The goat locker was the only living area onboard where the smoking lamp was lighted. Everyone else who wanted to smoke was relegated to a short, cramped passageway on the lower level, served by large ventilation fans.
“Guys, we’ve got a problem,” Master Chief Hancock started.
“We’ve been steaming West for a week now. I think we've all figured out that this isn’t some exercise up North putting a bunch of SEALs ashore in Alaska,” the COB continued. “Does anyone have any idea of where we are going or what we are going to do there? Can’t do much to help the Skipper if we’re in the dark.”
“COB, what did you guys talk about in that hush-hush meeting you had in the wardroom?" Chief Richey, the leading machinist mate asked.
There was no way to keep a secret on the boat, but no one had even spoken about that briefing.
“I think that’s what we are here to discuss,” Master Chief Holmstad interjected. “Am I right COB?”
“Exactly,” Master Chief Hancock replied. “Let me start by saying that what was discussed in that meeting was very highly classified. Most of you don’t have the clearance to even know the meeting even happened. This one tonight didn’t happen.”
“OK, COB, are you going to have to shoot us after you tell us this stuff?" Chief Jones jokingly chimed in.
“Jones, you keep mouthing off like that, the XO may find out how “Snow White Does the Seven Dwarfs” ended up in the VCR for the dependents cruise. His wife was not happy.” the COB replied.
“OK, OK! It was only a joke,” Chief Jones responded, raising his hands defensively.
Jones was an inveterate practical joker. His attempts were not always in good taste or well received. A few months ago he had switched a pornographic video tape for a fairy tale that was to be used to entertain the children during a dependents cruise.
“If we can be serious for a minute,” Master Chief Hancock continued dryly, “Master Chief Holmstad and I will discuss some things that we never discussed. Am I clear about that?”
The rest of the chiefs understood the rules. The COB and master chief sonar tech were placing themselves on the line so the chiefs would have the information they needed to do their jobs. If any one of them said a word that was heard by the wrong ears, the two master chiefs would be subject to charges of violating national security.
Master Chief Holmstad started, “Weps asked me to build some sonar search plans for the Timor Sea and the Java Sea.”
Routine search plans were done by junior sonar men. The master chief did not build sonar search plans unless they were really going to be used. SAN FRANCISCO was heading through the Timor and Java Seas. That meant they were going to do something in Indonesia.
The area had been undergoing unrest for years, with several of the thousands of islands experiencing open warfare in attempts for independence. The news was full of plots, counter-plots and terrorist attacks. The mix of ethnic backgrounds, languages, religions and economic tension was so volatile that not a week went by without reports of some new horror.
If they were going in there, it was important and highly sensitive. The Indonesians didn’t have a blue-water Navy to speak of. Relying on hand-me-down ships from the former Soviets or the US, it consisted mostly of patrol craft, with a few old frigates and destroyers for additional firepower. The exception was four front-line KILOs diesel submarines that had arrived last year.
Doc Pugh asked, “If we are going into Indonesia, why do we have all that SEAL gear down in the torpedo room? We don’t have any SEALs aboard that I know of.” Looking over at the rotund machinist mate chief and added, “Unless you’ve been secretly working out, Richey.”
Pointing at one of the buttons on his tightly stretched khaki shirt, Chief Richey retorted in mock anger, "Doc, another comment about my weight, I'll inhale and drive this button clean through your forehead."
Master Chief Hancock stood and refilled his ever-present coffee cup before saying, “OK, you two, enough of the kidding around."
He paused, glancing around the group, and then continued, "I’m not saying what is planned, but you know that no other boat has spent as much time working with the SEALs as we have."
He placed his cup on the table and continued, “If we were to join up with some SEALs from a parachute drop at sea, then it would all fit together. With that in mind, all of us need to check our gear and make sure our troops are ready. A little revision to the training plan for swimmer launch and recovery might be a good idea.”
Chief Tyler chimed in, “If we were to meet up with those SEALs by chance and, if, maybe, we were to insert them somewhere, then we would probably be doing a bit of electronic surveillance before we sent them ashore, just to find any threat radars . Might want to put some ESM training in the revision, too.”
