

  The Admiral interrupted before Balewegal could complete his thought, “Captain, if you would use your meager intellect for just one second, you would understand. Just the merest hint of what we are planning, in the wrong circles, would cause destruction to rain down on all of us. If you survived President Mustisanissal’s torture cell, you would spend the rest of your worthless life as a broken man. A forgotten prisoner deep in a Jakarta prison. And I would die a martyr, a victim of your stupidity”

  Captain Balewegal sputtered, “But of course, my Admiral. I understand. It is just the two of us here. No one can overhear what we say, and, besides, my crew is loyal to our quest. There is no danger.”

  Suluvana glared at the Captain. The silence was so intense that Balewegal thought for a moment that the very ocean had stopped its un-ending motion under the Admiral’s glacial stare. Finally Suluvana smiled and said, “Of course you are correct. When you signal JAHIDIR, tell Captain al Meshidar that I expect he and you at my quarters for dinner tonight.”

  Balewegal stepped inside the bridge of the frigate.

  Suluvana was left blessedly alone as the gray warship made a graceful turn. They would be back in port before the sun slipped below the horizon. There were many things to accomplish before dinner. He pulled General Liu Pen’s message from his pocket and re-read the text. So, the old Chinese spymaster wanted to speak with him about some Palestinian terrorist. Where could that lead?

  3

  03 Sep 1998, 1013LT

  Mustaf listened quietly as General Liu Pen spoke.

  The summons to Beijing was a surprise. He had known for some time that powerful, hidden players were pulling the strings around the Arab world. As rich and well entrenched as the Saudi’s were, he had sensed that someone else was behind the curtain. The hidden player was far more resourceful than those old desert Bedouins. Neither the Syrians nor the Iranians commanded anywhere near the capabilities that he had already seen. That meant someone outside the Islamic world was in the great game.

  Mustaf suspected that the PRC was playing power broker in the terrorist world. This was the first direct contact he had enjoyed.

  He sat in Beijing, in the People’s Army Intelligence Corp’s ornately furnished headquarters. The richly carved rosewood paneling nicely accented the pair of ornately inlaid Ming dynasty chests. Low voltage spotlights discreetly illuminated priceless porcelains displayed along the wall behind the long teak table dominating the central part of the large room. The room screamed of history, wealth, and above all, power.

  For an infidel, the Chinese general seemed inordinately willing to aid the jihad. He was offering billions of dinar and invaluable intelligence. His assistance would make Mustaf’s dream, a killing stroke against the West, a reality. It was almost too good to be true.

  Since first climbing off the PRC transport jet at Beijing Airport’s military terminal, Mustaf had been given the Chinese military’s version of the “honored guest” treatment. The ride into his sumptuous quarters was in a very nice new Mercedes, windows heavily darkened so that no one could glimpse the lone occupant in the rear seat.

  His minder, evidently a high ranking PAIC operative, discreetly informed Mustaf that any needs would be fulfilled, but that he should not venture out of his suite.

  When the minder came to escort him to the meeting, Mustaf was more than willing to go. He felt like a tiger in a silk cage. But it had been worth the effort. There was very little chance that anyone would be able to tie his operation with the PRC or with Admiral Suluvana’s revolution.

  Mustaf smiled inwardly. The old spy wasn’t being so magnanimous because he had suddenly seen the true path of Allah. His altruism had a hundred hidden catches. But, still, his money and resources were valuable. He was a tool to be used to reach Allah’s goal.

  “This will probably be the only time we meet,” General Liu Pen continued. “The Americans and the Israelis are far too likely to catch some hint if we ever come face-to-face again. Our communications must be infrequent and circumspect.”

  The General slowly looked at each of the other two men in the room. Admiral Suluvana was watching through carefully hooded eyes. There was no way to tell what the Indonesian was thinking behind that opaque mask.

  Liu Pen turned toward Mustaf and said, “I think we have found a weapon to unleash on the West that will exact the blood revenge you demand. It is near perfect and, once we are finished, even you will be satisfied.”

  Mustaf leaned forward, his attention drawn toward the General. His purpose was obvious; to keep the West occupied while China pursued her own goals in relative freedom.

  It required all of Mustaf’s will power to suppress the grin. China could do whatever she wanted, as long as she gave him the weapons he needed. Rachel would be avenged! The West would pay!

  “We have come across a strain of mousepox that has been isolated and mutated by a group of Australian scientists,” General Liu Pen continued.

  Admiral Suluvana snorted, “You called us to Beijing to tell us you had discovered a way to make mice sick?”

  General Liu Pen raised his hand and smiled faintly. “Admiral, please allow me to continue. What I am explaining is every bit as subtle as employing those new KILO submarines we gave you.”

  Suluvana sat back quietly. The veiled threat didn’t escape him. The PRC was supplying him with his weapons and could just as easily stop.

  “As I was saying,” Liu Pen went on. “The Australians mutated the mousepox during their research. The strain they developed was absolutely immune to any known antidote. We now have a few grams of that virus and, more importantly, a scientist who says he can transfer the genetic structure to a smallpox virus.”

