“Chief of the Watch, prepare to ventilate the ship,” Miller called out.
The Chief grabbed the 1MC microphone and called out, “Prepare to ventilate.”
Crewmen on-watch around the boat moved to align dampers and fans in the ventilation system so that new air could be drawn from outside and old air exhausted overboard.
“Raise the snorkel mast,” Miller ordered.
“Snorkel mast coming up,” the Chief of the Watch called out as he flipped the toggle switch that pushed the big mast up.
“Torpedo in the water!” The startling announcement came out of the blue, the 21MC reverberating with the information. Someone had shot at them.
Lieutenant Miller reacted automatically. “Torpedo evasion, ahead flank!” He yelled out. “Make your depth six hundred feet! Snapshot, tube two!”
The crew jumped into action. They had to out-maneuver or out-run the incoming torpedo and shoot back. It was the only way to stay alive.
“Torpedo bearing three-one-two!”
Hunter stomped up on the periscope stand and, in a commanding voice, ordered, “All stop. Make your depth four two feet.”
The fairwater planes slapped the surface as the boat bobbed upward until the main deck was awash.
“Torpedo bearing three-one-two!”
Fagan called from across the room at the fire control system, “Solution ready on bearing of incoming torpedo; weapon ready, tube two.”
Hunter ordered, his voice flat and dry, “Shoot tube two.”
A slamming, whooshing noise rushed up from the torpedo room. An ADCAP torpedo flushed out of tube two and raced off toward its target.
“In-coming torpedo bearing three-one-two,” Holmstad called out. “Own ship’s weapon running normal.”
Hunter whispered so that no one but the young lieutenant could hear, “Mr. Miller, you had masts and antennas up that would have been bent over with that little maneuver. I know it’s difficult, but in the future please try very hard to keep your head out of your ass.”
“But Skipper,” Miller pleaded, “We had an incoming weapon. We had to evade.”
“You’re supposed to be the Weapons Officer,” Hunter answered. “What are the chances of out running an ADCAP torpedo with the alertment we had?”
“Probably none, sir,” Miller answered sheepishly.
“Then we have to out-smart it,” Hunter continued. “NEBRASKA thought they were shooting at a submerged nuclear submarine. They know the standard evasion tactic as well as we do. They expected us to go deep and run. What they got instead was a surface ship stopped in the middle of the ocean.”
Miller’s face brightened as he understood what Hunter was teaching him, “Of course! He would shoot with Doppler Enable in and submerged settings. The torpedo wouldn’t even look at a zero knot target on the surface.”
“Conn, sonar, incoming weapon passed underneath and is opening. It missed. NEBRASKA is speeding up. Sounds like she is going to flank.”
The torpedo launch control operator called out, “Detect! Detect! Acquisition!”
“Own ship weapon speeding up. We got a hit!”
4
21 Jan 2000, 1640LT (0440Z)
Tommy Clark stood on the rusty steel deck and watched as the Motor Vessel Sabinyama slowly inched away from the pier and headed out from the hustle and bustle of Surabaya toward the Java Sea.
This was his first venture into the mission field. He was determined to bring peace and salvation to the suffering people of Indonesia, just like his parents had tried to, thirty years ago. This mission to Sulawesi was exactly what he had prayed for.
Thirty dedicated young people gathered up from the churches in Australia, Canada, and America, plus a shipload of medical supplies heading out to the outer reaches of Indonesia, an island rocked by religious warfare and grinding poverty. It was exciting stuff for a young man just months out of graduate school at Pepperdine University in Malibu.
It had taken three frustrating months to worm through the bureaucratic maze in Jakarta, before they had permission to head out. The officials seemed baffled by the missionaries’ desire to leave the big city comfort for the dangers and hardships on the outer islands. And every one of them had their hand out. Tommy knew they would cool their heels in the capitol city forever unless he paid, so he reluctantly doled some of their meager funds into the clawing hands.
“Tommy, this is too exciting!” Nan Badgett squealed as she leaned out over the rusty old rail.