“Good idea,” the COB replied. “Now if each of us looks at our jobs with this possible mission in mind and makes sure that his people and equipment are ready, I think we have a plan. Let me remind you again, this meeting didn’t happen. What you learned here was only a possibility based on what you have seen. Everybody understand?”
A round of affirmative nods and Chief Jones piped up, “OK, movie or poker tonight?”
12
06 Jun 2000, 2350LT (1350Z)
Shortly after SAN FRANCISCO exited the restricted waters of the San Cristobol Strait, the sensitive BQQ5 sonar hydrophones picked up the low frequency noise of many large ships transiting together.
“Conn, sonar, picking up several heavy screw beats to the West. At least three ships and possibly as many as seven. They are all close to the same bearing. One of them equates to the ESSEX. Trying to sort them out now.”
Jeff Miller looked at a reference chart taped to the book locker behind the periscope stand.
“Sonar, conn, aye. If it is the ESSEX ARG, you should hear the ESSEX, two LPDs, the DULUTH and the CLEVELAND; one LSD, the PEARL HARBOR; one destroyer, the FITZGERALD, and two frigates, the RENTZ and the GARY,” the OOD responded.
“Conn, sonar, aye. We hold the ESSEX and probably the two LPDs. Trying to classify now. Not sure about the others. Have assigned trackers to six noise sources. Sierra Four-Five is the ESSEX, currently bearing two-six-nine, Sierra Four-Six is a probable LPD currently bearing two-seven-zero, Sierra Four-Seven is the other possible LPD currently bearing-two six-eight. Sierra Four-Eight is an unclassified noise source bearing two-seven-one. Sierra Four-Nine is an unclassified noise source bearing two-six-seven. There is another possible contact on the same bearing as Sierra Four-Eight, too weak to assign a tracker.”
Miller picked up the sound powered phone handset, selected the CO’s stateroom and spun the growler handle.
When Hunter answered, the OOD reported, "Captain, we have sonar contact with the ESSEX ARG, bearing two-six-nine. Best estimate of range sixty thousand yards."
Hunter grunted, "Right on schedule, I'll be out in a second. Station the section tracking party."
"Aye sir, the party is stationed and tracking the contacts."
Hunter strode into the control room and checked the navigation plot.
QM1 Buell plotted another bearing line and looked up at the skipper. "Captain, the lines are all laying down right here, almost due West." Buell pointed to the chart he was working on. "My best bet is they are out here in the Solomon Sea."
The latest update on the JOTS (joint operations tactical information system) screen agreed with the navigation plot. Both showed the ARG about fifty miles to the West. This equated roughly with the sonar bearings.
He directed, "Officer of the Deck, come to one-five-zero feet and clear baffles. Then proceed to periscope depth."
As the scope broke the surface of the ink-black sea, Miller rapidly scanned the horizon. Nothing was visible except the sea and the sky. Not even a whitecap disturbed the torpid night. The brilliant moon sketched a highway of light to the East while a million stars, carelessly scattered over the black bowl of the sky, filled the night with diamonds.
Miller
ordered, “Chief of the Watch, raise number one BRA-34.”
As the COW replied, “Number one BRA-34 coming up,” the OOD saw a gray and black shape block his vision for about 30 degrees to the right of dead ahead. Some genius of submarine design had placed the two large radio antennas directly ahead of the two periscopes so that when the antennas and scopes were used at the same time, vision was blocked ahead. To top off a poor placement decision, the masts were about fourteen feet taller than the scopes and needed to be fully extended to be used. This made it impossible to see over the top of the masts. The arrangement necessitated either limiting the use of the mast to short periods or frequent course changes to unmask any ships or obstacles that might be screened from view.
Hunter grabbed the microphone hanging from the stanchion by the periscope and said, “Radio, captain, establish voice communications with the ESSEX.” Turning to the fire control technician of the watch (FTOW), he directed, " Report into the LINK and get us an updated JOTS picture.”
