Operation Golden Dawn

by George Wallace

  26 May 2000, 0210LT (26 May, 1210Z)

  The great black ship glided through the night, past Ford Island and the ARIZONA Memorial. The brightly-lit white arching monument served as a constant reminder of the bravery and sacrifice needed to defend this country.

  On the port side, a little further down the harbor, was the NEVADA Memorial, a small granite marker that commemorated the valor of the crew of that brave ship. They fought to get the battleship underway amid the buzzing hornets of the Japanese bombers and then, mortally wounded by Japanese torpedoes, ran her aground to prevent her sinking and blocking the only ship channel. The unlit memorial, little more than a stone’s throw across the harbor from the ARIZONA Memorial, was all but forgotten.

  SAN FRANCISCO steamed onward, rounding Hospital Point and past dry dock four where the aircraft carrier YORKTOWN had been hurriedly repaired so that she could play a decisive role in the Battle of Midway. Then past the beautiful officer’s club at Hickam Air Force Base, to be greeted, finally, by the long smooth rollers of the open Pacific.

  The ship's slow pitch and roll told experienced sailors that they were once more in deep water.

  Jonathan Hunter glanced over toward Sam Stuart, then out toward the open ocean. After a few moments of silently staring at the stars, he thought, This is what makes it all seem worthwhile. A good ship under your feet, a star-filled night sky over your head, and a sense that you are doing a worthwhile job for your country.

  The clamor of Hickam Air Force Base and Honolulu Airport faded quietly into the distance. The golden glow of Honolulu and Waikiki still filled the view behind them, off to the left. Dark rain clouds obscured the view of the Ko’olaus behind Honolulu. Before them stretched the inky black of the Pacific

  Hunter sighed, knowing that Stuart was probably thinking the same thing. “Must be something in the night air,” he said, breaking the moment. “We’re clear of the channel. Transfer the conn below and dive the ship. I’m laying below.”

  “Aye, sir,” Stuart answered, watching the Skipper's head disappear down the ladder.

  26 May 2000, 0310LT (1310Z)

  Peg Hunter stood at the shore, quietly watching long after the darkened submarine disappeared around the curve of Hospital Point. Tall and dark blonde, she cut a striking figure under the Hawaiian moon.

  Finally, she turned away and walked back to the dark house, her hand grazing along the smooth granite surface of the NEVADA Memorial. She longingly remembered all the evenings she and Jon had spent there, watching glorious tropical sunsets over the Wainai Mountains. It seemed that she had spent most of the last twenty years waving good-bye to a disappearing black ship and the man it held.

  And then the endless, grinding waiting; never knowing for sure if or when he was returning; fearing every time the phone rang.

  The first few years had been the worst. Back then, she was a brand new Navy wife and he was assigned to one of the early Poseidon submarines, one of Admiral Rickover’s famous "Forty-one for Freedom." This was the Cold War at its most tense. The Americans and Soviets stood nose to nose, each daring the other to blink. The threat of a global nuclear war was the reality of the face-off. The Poseidon boats were at the very forefront of the confrontation. Their movements were very closely held secrets.

  She had worried endlessly every day that he was gone. The worst part was not being able to even send a letter. The only communications were four Family-Grams per hundred-day patrol. Forty-word, rigidly censored radio messages that wives could send. They could contain only good news and every ship in the fleet monitored them. They were not a place to share the intimate thoughts of a wife to a husband. There was no means for a return message. It was like he existed only in a dream.

  The loneliness had been almost unbearable. But then she discovered the semi-official submarine wives’ organization. Years before, recognizing that they all faced the same fears and loneliness, the wives of each boat had naturally banded together for mutual support. Unofficially led by the captain’s wife and the chief-of-the-boat’s wife, they helped each other through life’s trials, whether it was the broken-down car, the stopped-up plumbing or a sick child. Peg first learned how to survive and then to thrive in this environment. The network of support was comforting and the time spent helping the other wives was fulfilling.