The pert little red head seemed always to be within a few feet, ever since she joined the group in Perth. That was just before they flew on to Jakarta. She was in her second year in an Australian nursing school. The donors thought that her rudimentary skills might be useful in the villages where they were going. Medical care was primitive. Even a second year nursing student would be useful in handing out vitamins and aspirin.
Surabaya’s noise and congestion fell further and further astern. The old inter-island tramp steamer chugged and wheezed through thick green waters of the Surabaya Straits, separating Java from Madura Island.
Clark smiled at Badgett’s enthusiasm, so near his own hidden emotions. This girl didn’t seem to keep anything back, so unlike the girls in Los Angeles. Clark found himself drawn to her open, direct manner as much as he was by her sunny good looks.
“Nan, we’re here to do God’s work, not to enjoy the sites,” he responded with much more sternness than he felt. The responsibility for the success of this mission rested heavily on his young shoulders. It was serious work.
“But the sites are here to enjoy,” she countered easily. “Only a fool would ignore the beauty and excitement.” She didn’t seem the least deterred by his demeanor.
The Sabinyama’s bluff bow pushed through the low, easy rollers as the boat entered the Java Sea. The sun slowly dipped into the sea, painting the Western sky brilliant shades of orange, red, and pinks for a few seconds before it dropped below the horizon. The two young missionaries stood quietly as the lights from Paceng and Klampis flickered on, yellow swatches against a black sea.
11 May 2000, 0605LT (1405Z)
He rolled over and smiled. Tony Calucci stretched and felt the warm, comforting flesh sharing the bed with him. Last night was totally unexpected. It all started when he had driven his Porsche down to Waikiki in the hopes of picking up some vacationing house-frau from the mainland just to relieve the tedium of spending another night with the wife.
He was sitting at the bar in the Pacific Beach Club when she walked in, a vision of pure sex. Every man in the bar was instantly erect. Her long tanned legs barely covered by a mini-skirt that bordered on being a wide belt, her ample bosom encased in a halter-top that revealed more skin than it covered. She swayed across the room and stopped at the bar next to Calucci’s seat.
Glancing at the bartender she ordered, “Chivas neat with a water chaser.”
Her voice was deep and husky, a perfect match to her ravishing dark features. She had just the hint of an accent that Calucci couldn’t quite place.
The bartender actually drooled onto the bar as he rushed to pour her drink. His hand shook so bad that he splashed some of the amber liquid onto the gleaming mahogany as he filled the shot glass.
Calucci’s jaw dropped. This was a goddess, truly worthy of the chase. He could barely take his eyes off her; they were riveted on her amply revealed cleavage.
She turned and smiled. Then she murmured, “Like what you see?”
Tony Calucci was caught totally off-guard. This girl was out of his league. She wasn’t some junior officer’s wife out for a good time while she humped to help her husband’s career.
“I’m Tareena. Tareena Mustala.” She smiled at Calucci and the whole room lit up. “I’m new in town.”
Tony Calucci stammered out an introduction. It seemed like she hung on every word he spoke. Lightening flashed from her eyes as an electric current flowed between them. Three drinks later and Tony was telling his life story. Two more drinks and th
ey piled into his red Porsche 944. She directed him to a plush apartment building up in Pearl City, overlooking the sprawling Pearl Harbor Naval Base Complex.
The pair stumbled into her apartment in a maddening flurry of flying buttons and zippers. By the time they fell into her king sized waterbed, Calucci was completely in her power.
12 May 2000, 0042LT (11 May, 1642Z)
The Sabinyama glided to a halt. The constant vibration from her slowly turning screw and the laboring of her ancient engines stopped abruptly.
Tommy Clark jerked awake. What was the problem this time? No wonder they got a bargain to ship over on this old rust bucket. A three-day trip was now into its second week. These constant breakdowns were becoming more than an annoyance. His team of missionaries only had a few weeks to build their clinic and get some work done before most of them had to be back for college.
