Operation Golden Dawn

by George Wallace

  Rich Baker had been staring intently at the chart. He broke in, "Captain, I don't understand the track. If we are supposed to get to this island as quick as we can, why are we going all the way East to the Sunda Straits? Couldn't we just duck in by Bali, for instance?"

  Hunter looked over at the young officer. "Very perceptive question, Mr. Baker. Yes we could. There is one problem, though. The Indonesian Navy has four KILO submarines and a credible surface ASW force. Two of the KILOs haven’t been accounted for in the last couple of weeks. We have no idea where they are. They could be anywhere. If the Indonesians are setting an ASW trap, we have to be very wary. Those straits are too narrow for even someone as quiet as we are to slip through. The Sunda Straits are the only ones wide and deep enough to give a high probability of getting through undetected."

  Hunter looked around the room, "Any more questions? If not, that wraps it up. Remember this has all been Top Secret Code Word. Not a word to anyone, not even the rest of the crew.”

  With those final words, the group broke up in a babble of excited chatter and charged out of the wardroom to resume their duties.

  An hour later, Hunter and Fagan met in the CO’s stateroom. Hunter sipped his coffee and said, “That ought to give them enough to start some planning. Should also help to quiet some of the scuttlebutt going around the boat.”

  “Yes, sir. But you sort of skirted around the issues that all those missing scientists were biochemists and that most of them had worked on Saddam’s biological warfare projects,” Bill Fagan replied.

  “That’s right,” Hunter shot back, “and if you recall those briefings that you and I attended in SUBPAC’s basement, no one is to know about the smallpox. If word of that leaked out, we would have a worldwide panic, particularly now that we know how deadly it is and how quickly it spreads. If those terrorists are working on an improved strain like we think, and if they are successful, it could be devastating. Common smallpox was highly infectious and deadly. Millions died before it was finally eradicated. An improved strain is unthinkable."

  Hunter opened his large safe and retrieved a small folder. It was conspicuously labeled in large red letters "TOP SECRET, GOLDEN DAWN".

  “You remember that outbreak of West Nile encephalitis in Queens a couple of years ago? There was some media speculation that it was a terrorist attack, but that was quickly dismissed."

  He opened the folder and scanned down the first few pages. "The CIA and the FBI both were quick to say that there was no indication of any terrorist involvement. This report speculates that it was a trial run for Mustaf’s first attack. His people had isolated the virus and tried it out in Queens. Apparently the strain was not virulent enough and the mosquito-borne vector was too slow to satisfy him. Six dead and about a hundred sick before it was brought under control and we are still dealing with occasional outbreaks. After that he apparently switched to the genetically engineered smallpox for faster results."

  Bill Fagan interjected, “I remember reading an article somewhere that some Congressman was lobbying to set up some sort of CIA-directed task force to detect and counteract any terrorists attacks, headed up by some sort of anti-terrorist czar. Seemed like nothing ever came of that.”

  Hunter handed Fagan the folder, opened to a page headed 'Background'. “Well, that’s not quite the whole story,” the Commander answered. “The task force was set up under the direction of the National Security Advisor. It is very hush-hush. As you can see, the CIA and the NSA are the primary members, but of course the FBI and DIA are involved. They have thwarted several attempts over the last couple of years that no one ever heard of. They are directing this mission. Read through that report. It'll give you some more background.”

  02 Jun 2000, 1850LT (0650Z)

  The red alarm light blinked on a millisecond before the siren started its ear piercing scream. The startled reactor operator leaped up, cutting out the siren with his left hand, while searching his myriad of gauges for the problem.

  Smoke had just started to wisp around the maneuvering room door when the reactor technician stuck his head in and shouted, “Fire in rod control!”

  The EOOW shouted into the 7MC announcing system “Conn, maneuvering, reactor scram, fire in the reactor control panels! Class Bravo fire in the reactor control panel!”

  Fire was the hazard most feared by submariners. There was no escaping it; the only means of survival was fighting it and putting it out before it irreparably damaged the ship. If not contained, the atmosphere would rapidly fill with toxic gases and the smoke would reduce visibility to zero. No one could go outside to get a breath of fresh air or escape the searing heat.