  As the girls, Megan and Maggie, were growing up and Jon was advancing to more senior responsibilities, the fears never totally disappeared, always lurking in the background. He was riding the fast attack boats. She knew he was out playing a deadly game of hide-and-seek with the Soviets, but the veil of secrecy prevented him from sharing any part of it with her. She drew some comfort from knowing that the job was important and their sacrifice was maintaining a precarious but precious peace.

  There would be no sleep tonight, she knew from long experience. There never was on the nights that he departed. Too much to worry about and no one to share it with. He had told her this was a weekly op, but she knew better. Jon never said a word about it, but she sensed his tension. This was important and probably dangerous. She was so afraid and so tired of being the always strong, always persevering one; the one that everyone leaned on. Didn’t they see how weak and scared she really was? She was the “Captain’s Wife” and all the wives depended on her. The young wives, some barely old enough to drive, looked to her for advice and support.

  Peg walked inside, and aimlessly puttered around, preparing for this afternoon’s Mah Jongg game. The submarine officer wives made the weekly game a tradition. The clicking tiles and conversations were comforting. They made the time pass.

  She would have to be careful, though. Brenda Calucci and several CO's wives were expected. Never could tell who knew what or what they would tell their husbands.

  Might as well put on a pot of coffee and bake some brownies for this afternoon. She hoped that she could put up a good front. Her wives would need her.

  26 May 2000, 2215LT (1415Z)

  Mjecka screamed.

  His dark, angular face was contorted by the terrible agony. His only world was a living cauldron of pain. He suffered with all his senses. The white hot flashes filled his vision; the screams flooded his hearing. He even knew the taste of pain.

  He had no idea who or where he was, only the constant torment. He screamed again, barely more than a gasp. His strength was waning. Death would soon bring a welcome soothing relief to his agony.

  Admiral Suluvana stepped back from the observation window. A thin smile flitted briefly across his dark face. The demonstration had gone well. The wretch in the sealed room was only the first of many to feel his wrath, his power. The group of idiots in Jakarta would bend to his will, at last. Just before they too died.

  Dr. Aswal sidled up beside the admiral. "Did you enjoy the demonstration, Admiral? Did it meet your expectations?"

  Suluvana turned toward the swarthy little biologist, tearing his eyes away from the window. "It looks promising. You say that he was exposed yesterday?"

  "Twenty hours ago." Beads of sweat popped out on Aswal's brow. The admiral's icy glare unnerved him. "He was symptomatic in three hours and incapacitated within six. This new strain is magic. The human interleukin-4 gene we inserted in the virus makes it completely resistant to any vaccine. To think, this came from research for a mouse contraceptive."

  The scientist almost smiled. "We simply substituted smallpox for mousepox."

  The admiral silently turned on his heel and walked out of the cave. Stepping aboard his private helicopter, Suluvana punched the buttons on his cell phone. When it was answered he began to talk. "All is well at the site. We will have enough for a first delivery in a month. Testing confirms that the product is better than expected. The Australians saved us years of research. The genetically engineered smallpox is more deadly than we thought, far better than that Iraqi camel pox.”

  Half a world away, deep in the Libyan Desert, Mustaf al Shatar listened to the admiral's report. “Good, very good,” Mustaf said. “We must discuss the deliv
ery options. I am looking at demanding a ten billion dollar payment for not delivering the virus. Our Chinese partners agree. It will be most interesting to watch the world leaders trying to bargain on this."

  Suluvana grunted his approval. Mustaf’s description delighted him.

  "Now, what about our guests?” Mustaf asked.

  He raged inwardly. They were so close to delivery, so close to all his dreams, so close to making the world pay for what they did to his family. These amateur idiots risk everything on some stupid do-gooders on a rust bucket tramp steamer! Fools! Must he always be saddled with working through such people? But, it would not be good for others to see him so agitated and, besides, Admiral Suluvana was such a head-strong prima donna.

  “They are comfortable in quarantine. The engine on their ship failed and they drifted to the island. We have them all in a separate facility. They didn't see anything. There is no evidence to link them to us. Their ship developed a most unfortunate leak in deep water when we were towing it for repairs. I’m afraid that it was a total loss,” Admiral Suluvana replied, his sarcasm evident through the distortion of the scrambler phone.