Clark rolled out of his bunk and climbed around and over the clothes, shoes, and other stuff strewn about by the four men who shared his tiny cabin. Outside, the night was warm and dark; a wide band of stars sprinkled from horizon to horizon. Tommy stopped for a moment and gazed upward. The stars down here were so different from the ones he was familiar with. It was one more reminder that this tropic sea was far from the Malibu beaches below Pepperdine.
He climbed up to the bridge just in time to bump into the captain as he stormed out of the bridge house.
“Damn oiler. If I told the Chief Engineer to clean it once, I told him a thousand times,” the captain muttered angrily, more to himself than to Clark. “Now the main bearing’s gone and seized.”
Clark wasn’t quite sure what he was talking about, but the grizzled old man was a veteran of forty or so years at sea. If he was in this state, it couldn’t be good news.
Clark asked, “This going to delay us long?”
The captain nearly exploded. “If that incompetent idiot really got the bearing ceased, we’re done. Ain’t no way to make the screw go round. I should’a thrown that scum over the side when he first whined his way on to my crew. Damn Flip can’t tell a bearing from his ass.”
“What do we do?” Clark continued. The thought of drifting out here while the crew tried to repair the ship didn’t appeal to him at all.
“We sit here, is what we do. Ain’t no choice. We sit until someone comes along that can tow us to the nearest port. Might be a week or two. Ain’t much traffic this way. Nearest land is that island over to port. Place called Nusa Funata. Chart shows it deserted and restricted by the Indonesian Navy.
12 May 2000, 0510LT (1310Z)
Commander Jonathan Hunter greeted the dawn as he did every Saturday he was in port; by racing to the top of Tantalus Mountain and then over to Round Top and back down to the park at the foot of the mountains. It was his favorite run. There was no one to bother him and no way for anyone to intrude. It was a time to think; to rehash the past week and to plan ahead. And a chance to blow the dust out of his system. Hunter always ran alone on this run.
The night was still black when he climbed out of his car at the entrance to Tantalus Park. The houses up on the left were all dark. It was much too early for anyone to be about. The sparsely spaced streetlights pointed the way up the steeply sloping street. The tall blonde man bent to check his running shoes. Satisfied, he reached into the car and grabbed a water bottle before locking the vehicle.
He headed up the road with an easy loping stride. The first couple of miles were steep city streets. His legs were tight and his lungs burned from the exertion. The street snaked back and forth as it wound its way past some of Honolulu’s most exclusive addresses. Somewhere a dog barked in protest at having his sleep disturbed.
By the time Hunter had run a couple of miles, he was warmed up and easily shifted to a faster pace. Up this far, the houses gave way to dense forest. The sharp scent of eucalyptus invigorated his lungs. He raced at top speed, up the center of the dark road. Except for the stars dancing through the leaves, he might be running in a cave.
He didn’t get to do this often enough. It seemed like he was spending thirty hours a day on the boat. There was always more to do than he had time for. Peg, his wife, only half joking called the sub “his mistress” or when she was really exasperated, that “black bitch.” But, to be fair, he had trained his entire life for just one purpose, to command a nuclear submarine. And now he commanded the SAN FRANCISCO.
The eucalyptus abruptly gave way to rainforest at the ridge top. Koa, wild guava, and mango trees were washed by a gentle warm mist pulled from the Westerly winds as they were lofted up over the Ko’olau Mountains.
It always seemed there was something demanding his immediate attention. The crew and young officers to train, making sure the never-ending maintenance was up-to-date. But lately the problem seemed to center more and more around one man. Ever since Captain Calucci had taken command of the squadron, he seemed to go out of his way to make life hard for Hunter and the SAN FRANCISCO. Hunter had seen Calucci’s type before; the ones who would do anything, walk over on anyone, to move up the chain. Calucci was determined to make Admiral, and he didn’t care who got hurt along the way.
Sweat poured from his brow as Hunter raced along the ridge road connecting the two peaks. The road swung around a sharp bend and plunged down off Round Top. He suddenly emerged from the rainforest when the road made around a sharp left turn. A sharp right and the road was clinging to the edge of a steep slope. The mountainside fell away sharply to the Moana Valley, a thousand feet below. The panorama of Honolulu from the Ko’olaus, past Diamond Head, to Pearl Harbor, never failed to take his breath away. Hunter always tried to time his run so that he arrived here as the first rays broke over the mountains and painted the Honolulu skyline with gold and rose.