  To make matters still worse, this fire was in the very controls that allowed them to extract the nuclear power that they needed to drive them home.

  The fire destroyed the control circuits, which, in turn, caused the hafnium reactor control rods to release from their latching arms. Gravity and giant springs drove the control rods into the reactor core, stopping the nuclear fission that provided the heat to make the steam to drive SAN FRANCISCO's massive turbines. The sub’s powerful reactor shut down. That left the sub’s lead-acid battery as the only power source. It was only good for a couple of hours before it would be completely discharged and the lights would go out. They needed to get reactor power back, and soon.

  “Reactor Scram, rig ship for reduced electrical. Fire in engine-room upper level forward, rig ship for fire! Don EABs in the engine-room!” Warren Jacobs, the OOD, yelled into the 1MC General Announcing System microphone.

  Seaman Martinez heard the announcement while he was scrubbing pots in the galley. He looked up, wondering if he had heard the 1MC right. The loud "Bong-Bong-Bong" of the general alarm died out. Martinez heard the words on the 1MC repeated.

  All around him, the experienced crewmen were leaping into action. He had never seen them move so fast.

  One pair rushed to shut off all unnecessary electrical equipment to save every watt of the precious remaining reactor heat. Another group struggled to rig fire-fighting equipment so that the fire teams could combat the blaze. A third group, led by Chief Richey, donned fire protection clothing and emergency oxygen breathing apparatus (OBAs), a self-contained supply of breathable oxygen that was good for about thirty minutes. They would be charging in to the engine-room to fight the fire.

  Hatches slammed shut, ventilation dampers swung closed, emergency lights flicked on while non-vital equipment was turned off. The operations were carried out so quickly and smoothly it was like watching a professional dance team in motion. Every action was carried out with the idea of quickly putting out the fire and restoring the ship to normal operation.

  Seaman Martinez watched in wide-eyed, scared amazement as he stepped out of the galley, dishrag in hand. He had only been onboard a couple of months and had never seen a fire before. The teachers at sub school beat into his head that fires were bad, but nothing prepared him for this. He could smell the FEAR as the men rushed to do their jobs. The fast pace of the action was just short of pandemonium. He watched helplessly, not knowing what to do, but knowing that he should do something.

  Petty Officer Swain grabbed him roughly by the shoulder, shoved an EAB into his hand and pushed Martinez onto a seat. He yelled through his own EAB, "Sit here! Watch and learn something, non-qual!"

  Chief Richey yelled out, his voice muffled by the OBA, “Everybody ready?”

  Five sailors grabbed the pressurized snake of a fire-hose, while Richey led the way, looking at the screen on a portable thermal imager to see through heavy smoke.

  The fire-fighting teams ran into the engine-room from the operations compartment with pressurized fire hoses at the ready. Smoke poured into the mess decks through the open hatch. The smoke curtain draped down over the hatch was only partially successful in stopping it.

  Martinez watched as the air slowly filled with a wispy gray haze; building to a dark, impenetrable cloud. He sucked gratefully on the clean, fresh air of his EAB. Fear churne
d in his stomach as he sat riveted to the bench. Was he going to make it through this? Would his crewmates put the fire out in time? How could they do their jobs if they were as scared as he was? He was slowly beginning to realize why the qualified crewmen were so proud of their silver dolphins.

  The engine-room watch-standers rushed to carry out their emergency casualty procedures. Several hurried around the engine-room securing unnecessary equipment to save reactor heat, others completed a checklist that ensured that the reactor was safely shut down, while still others fought the fire. It was a well practiced choreography, carried out in a dark gray cloud.

  With their EABs, the watch standers had air to breathe but were limited by the length of their trailing air hoses. EABs received their air supply from special red painted manifolds located around the ship. With visibility reduced to zero, the crew depended on memory and training to find the manifolds with life giving air. It was a careful dance from manifold to manifold; suck in a deep lungful of good air, unplug the hose and scurry a few feet, then feel around for the next manifold and plug in the hose. A few deep gasps and then repeat the procedure.

