Operation Golden Dawn

by George Wallace

  “No, he didn’t and I was home all day,” she answered coolly. She knew as well as the Commodore did that he should be much more concerned for the crews of his boats.

  “Well, the boat has been assigned to a surprise special warfare exercise up in the Aleutian op areas,” he replied, without missing a beat. “It came up at the last minute when a San Diego boat had material problems. They’ll be out for a few weeks.”

  This was the cover story that SUBPAC had come up with to explain SAN FRANCISCO’s unexpectedly long “weekly ops.”

  “Why don’t I stop over at your place this afternoon and meet with your wives? I can get there by 1830. Is that OK? I’ll bring family-gram forms and discuss this exercise. I can bring the staff JAG and the SUBPAC chaplain just like we would for a regular deployment briefing.”

  “1830 is fine. We’ll be in back, under the mango trees,” she placed the receiver back in the cradle.

  Jon had been far too anxious for this to be just an unexpected exercise. The highly unusual midnight underway didn’t equate either. Something was happening and it was important enough that SUBPAC had concocted a convincing lie to cover it up. It was too easy for her to double-check this story for the Commodore to make it up on his own. His willingness to drop everything and rush over to a crew wives picnic was equally mystifying. In the past, he had always insisted on a formal presentation at the Sub Base Theater. He obviously wanted to do this quickly and with as little fanfare as possible.

  Pondering all this, Peg Hunter began the series of calls that would set in motion the notification process to tell all the wives tonight’s picnic would be more than their normal social gathering. She called Bill Fagan’s wife and the Chief of the Boat’s wife to start the call tree, an established phone calling procedure to disseminate important information quickly. It was almost as fast as the “back fence grapevine” that seemed to spread rumors at lightening speed.

  She knew she needed to have the wives hear the official story and to have a chance to ask the Commodore any questions they had, but should she express her concerns about the “official story”? Was it important for the wives to know she felt a great deal more concern than she would about a simple exercise? If not, could she successfully hide it?

  08 Jun 2000, 1830LT (09 Jun, 0630Z)

  The little white Dodge Neon rolled into the driveway, small blue and white pennants flapping from short poles on both front fenders signifying that the Commodore was aboard. The tiny car was closely followed by a twelve-passenger van. Both had GSA license plates and “Official US Navy Vehicle” stenciled on the front doors.

  The driver, dressed in immaculate summer whites, sprang from the car and rushed around to open the Commodore’s door and stand at rigid attention as Carlucci exited the vehicle. He answered the driver’s snappy salute with a casual wave of dismissal.

  The scene would have been impressive if not for the ludicrous little white car. Cost cutting dictated official vehicles be purchased with cost and economy in mind. The Commodore reluctantly turned in his full size Ford for the tiny Neon that his position rated in the fiscally strapped environment. He insisted on maintaining all the accoutrements of office and seethed at being seen in that car. The squadron staff learned, at their peril, not to mention his new car; even in jest.

  The side door on the van swung open and a cadre of the Squadron staff piled out. First out was the chief staff officer, CDR Austin, a rather portly former diesel boat commander on his last tour before mandatory retirement. The staff JAG officer, the command master chief, and the SUBPAC chaplain followed him. They closed ranks and followed Carlucci to the cluster of ladies assembled under the grove of mango trees in the large lawn behind CDR Hunter’s house.

  As they walked into the back yard, several children ran past the group, on their way to play in the small playground across the alley. The narrow alley separated Hunter’s house from his neighbor and the considerable industrial activity on a cruiser in Dry Dock 4. A high chain-link fence overgrown with a lush curtain of brightly colored bougainvillea hid the dry dock. It was curious how the Navy inter-mixed housing facilities with shipyard maintenance and repair activities. They lived in Paradise, but with constant industrial noise and dirt from sandblasting ships’ hulls.

  Peg Hunter rose from her chair and walked out into the late afternoon sun. “Good afternoon, Commodore,” she nodded to the others and added. “We have most of the wives here. I have passed out the information that you told me this afternoon and said that you would be over to do a short sort of pre-patrol briefing. Please don’t alarm them.”

