“Alpha Alpha, this is SAN FRANCISCO, over” Hunter started over the red phone.
Admiral Smith answered, “SAN FRANCISCO this is Alpha Alpha. Jon, you just called me out of a full house in the staff poker game, so this had better be good.”
“Admiral, I probably just saved you from a big loss to your chief of staff. Remember, Captain Butler is an old submariner and we can’t be trusted.
"I have a problem and a solution, but I need some help,” Hunter continued as he briefed the battle group commander on Jeff Miller’s plan. The admiral signed off, saying that he would see what he could do, but clearly unconvinced that the huge multi-service bureaucracy could react that swiftly for one lone submarine, half way around the world.
11 Jun 2000, 0355LT (1455Z)
An hour later, an Hawaiian Air National Guard major briefed his flight of two F-15 Eagles. “I don’t know what the skinny is on this, but the general himself was just on the horn. We are flying those two boxes at max cruise to Guam. KC-10s are taking station 500 miles Southwest of French Frigate Shoals and a thousand miles West of Midway. We’re to take off ASAP, point West and go fast. ETA Guam, three hours. Sure must be something important in those boxes to turn us into FedEx. Saddle up, time to fly.”
At the same time, two F-14D Tomcats were thrown into night sky from the forward catapults on NIMITZ. They pointed their noses East-North-East and made maximum speed to rendezvous with the Westbound Eagles on Guam.
“NIMITZ control, this is tango bravo flight of two. Outbound zero-three-zero, angels four-five, mach one point two. Verify KC-10s on station, over”
“Tango bravo, NIMITZ control, roger. Blue suiters report filling stations available as briefed.”
The round trip with two refuelings each way took a little over six hours. The pilots and NFO’s didn’t even have the time to climb down out of their cramped cockpits into the tropical heat of the Guam night. The F-15’s landed as the Tomcats taxied to the hot refueling station. The two packages were stowed as the F-14’s tanks were topped off for the high-speed return flight. Then they were out on the runway and gone into the night sky with a brilliant blaze of afterburners.
17
12 Jun 2000, 0653LT (11 Jun, 2153Z)
“SAN FRANCISCO this is Alpha Alpha. Jon, you were right. Chief of Staff was sitting on four Queens. You saved me a bundle. Someday you have to tell me what is going on. You are clearly doing something other than just escorting the ESSEX ARG. I picked up the phone with COMPAC Fleet to tell him your crazy idea and the next thing I know, the whole Pacific Air Force is scrambled to get you not one, but two bearings. They are inbound to NIMITZ now. An OSPREY is onboard and ready to deliver them to you. I’m sending you a couple of cases of beer for your crew. They’ve sure earned it. ETA over SAN FRANCISCO in one hour.”
“Thanks Admiral. The crew will appreciate the beer. Wish I could tell you what we are doing. I know you understand the security and ‘need to know’ associated with this. All I can tell you is that the orders start out with the words “matters of highest national priority.” We should have one main available in four hours. Estimate another eight hours for both engines. SAN FRANCISCO out”.
12 Jun 2000, 0830LT (11 Jun, 2330Z)
The dark gray painted twin-engine aircraft flew low and fast just above the placid sea. The grotesquely over-sized propellers kicked up a trail of mist and spray behind it. Just before passing directly over the surfaced sub, the plane executed a maneuver impossible for any other aircraft. The pilot rotated the plane’s twin turbo prop engines, located at the ends of stubby wings, until the huge propellers became overhead rotors. In seconds, the fast moving aircraft had been transformed into a hovering helicopter. The large rear ramp rumbled down and a net filled with several boxes was lowered by a single line to the waiting submarine’s deck.
As the OSPREY came to a hover, four blue coverall clad sailors emerged from the submarine’s deck hatch into the brilliant morning sunshine. The downdraft from the hovering OSPREY tore at their poopie suits. They were quickly drenched from the spray.
The sailors unloaded the boxes from the net and lowered them carefully down the open hatch. In less than five minutes the exchange had been completed. The OSPREY resumed normal flight and disappeared over the horizon as the submarine slipped below the waves. Not even a ripple remained to show that anything had happened at this lonely point in the ocean.