  7

  26 May 2000, 0630LT (1630Z)

  Sam Stuart closed the lower bridge hatch above him and spun the hand-wheel. Then he turned to LCDR Warran Jacobs, who had relieved him as OOD, and shouted, “Last man down, hatch secured.”

  SAN FRANCISCO was ready to return to the deep. The Chief of the Watch glanced at his panels to confirm that all hull openings indicated shut before shouting “Straight board,” verifying the Engineer’s report.

  Hunter turned to the Navigator and ordered, “Officer of the Deck, submerge the ship.”

  The scripted and well-practiced choreography of diving the submarine was played out. There were no superfluous reports or actions. Every operation was carried out precisely and methodically. Every report was made exactly as it was expected, both in timing and wording. Over a century of submarining taught, sometimes with very bitter lessons, this careful, practiced approach was required to operate safely in this hostile environment.

  The Chief of the Watch grabbed the green handle of the diving klaxon and pulled it. The loud “Aoooogha, Aoooogha,” blasted through the boat. He yelled, "Dive, dive!" into the 1MC microphone. He then reached up, lifted the protective guards and flipped the switches, opening the main ballast tank vents.

  Great geysers of mist and spray shot up from each of the vents as the trapped air that had been holding SAN FRANCISCO on the surface escaped. If anyone had been outside the sub, they would have heard the blast of twelve huge air horns of escaping air. SAN FRANCISCO slowly settled lower in the water. Water lapped over the main deck as it dropped below the surface. Then the rudder disappeared. The great ship slipped beneath the waves. All that was left on the surface was a frothing wake ending abruptly where she had submerged. Soon, even that was gone.

  The diving officer spent a few minutes pumping and flooding water to and from various internal trim tanks to balance the boat for submerged running. SAN FRANCISCO was ready to proceed on her mission.

  Satisfied with the ship's trim, Hunter ordered, “Nav, steer course one-eight zero true. Ahead Full. Deploy the thin-line towed array. Keep your eyes open for any contacts, particularly submerged ones. CHICAGO will try to sneak up on us sometime in the next twenty-four hours. I expect you to find him before he finds us."

  The thin-line towed array was a line of sonar hydrophones that trailed for better than a mile behind the sub. When not in use, it was stowed on a large reel in the after ballast tanks. It allowed the sensitive signal processors of the sonar system to listen over vast distances of the ocean to detect the miniscule noises that differentiated a submarine from the many other noises in the ocean.

  Hunter continued, "I'll be in my stateroom. Call me if you detect anything." He turned and stepped out of control.

  Hunter and Fagan sat across from each other at the small table in Hunter's stateroom. It was time to review the night's activities. Hunter said, “If the Nav thinks that CHICAGO is out here to play games with us, he will make damn sure that we scour the ocean to find every submerged contact inside a thousand miles. That'll make me feel better than any delousing CHICAGO might do.”

  Hunter put his coffee cup down firmly and, with heat in his voice, said, "What the hell are we going to do with the Weps? Another screw-up topside. He expects me to recommend him for promotion and selection for XO. Right now, I can't."

  "Skipper, he's young," Fagan answered, trying to mollify the agitated Commander. "He's got a lot to learn. Give him a chance, lieutenant fitness reports aren't due until we get back."

  With an aggravated grunt, Hunter answered, "Alright, XO. We'll give him a chance. You're the training officer. Take him under your wing and train him. I'll decide on the recommendations when we get back."

  “I think I’ll check out in control one more time before I turn in,” Hunter said as he stood and then immediately sat back down, hard.

  “What’s the matter, Skipper? Are you OK?” The XO asked, his eyebrows knitted.

  “Nothing, just a little dizzy when I stood up. Must be more tired than I thought."

  Fagan snorted.

  Hunter quickly added, "Now, don’t you go running to the Doc with this and getting him all in a lather. He can be worse than my wife with this kind of stuff.”

  “OK, OK. Why don’t you just turn in and get some rest? I’ll check in control and then I think I’ll turn in, too,” the XO replied.

  “Thanks, Bill. We are both going to need to stay well-rested from here on out," Hunter said as Fagan disappeared through the curtain.

