Operation Golden Dawn

by George Wallace

  Fagan groaned, “Skipper, you beat me almost every night. Don’t you ever get tired of the lack of challenge"

  Hunter said, “XO, don’t give me that. I have it on good authority you were the finest cribbage player to ever come out of Annapolis.” Hunter rubbed his chin reflectively. “And, reviewing the game results, we are about even. I kind of suspect that you are letting me beat you lately so I don’t rank you below the Nav on the next set of FITREPS.”

  Bill Fagan pulled the well-worn board and the limp deck of cards out of the drawer as Petty Officer Swain served two cups of espresso. The two senior submariners played their game as the remainder of the officers quietly left to attend to various details of their duties before returning for the evening’s wardroom training.

  Hunter made it a policy that all the ship’s officers gather together every week day evening for an hour of training on some aspect of submarine operations. Each officer got the chance to present his area of expertise and frequent “guest lecturers” were invited from the chief’s quarters to cover technical matters or “leadership from the deck-plate level” issues. Discussions were usually lively; always full of new insights and ideas. Tonight’s discussion promised to be no exception, with Warran Jacobs holding forth on the subject of close inshore, shallow water emergency ship handling.

  Only those officers actually on watch were excused from the nightly training. Jeff Miller was on duty in the control room as the OOD and Rich Baker was standing watch in the engine-room as the EOOW. Together they supervised the complex operation of the boat as she steamed through the lonely depths of this forgotten part of the Pacific.

  As the Navigator began his opening remarks, the deck suddenly pitched upward. Coffee cups tumbled down the wardroom table, slamming into the buffet behind Hunter. One managed to roll directly into his lap, thoroughly drenching him with hot liquid. His eyes shot toward the depth gauge on the wardroom bulkhead. It counting toward the surface at blinding speed.

  Hunter leaped from his seat and rushed out of the wardroom, bounding up the ladder to control, with Fagan hot on his heels. The up angle increased to an alarming level, better than forty up. The two crawled, hand over hand, gripping whatever piping they could, to reach the control room.

  “Weps, what’s the problem?” Hunter shouted as he burst through the control room door.

  People were clinging to any available support to keep from falling out the back door of control. The depth gauge was roaring through 150 feet, moving so fast that it was nearly unreadable. The engine order telegraph was answering Ahead Full, confirmed by the twenty-five knot speed shown on the pit-log.

  “N…n…n…nothing Skipper,” stammered the ruffled young lieutenant.

  The sub jumped through the surface and, with a stomach-churning lurch, splashed back down. Hunter machine-gunned orders, “All Stop! Diving Officer, full rise on the stern planes, full rise on the fairwater planes! Fishtail the rudder! Report when ship’s speed is less than fifteen knots!”

  Chief Tyler, the diving officer reported, “Dive, Aye. Answering All Stop, full rise on all planes, speed two-zero knots and falling. Depth three-nine feet and steady.”

  Hunter turned to Bill Fagan and barked, “XO, see what damage we have.”

  Chief Tyler said, “Speed one-five knots and falling.”

  Hunter immediately ordered, “Answer Ahead One-Third. Rudder amid ships. Raising number two scope.”

  Hunter needed to get the scope up to see any immediate danger. Fifteen knots was the maximum speed to raise a periscope without bending it over if they slipped back beneath the waves.

  There were almost instant and simultaneous replies from the helmsman, “Answers Ahead One Third, my rudder is amid ships,” and from Chief Gonzales, the Chief of the Watch, “Number two scope indicates up.”

  The tenor of their voices and the crispness of their replies told the story. They knew that they had been parties to a significant mistake and they would soon hear about it.

  After a rapid 360 degree sweeping look around, Hunter reported, “No close contacts,” and followed this with a thorough visual and electronic search. “No contacts." Hunter snapped the scope handles up and swung the control ring to the lower position. He then stepped away from the scope and looked around the control room. No one on the team would meet his gaze.

  He inquired sarcastically, "Weps, do you think that you and this motley bunch can get us back down to one-five-zero feet without incident?”