  The reactor technician ran across the engine-room and opened the breaker that powered the reactor control panels.

  Chief Turston was the first person to make it to the burning panel. Smoke poured out of it as he unscrewed the red-hot cover screws with his bare hands. He screamed in pain as he threw the panel to the deck and emptied a fire extinguisher into the burning circuitry.

  Turston collapsed against the railing, holding his charred hands and moaning as tears rolled down his face. He had to be evacuated forward for the Corpsman to treat.

  The fire in the reactor control panels was out, but the heat and flames had jumped across the narrow passageway and caused the hull insulation to ignite. Flames licking the thick polyurethane insulation engulfed engine-room upper level and spread to engine-room middle level.

  Thick black, toxic smoke filled the compartment just as the hose teams from forward arrived with their fire hoses. The firefighters were blind. They couldn't see their hands, let alone find a fire. Chief Richey used the hand-held thermal imager to search out the blaze.

  The heat was searing. A man could only last for maybe ten minutes before he had to be relieved and sent forward to recover.

  Three fire hoses and hose teams converged to put out the building inferno. They worked together to beat back the fire with powerful jets of high-pressure water and then to tear the thick hull insulation away with long handled rakes. The insulation was then soaked in buckets of seawater to douse the stubborn blaze.

  Forward in the control room, LCDR Jacobs maneuvered the sub around in a slow upward spiraling circle, using the little remaining speed he had to conduct a sonar search. The sonar watch-standers listened intently to make sure that no ships were close. They were all alone in this forgotten part of the broad Pacific.

  Jacobs yelled through his EAB, "Diving Officer, make your depth six-two feet."

  The sub slowly coasted up to periscope depth, eking out the last bit of forward momentum.

  Jacobs spun the scope around as it broke the sea's surface. The picture through the periscope was a calm tropical night with a beautiful full moon low on the horizon. The difference between the calm beauty above and the heat and smoke below disconcerted him.

  The EOOW shouted into the 7MC, "Conn, maneuvering, the fire is out."

  His words were barely intelligible, badly distorted by the EAB he was forced to wear.

  With the fire finally out, the priority shifted to emergency ventilating the engine-room. The emergency diesel generator would provide some much needed electrical power and suck in fresh air, pushing the smoke from the ship. With all electrical loads supplied by the battery, the need for additional power was critical. The sub could not survive without electrical power. They had less than an hour’s electrical power left. And they needed to get rid of the toxic, corrosive smoke before any effective repairs could begin.

  Jacobs ordered the snorkel mast raised to provide life-giving air to the diesel and quickly followed that with the order, "Commence snorkeling."

  The diesel operator, two decks below Jacobs’ feet, threw the large brass quadrant lever over to push high-pressure air into the diesel to start it rolling over. He held it firmly in that position with one hand. With his other, he reached across the narrow passageway and held the snorkel safety circuit switch in "over-ride", bypassing the safety shutdowns until the diesel was up to speed. He used his left foot to hold the kick-drain valve open as he watched for the snorkel exhaust valve to slam open, allowing the exhaust gases to leave the ship. After several heart-stopping seconds, the little amber shut light switched to a green open one. He released his grip on the quadrant lever, safety switch and kick-drain. The diesel was up and running.

  The rock-crushing sound of the 12 cylinder Fairbanks-Morse marine diesel was music to Jacob's ears. It meant that electrical power was available to supplement the rapidly depleting battery and, more importantly, clean outside air was replacing the smoke filled air inside the sub. They could soon remove the hot, uncomfortable EABs.

  The smoke slowly cleared. The technicians could troubleshoot and repair the reactor control system without the encumbering EABs. Most importantly, the electrical loads were shifted to the diesel. They had time to fix the reactor.

  After a rapid survey of the damage and a conference with his technicians, LTJG Baker reported to the Engineer that repairs to the reactor control panels would require four hours. His team was drawing parts from the supply system and preparing the procedures for the repairs.