  Damn, now Fagan had seen it. Hunter had been hiding these spells for over a month now. The first one really scared him. Enough that he had gone to a civilian doctor at the Kaiser Permanente Medical Center in Pearl City. The tests were finished last week, but in the rush of preparations for the mission, he had not seen the results.

  There had been more spells since the run up on Tanatulus. Just last Saturday, he had returned to the house from a long run out to Ewa Beach and back. He blacked out and only came to moments before Peg returned from shopping. There were more since, but none quite so serious.

  The test results would be academic anyway. Hunter knew deeply in his being that something was seriously wrong. But whatever it was it would have to wait until he got back. He knew even more deeply that he had to do his job this one last time. If anyone found out, he would be out of submarines. He must be more careful.

  26 May 2000, 1145LT (2145Z)

  Through the fog of sleep and fatigue, Hunter heard Warran Jacobs knock on his door and enter the stateroom, reporting that he was relieved as officer of the deck by the Weps. Jacobs also reported they were steaming on a course of one-eight-zero true, at a standard bell and a depth of five-seven-five feet. There were no signs of the CHICAGO or any other contact. He heard himself answer, “Very well, Mr. Jacobs,” before tumbling back into darkness.

  It was mid-afternoon before Hunter aroused. He headed aft for an invigorating hour of working out on the Life Rower and Versa Climber, installed in out-of-the-way corners of the engine-room. This was his effort so the crew could get at least a little exercise on the cramped boat. He then showered and headed to the wardroom in search of a cup of the ever present black coffee.

  There was a knock on the wardroom door and HMC Pugh, SAN FRANCISCO's Corpsman, stepped in.

  “Knew that I would either find you here or back on the Life Rower, Skipper. The XO stopped in to talk to me a little while ago,” he opened.

  “Damn, I told him not to talk to you,” Hunter snorted. “Guess I’ll have to have a discussion with him about the penalties for insubordination.”

  “Captain, this could be serious. How long have you been having these dizzy spells and when do they happen?" Doc asked.

  “Not very often, only when I am tired and usually when I stand up,” Hunter answered.

  “Just dizzy, or does the vision tunnel
? Have you ever blacked out?" Doc continued his interrogation. He pulled a blood-pressure cuff from his back pocket and wrapped it around Hunter’s arm.

  “Doc, you really are worse than my wife. I just got a little dizzy, that’s all. Don’t you have someone who needs a shot or something?” Hunter retorted angrily. He knew he was lying to the Doc and it bothered him greatly, but what was the choice?

  Doc Pugh pumped up the cuff, plugged the stethoscope in his ears and measured the Skipper’s blood pressure.

  “105 over 70,” he murmured. “Low, but normal for you. Resting pulse is 50, strong and robust.”

  “That’s what I said,” Hunter grunted. “Everything is normal. I’m fine, maybe just a little tired.”

  Doc Pugh rose to leave, “OK, Skipper. Just tell me if it reoccurs or gets any worse. You need to ease back on the coffee and get more rest. We’ll need to do some tests when we get back to Pearl.”

  “Yeah, sure Doc. Count on it.”

  27 May 2000, 0737LT (26 May, 2337Z)

  “Our Chinese friend tells us that their agent in Hawaii reports one of the American nuclear submarines made an unscheduled late-night departure,” Admiral Suluvana began his brief. "Very unusual."

  Across the broad expanse of his desk sat the commanding officers of two of his KILO class diesel submarines. They were particularly attentive. The portly little admiral had a vicious temper and would not tolerate even the slightest missed detail. Suluvana was ruthless in his drive to power. A mistake could easily cost a subordinate his life.

  The Indonesian Navy recently purchased four modern Russian-built export diesel submarines, courtesy of the Chinese Peoples Liberation Army Navy (PLAN). The crews completed familiarization training in the frigid Arctic Ocean off the Kola Peninsula and then made the long transit down the coast of Europe and Africa, around Cape Horn, and through the Indian Ocean, to Java. They conducted anti-surface ship and anti-submarine exercises while en route. By the time they arrived back home, they were very proficient warriors of the deep.