  Miller sheepishly nodded his head and meekly said, "Yes, sir." He had slipped to the port side of control and was standing behind Chief Gonzales.

  He gave every appearance of trying to hide behind the bulk of the portly chief. He ordered, "Dive, make your depth one-five-zero feet," but did not move from his supposed haven.

  After they had settled out at 150 feet and the XO had reported that the only damage was the loss of the wardroom espresso cups, Hunter began the discussion sarcastically, “Alright Weps, a new world's record. Broaching from eight hundred feet. Could you tell me precisely what you and your watch section were doing?”

  “Skipper, we were supposed to come from our transit depth of eight hundred feet up to one-five-zero feet in order to clear baffles for the twenty-two-thirty comms downlink. This was in the night orders," Jeff Miller began to explain.

  “Chief Tyler and I discussed it and we wanted to practice some high-speed ship handling. We've never had a chance to do it. We decided to come up shallow at a full bell. We just didn’t know how quickly she would respond at that speed. I’m sorry.”

  Hunter replied, “Well, Weps, you hadn't had a chance yet, because this watch-section isn't ready yet. And now you know why I’m always in control when we do this. That up-angle could have seriously hurt people. You could have caused a collision if any body had been up there when you broached. And if you hadn’t hit someone and they were up there counting whales, you would have certainly caused us to be detected. As it was, you were just plain lucky.”

  Turning to Chief Tyler and the Chief Gonzales, he continued, “And I depend on you two, as the most experienced submariners on watch, to advise the OOD to steer him clear of this type of foolishness, not to talk him into it. You’re supposed to operate as a team out here and I’m supposed to be comfortable sleeping while you are on watch. Do we understand each other?”

  “Yes sir.”

  30 May 2000, 1630LT (31 May, 0430Z)

  The young petty officer stood at rigid attention in the stateroom doorway. “Captain, Quartermaster of the Watch, The Officer of the Deck sends his respects and reports crossing into the territorial seas of Kiribati. Currently steering course two-two-zero, making two-five knots good.”

  SAN FRANCISCO entered the first of the proliferation of tiny island nations that constituted the South Pacific. Most contained land areas of a few square miles of coral atolls dotted across thousands of square miles of territorial seas. Kiribati lay across both the Equator and the International Dateline and was made up of several small groups of islands, with the Gilbert's being the largest. Tarawa, the main island and capital, was several hundred miles off to the Northwest .

  The sub’s planned track brought them within a few miles of the intersection of 180 degrees longitude and zero degrees latitude, the point where the day starts and North meets South. Nav slipped in a slight deviation to the planned great circle route to allow the crew the bragging rights of becoming that rarest of all mariners, a Golden Shellback, someone who had sailed directly through 180 degrees West and 0 degrees North. Hunter believed these traditions were important for crew morale and to keep them in touch with their naval roots. The few miles of extra transit were easily worth the gains in morale.

  Master Chief Hancock and XO, the two most senior Shellbacks onboard, were responsible for planning the elaborate ceremony necessary to properly commemorate the occasion and to initiate new Polliwogs into the Royal Order of King Neptune’s Golden Shellbacks. A visit by King Neptune was expected to be the highlight of the r
itual. Polliwogs, including Hunter, were forbidden to enter the mess deck as it was transformed into King Neptune’s throne room.

  All was in readiness when Nav proclaimed, with appropriate solemnity, over the 1MC, “USS SAN FRANCISCO is now passing through one-eight-zero West and zero-zero North in the watery realm of His Royal Highness, King Neptune.” He then rang the ship’s bell once. As the deep tone of the bell died out, sonar reported a contact close aboard on the bow. They also reported hearing underwater communications that sounded like a trumpet salute and the words “All hail King Neptune.”

  A loud commotion erupted in the torpedo room as Nav announced on the 1MC, “His Royal Highness and All Powerful Sovereign of the Seven Seas, King Neptune, arriving.” He rang twenty-one strokes of the bell.