  General Liu Pen turned to face Admiral Suluvana directly. “Now, Admiral. Do you see where our target is a little more than a few sick mice?”

  Mustaf could barely grasp what he was hearing. Smallpox had nearly eradicated mankind several times since the Romans ruled the world. The disease was a horrible scourge, killing millions over the last millennia. Modern science had only brought it under control in the last century. Bio-weapons engineers dreamed of using smallpox as the perfect bio-weapon, but until now the weapon and the antidote had been in perfect synchronization.

  Now some hapless Australian scientists had found a way to make a totally incurable strain. A weapon capable of destroying most of mankind, a weapon totally without defense.

  It was perfect. Revenge was within hi
s grasp. Smallpox had been declared eradicated nearly a generation ago, except for some strains ostensibly kept “for science.” Even the vaccination programs had been closed down years ago. A few medical facilities were rumored to maintain some stocks of the vaccine as a precaution, but not nearly enough for an epidemic outbreak.

  “You say this stuff, this mousepox, is immune to all antidotes?” Mustaf questioned. His eyes glistened as he rapidly shot out his inquiries. “How virulent is it? What is the death percentage? How contagious?”

  Liu Pen held up his hand to stop the verbal onslaught. “There is still some research to complete and some production to finish before the mousepox is ready to use. Then we will be able to answer all your questions with operational proof.”

  He smiled toward Mustaf, an evil grin that even stopped the Palestinian terrorist. “For obvious reasons, we can’t do this in China. We need a location where we can absolutely control the security; a place that allows us easy access.”

  Suluvana brightened. “I have the perfect place, a tiny island in the Java Sea. Totally uninhabited now, there used to be a small mine there. Bauxite, if I remember correctly. The place is called Nusa Funata. I really pity anyone we put on it. Nothing but mangrove swamp surrounding a mountain jungle.”

  “Perfect,” Liu Pen nodded. “Have it ready to go in three weeks. Doctor Aswal and his team will fly then. Mustaf, gather up a security team. The Admiral’s soldiers can guard the island, but we need someone else to guard the facilities themselves. I want people who know how to keep a secret.”

  With that Liu Pen slammed his hands down on the table and rose. He turned and walked out of the room. The meeting was over. It was time for action.

  10 May 2000, 1815LT (0415Z)

  “Conn, sonar. Regain contact on Sierra Two-Two, bearing three-one-five.”

  The 21MC announcing speaker blared in Jon Hunter’s ear. The Commanding Officer of the nuclear attack submarine USS SAN FRANCISCO was anxiously waiting for this report. But the announcement still startled him. He glanced at the BQQ5 sonar repeater to see a faint squiggle just beginning to appear on the screen, confirming that they weren’t all alone in this part of the Pacific.

  They had been playing cat and mouse with Sierra Two-Two, the Trident submarine USS NEBRASKA, for the last three days. Both submarines were doing their best to hide in the cold, black depths West and North of Hawaii.

  Hunter reached over and snatched the 21MC speaker from its holder next to the sonar console. “Sonar, Captain, aye. Looks like he’s slowly drawing to the left.”

  The six foot tall Commander hunched over the screen, his brow furrowed as he stared at the screen. His thick blond hair and fit figure belonged to a young man. Only the crows feet developing around his deep brown eyes belied his forty-two years, nearly twenty of them riding submarines.

  Just a few feet forward of where Jon Hunter stood, six sonar operators sat poring over more sonar screens, each trying to draw every possible bit of information from the ocean outside the LOS ANGELES class submarine.

  Master Chief Sonar Technician Holmstad, the sonar supervisor, took a quick glance over one operator’s shoulder and watched the passive broadband display for an instant. “Captain, Sonar. Sierra Two-Two bearing rate left zero-point-three degrees per minute,” he reported while he kept moving over to look at the next display. “Just starting to pick up a two-forty-seven hertz line on passive narrow band again.”

  Holmstad was a fixture onboard. He had been the sonar chief onboard SAN FRANCISCO ever since she was launched, almost fifteen years ago. He made his name aboard the older STURGEON class boats when they went up North of the Kola Peninsula to hunt out the Soviet boats.

  Hunter flipped the screen on his display over to passive narrow band just as Bill Fagan stepped over. Fagan, SAN FRANCISCO’s Executive Officer, was busy supervising the fire control party as they struggled to transform the sonar information into range, course, and speed information for the NEBRASKA.

  “Captain, we’ve been picking up that two-forty-seven line at about two thousand yards. That’s about two thousand yards closer than our tracking solution has him.”

  “Well, looks like you’d better move your tracking solution in a couple of thousand yards,” Hunter said dryly.