Chief Tyler's reply from radio squawked over the 21MC speaker, "Captain, radio, aye. Tuning the antenna now. Give me thirty seconds."
After a few minutes of waiting, Chief Tyler reported, “Captain, radio, we have sat secure voice comms with the ESSEX ARG. Admiral Schultz requests to speak with you. Patching through to the conn.”
The FTOW turned from his display screen and reported, “We are active on the LINK, receiving the JOTS picture in fire control now.”
Hunter reached over and grabbed the red phone. “Admiral, SAN FRANCISCO reporting. Request permission to join formation.”
The speaker crackled with static. “Permission granted. Jon, General Kendall and I welcome you to the ESSEX ARG. Glad to have you with us. Is there anything that we can do for you?”
Hunter replied, “Admiral, we are happy to be part of your group. SAN FRANCISCO is fully operational and ready to complete all missions. We don’t need anything right now. Request instructions and station assignment.”
Admiral Schultz answered, “Jon, I’ve been briefed a little on your mission. No details, just that you will be leaving us for a little while and that we are to give you any assistance that you need. I understand that you are going to be of limited help to us. Looks more like we will be escorting you rather than the other way around. Joe Strang over on FITZGERALD is Echo Xray and will be acting as submarine element coordinator. FITZGERALD is equipped with BGIXS so you shouldn’t have any problems communicating with her. Talk to Joe. He will give you your assignments. Schwartz out.”
The secure radio came to life with a new voice. “SAN FRANCISCO, this is Echo Xray. Jon, this is Joe Strang. We are directed to pass you around ahead of us and try to keep up. I understand that your speed of advance is thirty knots. I’ll assign you the area fifty nautical miles ahead of track and beyond. That should give you plenty of room to run. We’ll maintain twelve-hour comms cycle. Does that work for you?”
CDR Hunter replied, “Echo Xray, this is SAN FRANCISCO. Would prefer a twenty-four-hour comm cycle, the same as what we have with SUBPAC. Also, recommend that you back up your messages through the SUBPAC broadcast to make sure that we have delivery. Have you been informed that because of operational security, we can not make position reports?”
“We understand,” Captain Strang answered. “That should make coordination interesting. Concur with the twenty-four hour comm cycle and SUBPAC back up. Keep us informed as best you can, given the security constraints. Echo Xray out.”
“Well, XO, did we piss him off?” Hunter asked as he replaced the red phone. “We just told our erstwhile boss that we were not going to tell him anything or do what he says. Just to make it worse, we don’t want to talk but we expect his help. Hope he's understanding.”
In FITZGERALD’s combat information center, Joe Strang contemplated this new development. His team had some experience in operating with a submarine and even worked with SAN FRANCISCO during their pre-deployment work-up training. They knew the basic tenets of operating with submarines and the special procedures needed to communicate with one. Those procedures included assigning the sub to a defined patrol area so mutual interference could be avoided. Frequent communications were also recommended so planning could be enhanced and the sub kept better informed of the Battle Group’s intentions. They had just violated both of these tenets for operational security. He had an uncomfortable feeling that trouble was brewing.
SAN FRANCISCO raced ahead of the ARG, passing through the Solomon Sea and the Louisiade Archipelago, entering the Coral Sea. The Group changed base course to 300 degrees to head for the Gulf of Papua. From there, they would turn to the Southwest to pass between Papau New Guinea to the North and the Great Barrier Reef to the South and West as it extended Northward from the Eastern shore of Australia. This narrow, treacherous passage provided a deepwater access though the sharp coral reefs. Many of these reefs lay just below the surface, ready to tear the bottom out of the unsuspecting mariner. Beyond the reefs lay the Torres Strait separating the Northern extension of Queensland, Australia from the Western state of Papua New Guinea.
06 Jun 2000, 2355LT (1355Z)
The KILO class submarine slowed to almost a halt.
“Come up to fifteen meters,” the commanding officer murmured, “And raise the observation periscope.”