  King Neptune, who bore an uncanny resemblance to Doc Pugh with a ratty fake white beard, emerged from the torpedo room dressed in his royal robes of seaweed, wearing his golden crown and carrying his trident. He proceeded at a regal pace to his throne room as the crew paid homage and looked on with somewhat exaggerated deference.

  Once seated upon his throne, which looked suspiciously like one of the stainless steel commodes from the goat locker attached to the top of the after most mess table, King Neptune decreed that only Shellbacks be in attendance at his court. All Polliwogs, as the lowest of life forms, were banished to the torpedo room in order to prepare themselves for the rigors ahead.

  Each Polliwog was individually escorted by a Shellback sponsor and brought before the Royal Court. Appropriate tests of the mariner’s skills and knowledge were given to ensure that the Polliwog was of sufficient caliber to become a Shellback. Any lack of skill or knowledge resulted in the Polliwog drinking deeply of the Royal Truth Serum, an evil-looking concoction the COB had been brewing from secret ingredients for days. After liberal doses of the Truth Serum, each Polliwog was deemed worthy of induction into the Most High Order of Golden Shellbacks and paid homage to King Neptune. This involved kissing his rather rotund and well-greased belly.

  The first Polliwog to submit to the testing was CDR Hunter. After proving his maritime skills, although his initial answer to the number of buttons on Nelson’s coat cost him a taste of the truth serum, he laughingly paid homage to King Neptune. The King had struck him on each shoulder with the Royal Trident, proclaiming him the newest and most junior member of the Most High Order of Golden Shellbacks. The Skipper reminded the King that the Doc would be responsible for treating any health problems resulting from the truth serum.

  9

  01 Jun 2000, 1900LT (0700Z)

  “Gentlemen, it’s time that you know where we are heading,” Hunter started the briefing.

  The assembled group included all the officers, with the exception of the supply officer who did not have the necessary security clearances. Also attending were Master Chief Hancock, the Chief of the Boat (COB); Master Chief Holmstad, the leading sonarman; Chief Jones, the leading electronics technician; Chief Tyler, the leading radioman and Quartermaster First Class (SS) Buell, the leading quartermaster. This small group, out of the whole crew, were those who had a “need to know.”

  “To start off, this briefing is classified Top Secret. It is Specially Compartmented Information and is code-worded “Golden Dawn.” The code word is classified Top Secret, so don’t let it out of this room.”

  “Nav, show them the first chart,” he directed.

  LCDR Jacobs removed the sheet covering a large-scale chart of the Southwest Pacific, Oceania, and Southeast Asia. On it, he had laid out a green stripe showing their projected track. Tapping the chart with his pointer, Jacobs explained, “As you can see, we are heading South through the Solomons, then between Papua New Guinea and Australia. We will then transit the Arafura and Timor Seas. We will pass South of Java and then through the Sunda Straits, between Java and Sumatra, into the Java Sea. Our destination is one of the small islands in the Nusa Tenggara Group."

  Hunter stepped over to the chart and took the laser pointer. He put the little red dot on a small area on the lower left-hand side. “This chain of islands, East of Bali, is known as Nusa Tenggara, the Islands of the South East. Geographers call this archipelago the Lesser Sunda Islands, distinguished from the Large Sunda Islands: Sumatra, Java and Borneo." He swept the dot over the three large islands. "Nusa Tenggara consists of hundreds of islands, but is dominated by the five main islands: Lombok, Sumbawa, Flores, Sumba and Timor."

  “Right here,” he said pointing to the North and West of the small green mass labeled Lombok. “This little fly speck is named Nusa Funata. Until a couple of months ago, it was an uninhabited bit of jungle and volcanic rock. Its only claims to fame were some nearly impenetrable coastal mangrove swamps and a reported extensive system of lava caves."

  Hunter gazed around the small room, glad to see that they were all engrossed in the briefing. “That all changed with a CIA estimate. They have been keeping tabs on a number of Eastern European and Chinese scientists that had been associated with the Iraqi weapons programs. Several of them went unaccountably missing several months ago. At nearly the same time, a leading Middle Eastern terrorist named Mustaf al Shatar also dropped out of sight. Coincidentally, pirate activities in the Straits of Malacca, up here, which had been on the increase, suddenly stopped altogether. Based on some other HUMINT, the CIA thinks that there is a link."