  SAN FRANCISCO’s control room was so crowded that it was difficult to move. At least fifteen crewmen crushed into a roughly thirty foot square space already jammed full of equipment. The entire starboard side was devoted to the computerized fire control system. Six men, dressed in nearly identical blue coveralls, sat in front of flickering screens, deciphering the hieroglyphics, manipulating data, flitting from display to display as they labored to solve the problem of what was happening in the sea around the sub.

  Two large glass topped chart tables filled the aft third of the control room. A team of sailors huddled over paper charts, chewing on every tidbit of information as it came in from sonar, fitting it into a mosaic. Everything to give Jon Hunter another look at what they thought NEBRASKA was doing.

  From the forward port side of the room, the Diving Officer and his team drove the sub through the depths. Just forward of the Diving Officer’s seat, the helmsman and planesman controlled the submarine’s depth and course. Two of the youngest men onboard, barely legally allowed to drive a car, were driving the seven thousand ton monster with ease. They handled control yokes that looked very much like the ones that airline pilots used. The helmsman, sitting on the right, turned his wheel to turn the rudder and steer the sub. By pushing or pulling the control yoke, he positioned the fairwater planes to make SAN FRANCISCO go up or down. The stern planesman, sitting on the left, controlled the sub’s angle by pushing or pulling his control yoke, positioning the stern planes.

  “XO, get a quick handle on what NEBRASKA is doing. We need to get up to copy the broadcast,” Hunter ordered. “Never can tell when Squadron will decide to tell us to do something else.”

  Fagan nodded and chuckled, “Maybe they’ll get lonely and call us home. Don’t know about you, Skipper, but I’m getting mighty tired of babysitting these boomers. I’d even settle for a Squadron admin inspection if it meant I could get to the O-club for happy hour.”

  “Careful what you wish for, XO,” Hunter answered. “Commodore Calucci and his boys would probably be waiting at the pier. At least out here we don’t have them trying to “help”.”

  Hunter stepped over to the periscope stand that dominated the center of the control room. Two silver poles of the side-by-side periscopes rose out of the deck and disappeared into the overhead.

  “Officer of the deck, make your depth one-five-zero feet, slow to ahead one third,” he ordered the young Lieutenant standing by the number two scope. Gold dolphins decorated the right breast of his blue coveralls; a cloth nametag with the name “Miller” embroidered on it was sewn to the left breast.

  The submarine angled upward and slowed as it rose up to the new ordered depth.

  “At one-five-zero, ahead one-third,” Lt Miller reported. “Clearing baffles to the right.”

  Hunter nodded and answered, “Very well, Weps. We need to be up to copy the 0430 Zulu broadcast. You’ve got five minutes. Let’s ventilate for thirty minutes while we are up. We could use a little fresh air.”

  SAN FRANCISCO swung around to the right so that the sonar dome in the submarine’s bow could look back behind where the boat had been, making sure that no ship was hidden there. Hunter bent over the sonar screen, watching as the previously baffled sector came slowly into view. Nothing appeared on the screen.

  “Conn, sonar, completed baffle clear,” Master Chief Holmstad’s voice boomed from the speaker. “No new contacts. Currently hold one contact, Sierra Two-Two, currently bearing three-zero-four.”

  “Captain,” Miller called out. “Hold one sonar contact, Sierra Two-Two, NEBRASKA. Request permission to proceed to periscope depth to copy the 0430 broadcast.”

  “Proceed to periscope depth,” Hunter ordered.

  Miller reached up into
the overhead and grabbed the large red ring that circled the number two scope. “Raising number two scope,” he called as he rotated the ring.

  “Speed five,” the Diving Officer called out, verifying that SAN FRANCISCO was going slow enough to raise the periscope.

  As the periscope smoothly slid upward, Miller squatted down, waiting for the eyepiece to rise out of the deck. “Dive, make your depth six-two feet,” he called out.

  “Make my depth six-two feet, Aye,” the Diving Officer answered. “Proceeding to periscope depth.”

  The control room fell silent. Everyone’s attention was riveted on Miller as he rose with the scope eyepiece. He slapped the handles down and glued an eye to the eyepiece. With any sign of a ship above, either from Miller seeing it or from the sonar, the crew had to instantly respond to get them back down to the safety of the depths.

  The submarine slowly rose upward until the periscope broke through the surface into late evening sky.

  Miller danced the scope around in a complete circle, peering out in search of any shape that might be a ship bearing down on them. He saw only the Pacific swells illuminated by a full moon shining down from above and the last glimmers of the sun disappearing below the Western horizon.

  “No close contacts.”

  Everyone could relax and breathe again.

  “Chief of the Watch, raise number two BRA-34,” Miller called out.

  The Chief of the Watch reached up on the panel of switches, gauges, and indicator lights in front of him and flipped up on a small toggle switch. “Number two BRA-34 coming up.”

  The 21MC speaker blared out, “Conn, Radio, in synch on the broadcast.”

  Miller glanced over at the ballast control panel, where the Chief of the Watch controlled hydraulic, air and trim systems throughout the sub. A small section of the panel was devoted to controlling the various masts that filled the sail above them.