  “Engineer, secure from the training drill, conduct a fast recovery start up,” Hunter ordered Sam Stuart as they stood together behind the maneuvering room, observing the melee of action around them. The hot, sweating men removed their EABs. The watch-standers began the choreography of conducting an emergency at-sea reactor start up.

  “And, Eng, tell your people, ‘well done.’ XO, we have to work on getting those hose teams back here faster. That took almost two minutes. I want a minute and a half maximum.” Training on a submarine never ended.

  10

  03 Jun 2000, 0400LT (02 Jun, 1700Z)

  Hunter walked into the wardroom, finding Fagan sitting by himself eating a bowl of cereal.

  Fagan looked up and asked, "How did Baker do? That was his first time to take her to periscope depth, wasn't it?"

  Hunter had just stepped down from the control room where he had observed the trip to periscope depth to copy the broadcast. He was planning on enjoying a cup of coffee before heading to the engine-room for his morning workout. Fagan was taking a break from a late night of catching up on the never-ending paperwork, the bane of an XO’s existence

  Hunter plopped down in his chair. Deep grey lines were etched in his features. He said, “Baker did fine. That kid has a lot of potential. Keep the pressure on him. He should get his dolphins by the time we get back. Have you seen the Top Secret message board yet?”

  He poured himself a cup of coffee, the pushed the aluminum clipboard over to Fagan.

  “No, not yet. Was there something on the broadcast? We’re about due for an intel update. Can’t say that they have been flooding us with info."

  Tapping the message board, Hunter nodded, "We got an intel update from NSA. They correlated some signal intercepts with what they call 'other sources'. Apparently there is some Indonesian admiral named Suluvana who has been working with the terrorists on Nusa Funata. Seems he commands the naval base at Semarang on the North shore of Java. That's the base where the two missing KILOs are homeported."

  Hunter sipped from his cup. “This admiral appears to be quite an independent operator. NSA says he ordered the KILOs to sortie and intercept any naval units heading toward Indonesia. Of course, this intel message doesn’t tell us where to expect them. That would be asking too much.”

  He sat back in his chair. “Let’s play ‘what if’ for a few minutes. If you were Admir
al Suluvana, what would you do, Bill?”

  Hunter was fond of these brainstorming sessions. They helped him plan and at the same time to train his officers. Playing “what if" was a challenge to use every bit of submarining knowledge and to think "outside the box."

  Fagan steepled his fingers and replied slowly, “If I were in Suluvana’s shoes, I would use the KILOs in choke points on the routes into the Java Sea." He grabbed a scrap of paper and sketched a quick chart of the Indonesian Islands. "I would put one up in the South China Sea, here off Singapore, to control the approaches from the North. That's our normal route."

  Fagan nodded toward his crude chart. "The other is a gamble. Do you put it here, to the South in the Timor or Arafura Seas, here to the North in the Celebes or Molucca Seas, or do you keep it closer to home in the Banda or Java Seas? You just can’t cover all the approaches with only two boats.

  “I’d keep the boats well hidden. That's key. Anyone trying to get in would have to play under the assumption that one of the KILOs was guarding whatever approach they chose. It’s like announcing that you had mined all the straits when you only had two mines. Too big a gamble to disregard the minefield although the odds are that it is not there, so you spend a great deal of time sweeping a lot of empty sea.”

  Hunter nodded, “If he is really cagey, he will throw in some head fakes to really confuse us. It would be simple to take some KILO radios and radars to the various possible locations and allow the signals to be intercepted. Throw in a few spurious reports of periscope sightings and the picture gets really confused.”

  “Do you think that he's that smart?” Bill Fagan queried.

  “He didn’t get to where he is without being smart and ruthless. He could do something like this or something totally off the wall. We won’t know until we play it out. We just need to be on our toes and ready for anything. I think our plan to head way East and duck through the Sunda Straits may throw them off. That's a thousand extra miles out of our way. They shouldn't expect anything coming from that direction. Just the same, I want to be ready to take on a KILO by the time we go through the Sunda Straits. Put daily approach and attack problems on the training plan as we cross the Timor Sea," Hunter directed.