Times like these were meant to be savored. Hunter slowed his pace to a jog for a few seconds. A warm breeze came up from the valley below, heavy with the scent of plumeria and bougainvillea. A couple of rain clouds skirted around Koko Head, watering the gardens over at Hawaii Kai. He could just make out a large white cruise ship heading toward the passenger terminal on Sand Island with another load of tourists to fill the coffers down on Waikiki.
Hunter ran down the road as it circled the slope. Punch Bowl came into view. The bright green lawn divided by row upon row of crosses. On down the slope he ran until he was back on city streets. Traffic was starting to pick up, it was time to be a little more careful.
What to do about the boat? The crew couldn’t take much more of the constant criticism from the Commodore before it seriously affected their morale. He had to get them away from Pearl and Calucci before the man did real damage. But how? He had volunteered for every mission that came up, no matter how boring and trivial. Calucci’s answer was always the same. SAN FRANCISCO’s crew wasn’t ready yet. They had to get past the next in a never-ending series of inspections.
Hunter turned the last corner. He could see the car, just where he had parked it an hour ago, a couple of blocks up the street.
He would try again Monday. He would plead for a chance to go up to the Northwest and trail one of the boomers coming out of Bangor. It wasn’t much, but at least it would get his team to sea.
Hunter stopped by the car, his lungs heaving as he pulled in great gasps of air. He bent over to unlock the car door.
Something was terribly wrong. The world was spinning at a tremendous rate. His vision closed in to narrow dark tunnel. It felt like he was on a carousel at Mach 3. The ground rushed up to meet him just before everything went black.
Hunter didn’t know how long he lay there. It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes. He clung to the car, slowly pulled himself upright. What had happened? What was wrong with him?
He carefully opened the car door and plopped into the driver’s seat. He held the steering wheel in an iron grip as he fought to control his racing heart. The dizziness slowly ebbed away until he felt almost normal. His hands shook so bad that it took both hands to insert the key in the ignition. The drive home would
be difficult. Thank God the roads would be almost empty.
Hunter had no idea what he would do next, but he knew that he wasn’t going to go to the Navy doctors until he found out what the problem was. No one, not a power hungry Commodore nor a well-meaning Navy doctor, was going to take him off his beloved boat. The crew needed him and he was going to make sure he was there.
Maybe the civilian doctors up at Kaiser Permanente could take a look and give him a pill or something.
5
15 May 2000, 1321LT (2121Z)
“We’re saved!” Nan Badgett yelled out.
The pert redhead jumped to her feet and pointed out across the mirror flat water toward the yellow, hazy horizon. The sun, sitting high in the Western sky, burned down unmercifully, turning the old tramp steamer into an oven. The missionaries had long since learned that the wheezy old air conditioner did nothing more than stir the torpid air. A ragged tarp hanging across the fantail afforded some meager shade, and the futile hope of catching any possible whiff of breeze.
Tommy Clark slowly pulled himself up and stared in the direction that Nan pointed. The forbidding bulk of the island, Nusa Funata the captain had called it, loomed closer each hour. Close enough to plainly see the sharply jagged rocks jutting out into the water from the nearly vertical volcanic mountain. Tommy was entertaining visions of being shipwrecked on a desert island, a modern day Robison Crusoe, when Nan shouted out and pointed in the opposite direction.
Sure enough, there, just rising above the horizon, he could make out a warship steaming straight toward them. At first Tommy could only see the high masts and antennas; then the bridge and superstructure. More and more of the gray ship became visible as it raced toward them. Ominously, the big cannon mounted on the middle part of the ship swung around until it was aimed directly at them. Surely the warship wasn’t going to shoot. Why would anyone waste time shooting at this old helpless rust bucket. They weren’t a threat to anyone.
Operation Golden Dawn Page 4