  The Commodore looked at her quizzically. What did she know? Clearly she knew more than the simple cover story that he had used. Better watch his step and tread lightly. Never could tell when one angry wife could upset a career and this one was not currently happy.

  The wives gathered their lawn chairs into a rough semi-circle and listened attentively as the Commodore and his staff made their presentations, the same canned ones that this group had repeated many times to the wives of submarine crews departing on long and dangerous patrols. Many of these wives had attended the briefings before, as well, and knew what to expect.

  The JAG officer spoke about powers-of attorney and wills, both superfluous since the husbands were already at sea. The command master chief and the chaplain discussed the various counseling and financial aid services that were available. The chief staff officer spoke about the need for security and passed out family-gram forms.

  The only question asked was the one that all the wives wanted to know. When could they expect their husbands back from sea? The Commodore neatly parried the question by answering that the exercise was being delayed by bad weather and that he would keep them informed as it progressed.

  10 Jun 2000, 1930LT (0930Z)

  “Did you get it in place?" Chief Jones asked the young petty officer.

  “Yea, Chief. The relay is up there and wired in. The XO almost caught me, but I managed to hide behind the ductwork in the overhead. He won’t suspect a thing. Do you want to test it now?” he replied.

  “No, not yet. This is one of those things that you need to wait until the right time to do,” Jones answered. “This is between you and me. Anyone finds out about this and your ass is grass. Remember, you’re the one who wired this in. You’re the one who’ll have to explain to the Old Man what’s going on, so don’t open your big mouth.”

  “You can count on me, Chief. My lips are sealed,” the young petty officer replied.

  09 Jun 2000, 2345LT (10 Jun, 1045Z)

  He sat up in bed and marveled once again at the beautiful young dark haired beauty that found him so attractive. Nude, she padded across the carpeted floor, opening the drapes so that they could look out over the harbor from their vantage point high on the hill above Pearl City. The view was glorious, both inside the room and out.

  He arrived an hour ago, two hours late for their rendezvous. Those damn wives had kept him at that lawn party for hours with their impertinent questions. He had been furious inside by the time he could finally leave, but he managed to keep it hidden.

  His anger poured out as soon as he was inside the door of the apartment. The submarine suddenly leaving on a secret mission, disrupting his carefully planned schedule, that insubordinate skipper, the demanding wives. He told her everything. It felt good to unload all of his cares. She listened so attentively and made him feel so important. Commodore Calucci knew that is was a breach of security, but what was the harm? She was only a student down at the university.

  14

  11 Jun 2000, 0839LT (10 Jun, 2329Z)

  Joe Strang stormed into combat. "What do you mean, you don't know if they received the message? Those P-3s arrive in five hours. They're already in the air. We don't have time for guessing games."

  He blinked several times, vainly trying to adjust his eyes to the dark interior after just leaving the bright morning sunshine on the bridge. The dim blue light barely illuminated a space crammed with equipment
and people. Several large display screens mounted on the rear bulkhead displayed the positions of all the ships and planes within a thousand miles.

  Lieutenant Garcia, on duty as the submarine element coordinator, looked up from his chart, "Skipper, it's been on the BGIXS broadcast for fifteen hours now. SUBPAC says that they have been backing it up on their SSIXS broadcast." He stepped over to the small communications center. "Petty Officer Han can explain it better than I can."

  Radioman Han jumped up from his seat in front of the computer keyboard. "Yes sir. It's really very simple. We download the message to the buffer. It is automatically uploaded to a satellite in geo-synchronous orbit…"

  "Just cut to the chase," Strang interrupted. "Did SAN FRANCISCO get the message or not?" There wasn't time for those lessons on the complexities of modern communications.

  Petty Officer Han replied a little peevishly, "That's what I'm trying to explain. I don't know. I just don't know. We should get a signal from the satellite when SAN FRANCISCO queries it to get the traffic. That hasn't been working for several days."