He squatted down and met the eyepiece as it emerged from the deck. The old submariner slapped his eye to the rubber eyepiece and easily swung the scope, watching the blue-green haze gradually lighten as the sub came up.
The scope broke the glass smooth sea surface. There wasn’t even a cloud in sight to disturb the perfect blue on blue of sea meeting sky.
“We are all alone. Raise the radio mast and report to headquarters.”
The destroyer seemed to come out of nowhere. One minute, they were alone in this stretch of sea, the next the destroyer was bearing down on them.
There was nothing to do. Admiral Suluvana was not someone to toy with. If he said to remain hidden to stop the American submarine, then the JAWAL had to stay hidden.
“Make the weapons in tubes one and two ready!” the commanding officer shouted out. “Shoot on bearing zero-eight-nine, range two-one hundred meters.”
He felt and heard the torpedo tubes impulse as they threw the torpedoes out into the sea. The destroyer turned broadside to him and then away, as if it meant to out run the two weapons. He could just make out the Australian flag flying from the mast head.
The two weapons detonated almost simultaneously, directly under the destroyer. The blast lifted it high in the air, before breaking its back. The two sections settled down and then slipped below the surface.
The sub commander lowered his periscope. The last thing he saw before the JAWAL once more descended into the deep was groups of sailors trying to climb into the few life rafts that had broken free.
08 Jun 2000, 0200LT (0700Z)
“We have an intercept.”
Fort Meade, Maryland was America’s best kept secret. Even most of the senior military officers had only a glimmer of an idea of what happened in the shiny black glass buildings. And the National Security Agency wasn’t about to do anything to raise the veil of mystery.
Deep in the bowls of the main building, over a hundred feet below the red clay surface and beneath some thirty feet of concrete and steel, one of the analysts pressed his headphones to his ears and scrutinized his computer screen.
The supervisor rose and stretched. It was a long, slow night and they still had four more hours. Anything to break the boredom.
“What is it?” She growled. “Another taxi driver in Jakarta trying to get lucky?”
“No, ma’am,” the analyst replied. “This has the signature of one of those submarines we were told to watch for. I’m sending it to decrypt now.”
The supervisor grabbed her red phone and punched the speed dial button. “Sir, we have a hit. We’ve found one of them.”
13
08 Jun 2000, 1515LT (09 Jun, 0115Z)
&nb
sp; “Commodore Calucci, this is Peg Hunter.” It was not a call that Peg enjoyed making. She always felt uneasy talking with the Commodore. He could not be trusted. Every word had to be guarded.
“Hello, Peg, I’ve been meaning to call you. My wife and I are having a reception for the wardroom of a Japanese sub that is due to visit this weekend. Why don’t you come over to the house? Say nineteen-thirty on Friday?” the Commodore replied.
Looking out the window, Peg could see his home directly across First Street.
“That would be nice, I’ll be there,” she responded without enthusiasm. “But that isn’t the reason for this call. I have a boat full of very anxious wives. Wives who are expecting their husbands back. They were supposed to have been on weekly ops and should have returned yesterday. The wives will be at my house for a picnic supper in three hours. What do I tell them?”
“Peg, didn’t my chief of staff call you last Friday?” the Commodore queried, knowing full well that no such call had been ordered. Now he had to figure out what to say without either divulging the true mission or alarming the wives.
Ever since the loss of the Scorpion in 1968, the Submarine Force had been particularly sensitive about their families. On that awful day the Navy had allowed the families of the crew to unknowingly stand on the pier from morning until late afternoon awaiting the ship’s return. Only as the sun slipped toward the Western horizon did the submarine squadron commodore arrive to tell the wives the dreaded news that the boat was missing. It was several months of intense searching before they found Scorpion’s final resting place in ten thousand feet of water west of the Azores.
Since then submarine squadrons had maintained a semi-official liaison with the CO’s wife to keep her abreast of expected arrival times and some parts of the boat’s schedule. It was an expected part of the Commodore’s duties, but Calucci had neglected it.
Operation Golden Dawn Page 12