  This was a polite way of saying that the CIA had an intelligence source, a spy. There was no way of knowing how reliable the source was or how close he really was to the operation.

  “Two weeks ago, a small freighter carrying a group of thirty US and Australian missionaries from Surabaya on Java to Unjungpandang on Sulawesi was reported missing.

  “What ties this all together is some satellite imagery of Nusa Funata where the NRO analysts found signs of significant construction. Uncover the picture, Nav,” Hunter continued.

  Jacobs removed the cloth hiding the satellite pictures.

  Hunter tapped on parts of the series of pictures. “Here you can see what looks like a pier and some storage sheds under construction. Here is a small airfield. This construction around these caves is as yet unidentified, but by the level of work here, they are assessing this as being the major facility. Also note the weapons emplacements. Clearly, someone doesn’t want to be disturbed. And this small ship at the pier is identical to the description of the missing one. The next satellite pass doesn’t show it."

  A murmur of angry mutterings started around the room as the group reacted to hearing of yet another group of innocent Americans held hostage, or worse. They were all too familiar with the frustration of watching helplessly as terrorist after terrorist got away with these kidnappings.

  Commander Hunter took a sip from his coffee before he continued. “The Indonesia government denies any knowledge of anything happening at Nusa Funata. As you know, they have been in turmoil for several years now. The military has all but taken over the country while they are trying to put down several different ethnic revolutions. They have also severely increased the restrictions on navigating their territorial seas. They aren’t allowing any warships in right now. This is a violation of the right of innocent passage, but that is being argued out at the World Court.

  “Our passage will be submerged and doesn’t classify as innocent passage, anyway. Operating submerged in their territorial waters is technically an act of aggression. If we are detected, we should not expect a friendly reception. That is why we are taking the long way around. The passage through the Sunda Straits is the best way that we can get in covertly. The passage is deep and wide, hard for them to patrol."

  Hunter walked back to his chair and sat. “Our mission is to conduct surveillance of Nusa Funata to determine what is going on. We will be rendezvousing with SEAL Team Three at sea so we can put people ashore for an eyes-on-target look.”

  He took out a small notebook and started reading off a list of items.

  “Weps, start developing the environmental and intel chart for the ar
ea. Post it in the regular place, on the bulkhead outside my stateroom, but keep it covered. I want your people and Nav’s people to do a search for whatever intel that is available. This is a passive search though. No queries outside the ship. As far as anyone outside this room is concerned, SAN FRANCISCO has no interest in Southeast Asia.”

  Hunter checked one item on the list and then read the next one.

  “We will be joining the ESSEX Amphibious Ready Group as their support submarine while we are transiting the Solomons. The NIMITZ Battle Group will be a day’s sail behind them. They are both ostensibly heading for routine deployments to the Arabian Gulf. Along the way, they will be conducting joint maneuvers with the Royal Australian Navy in the Timor Sea just South of Bali.

  “If we find what we suspect and the Indonesians won’t play ball, they will be in a position to dash through the Bali Straits and conduct amphibious operations on Nusa Funata.

  Hunter slapped the notebook shut. “That pretty much covers it. Any questions?” he concluded.

  The team was excited. At last there was a plan to strike back.

  “Yes, sir,” chimed in Master Chief Hancock. “I’m assuming that we have National Command Authority authorization to go into Indonesian sovereign waters as well as their territorial sea. We’re able to hide so no one knows we’re there. But what about the ESSEX ARG and the NIMITZ Battle Group? How will they get in?”

  Hunter answered, “COB, I’ll leave the political decisions to the politicians. I’m just a broken-down old sailor who goes where he's told. I’m pretty certain that if we need them, they'll be there. With or without the approval of the Indonesian government.”

  Warran Jacobs asked, “Skipper, what are the Rules of Engagement?”

  “Standard peace time ROE, Nav. We protect ourselves. We protect US Nationals and we follow International Law. In other words ‘red and tight.’ Any more questions?"