  LT Garcia broke in, "Sir, based on their last reported position and a thirty knot speed of advance, they should be clear of the area." The large screen showed the icon for SAN FRANCISCO well beyond the Torres Strait.

  Strang shook his head. "I just hope they are. Nothing we can do know."

  11 Jun 2000, 1130LT (0230Z)

  “Skipper, we just received a Top Secret message from SUBPAC." Fagan rushed into Hunter's stateroom. The XO gasped for breath, his face flushed with excitement.

  "The ESSEX ARG is running the Torres Straits tomorrow. Intelligence reported a probable KILO in the area just beyond Saibai Island. They think it is one of the missing Indonesian KILOs. Looks like they shot at an Aussie FFG 7 yesterday. The Aussies are reporting distress calls from survivors somewhere to the West of the Straits. Washington is in an uproar. They want us through the area and clear several hours ago. The P-3’s are commencing an all-out ASW sweep in two hours. They are under ROE that has all submerged contacts as hostile and their orders are to engage them.” Fagan continued his report as he thrust the red message board into Hunter’s hand.

  Hunter took the board from the XO and read the message. "This damn message is over seventeen hours old. Nothing newer on the board canceling or changing this?"

  Fagan answered, "No sir, nothing else. We have accountability for all traffic. We're not missing anything."

  Hunter scanned the message again. It read exactly as Bill Fagan had described it. One of the recon satellites had intercepted a message from the KILO to its headquarters. Geo-location had placed it in the vicinity of the Torres Strait. The message that Hunter now held outlined an all-out anti-submarine assault on the straits by every asset that the fleet could muster. Clearly, it was no place for a friendly submarine to hang around.

  Hunter digested this information for a few moments and then said, “Well, XO, I guess we had better hustle through there so we don’t get our asses inadvertently shot off. We need to slip past that KILO as quick as we can, before the P-3s arrive. They'll spend three or four days trying to find that boat. We don't have time to wait while they sort it all out. One of those P-3 jockeys just might get lucky.”

  He rubbed his bristly chin. "Hmmm, remember that time in the attack trainer when we had to get by the DALLAS crew playing a VICTOR? I think that will work.”

  Fagan took a deep breath and then replied, “Skipper that worked in the attack trainer because we caught them off-guard." He hesitated, carefully weighing his words. "Trying to outrun the P-3s and blow past the KILO is just too risky. I think we should pop up and send a message to SUBPAC.”

  Hunter shook his head. "There just isn't time. We can't wait around and then still get to the rendezvous on time. We have to get through." He chuckled, "Besides, what's the use in having the best stealth ship in the world if you don't use it once in awhile. Those P-3s don't have a chance of finding us."

  Fagan tried one last time, his voice heavy with worry. "Skipper, listen to me. It's dangerous."

  “XO, I am very well aware of that. Sometimes you just have to take a chance. Let’s just make sure that we are the ones writing the patrol report. Now, how far are we from the entrance to the straits?”

  Fagan gave up the argument. “At this course and speed, we will be there in an hour. Then it's twenty miles beyond to clear the KILO’s probable patrol area.” He knew that Hunter's decision was final. There was nothing to do but help.

  ”Okay, XO, let’s think like that KILO’s skipper,” Hunter went on. “We think he is supposed to protect this strait and take out anything that tries to go through. We’re in his home waters, so stealth is important to him, but he'll feel that he has the advantage. He also doesn’t need to move much. Remember, a diesel boat is only a smart semi-movable minefield.”

  Fagan responded, “He probably knows that the ARG is coming, but he may not know we'll be there first."

  Drawing a rough chart of the Strait on a scrap of paper, Fagan continued. "I would expect him to be to the side of the ship channel just beyond the straits, right here," pointing to a spot just to the North of the main channel. "That way he could take advantage of the constricted waters and hide in the close in-shore noise while shooting out toward open water.”

  “That’s about how I see it, too,” Hunter replied. “We’ll run through the straits hard and fast. Don’t give him any chance to react. Have our guns cocked and ready, just in case. How does that sound to you?”

  Bill Fagan responded without much enthusiasm, “It just might work."

  Hunter called the OOD and ordered, “Man battle stations torpedo silently and make tubes two and three ready in all respects. Load a MOSS in tube four.”

  The MOSS, or MObile Submarine Simulator, was a small torpedo-like device that was designed to swim out on a preset course and play a tape recording that sounded like its mother sub. This was supposed to give the attacker the confusing problem of deciding which of two subs to attack.

  Fagan rose and took a step toward the door.

  “XO,” Hunter said quietly. “You ever been at war before? Had weapons free?”

  “No, sir,” Fagan answered, his voice quivering just a bit. “You?”

  “Nope,” Hunter answered as he rose to follow the XO out to the control room. “Sure should be interesting.”

  The emergency DC lights, meant to give illumination if the AC lighting failed, blinked three times. The crew rushed to man their battle-stations, but silently. There could be someone nearby who might hear them.

  Hunter walked into control. Reports were being fed to the XO that all personnel were at their battle stations. The weapons in tubes two and three were ready to search out their prey.

  Hunter glanced at the charts to ascertain the sub’s position, then ordered, “Diving Officer, make your depth eight hundred feet. Ahead flank.”

  He stepped up onto the periscope stand and spoke out, his voice resonating with purpose, “Attention in the fire control party, we are at war right now. There’s an Indonesian Navy KILO out in front of us somewhere. He’s already taken out one Aussie ship.”

  Hunter looked around the control room. Every member of the team was riveted on his next words.

  “He isn’t our mission. We have more important fish to fry. We’re going to blow by this guy before he has a chance to react. If we think he has detected us, but hasn’t shot, we will launch the MOSS toward him. If we detect an incoming weapon, we will snap shot a torpedo down the bearing to keep him busy. If we get him, great. But that isn’t our priority. The P-3’s will handle him.”

  “First, we need to get through the narrow part of the straits. We have an hour and a half to go fifty miles before the Airedales get here. Remember, our mission is to rendezvous with the SEAL team. It’ll get awfully cold and lonely for them if we aren’t there to pull ‘em out of the water.”

  11 Jun 2000, 1200LT (0300Z)

  SAN FRANCISCO leaped ahead.

 
The whole ship shuddered when reactor operator shifted the reactor coolant pumps to fast speed. SAN FRANCISCO slid into the depths at a twenty-degree down angle. Leveling off at eight hundred feet, she accelerated past thirty-five knots. Her speed was now so fast that the KILO would have only seconds to detect, classify the new contact as a submarine, and put a weapon in the water at her before she was past it and gone.

  This was exactly what Hunter was banking on. Catch the KILO skipper napping and get beyond him before he could react. Then, when the KILO went to periscope depth to report the onrushing US LOS ANGELES class submarine, he would be a sitting duck for the waiting P-3C Orion ASW aircraft overhead.

  Warran Jacobs was concerned. He pulled Hunter over to the navigation chart and pointed, “Captain, this strait narrows down to a few hundred yards at this depth. It’s deep, but real narrow and shoals up fast on either side. This will be like threading a needle in the dark. Recommend we come shallow to give us more room.”

  “Sounding one-five fathoms below the keel,” the BQR-17 Fathometer operator reported, confirming the Nav's fears.

  “Noted, Nav” Hunter acknowledged. “We can’t afford to come shallow. The cavitation will broadcast our approach. Run continuous soundings on the secure fathometer. Set red soundings at five fathoms and yellow soundings at ten fathoms below the keel. Log your concerns.”

  Cavitation, the formation and collapse of millions of tiny bubbles caused by the screw moving quickly through shallow water, sounded like hail on a tin roof magnified a thousand times. It could be heard for many miles. Down deep, the bubbles couldn’t form, so no cavitation. It was a trade-off that Hunter had evaluated and decided that the risk of hitting the bottom was better than the risk of getting shot at. It was the captain’s decision, alone. Warren Jacobs had done his job in voicing his concerns to the captain, but now the decision was made. They would charge ahead, deep and fast.