12 Jun 2000, 1810LT (0910Z)
“Alpha Alpha, this is SAN FRANCISCO. All repairs are complete. Answering bells on both main engines. Able to answer all bells. Will be running deep and fast to next op area. Out of communications for next 20 hours. Will be standing by for any bell ringers for tasking changes. Detaching LAKE ERIE to return to battle group and the P-3 escort to other duties. SAN FRANCISCO out.” Hunter placed the red phone back in its holder.
Turning to the Jeff Miller, who peered out the periscope, Hunter directed, “OK Officer of the Deck. Let’s go deep and fast. We have a rendezvous to make. Make your depth eight hundred feet and answer ahead flank.”
Turning his attention to Warran Jacobs, bent over the chart table checking their progress, Hunter asked, “Nav, how does it look to get there on time?”
“Well Skipper, the Eng cut it real close. If we run at flank and only come up to copy the broadcast every twenty four hours, we should just skid in on time,” Jacobs replied, looking up from the chart for a second.
Finally free of the restricted waters of the Torres Straits and able to fly once again, SAN FRANCISCO lunged ahead. They raced through the Arafura and Timor Seas, out into the Indian Ocean. Altering course to the Northwest , they headed toward the Sunda Straits, the only passage deep and wide enough to allow them submerged access into the Java Sea without the fear of being detected.
14 Jun 2000, 0330LT (13 Jun, 2030Z)
Bill Fagan sprang up, wide-awake. Normally a light sleeper, especially at sea, and troubled by the recent past, he was instantly jarred from his slumber. The lights in his tiny stateroom suddenly blinked on.
No one else was in the confined space. Grumbling under his breath, he walked over to the switch and flipped it. Nothing happened. He flipped it again and still nothing. The lights stayed on. Damn it, what was causing this?
He picked up the MJ phone and selected the OOD’s station. When Sam Stuart answered, he requested, "Officer of the Deck, have the auxiliary electrician report to my stateroom to check a faulty light switch."
Within minutes, the young electrician was at his door. Bill Fagan explained, "The light came on by itself and I can't get it to turn it off." He stepped aside to give the AE room to investigate. The electrician reached over and flipped the switch. The lights went out. Another flip of the switch and they came back on.
The petty officer turned to the XO and said, “Switch seems to work fine. Must be MES. Magic Electric Shit.”
As the AE left, Chief Jones peeked around the corner and smiled.
CDR Hunter yelled through the doors that connected their staterooms, “XO, read this “Personal for” from SUBPAC. Do you believe this! What a tangled tale.”
Hunter was sitting at his desk, reading the message traffic from the last communications download.
“This message says that Admiral O’Flanagan is the subject of a Congressional investigation for recruiting irregularities while he commanded CRUITCOM. The most serious infractions were apparently in South LA. Now we find out that Chief Richey was a recruiter there and he recruited Seaman Martinez. SUBPAC Chief of Staff thinks they falsified the enlistment contract and has directed us to investigate.”
Bill Fagan rose from his desk, stepped into the CO’s stateroom and looked over Hunter's shoulder to read the offending message. Finally he flopped into a seat at the small table against the outboard bulkhead.
“This is great! Just great! Our best chief petty officer and a young kid that we are just beginning to turn into a good sailor caught up in a Congressional witch-hunt. As if we didn’t have enough to worry about, the
y add this BS,” Fagan ranted.
“XO, conduct a formal Article 15 investigation and give me the results,” Jon Hunter ordered, handing over the message.
“Yes, sir. I’ll appoint the Navigator as the investigating officer. Neither one works for him and he has the experience to do a good job,” the XO replied as he returned to his desk.
16 Jun 2000, 2200LT (1500Z)
The specially configured black MC-130 Combat Talon II flew over the dark empty ocean, just above the wave tops. After hours of tense, low altitude flight, the pilot heard faintly over the low probability of intercept (LPI) radio, “Night Train, this is Black Shark. I hold your IR light bearing one three zero from me. Range twelve. Come left ten degrees. Standby to mark on top.”
After a brief pause “Standby, mark, mark, MARK! Night Train you passed one hundred yards to the Southeast. Ready to receive.”
“Roger, Black Shark. Climbing to angels five to send,” The pilot replied as the big bird climbed and banked through a 180-degree turn.
The huge aft door rumbled down as ten of the twenty black clad figures silently rose and sauntered toward the gaping opening. The faint red light high up on the right side of the door went out and the green one just below it illuminated. The ten casually walked off the end of the ramp and dropped into the blackness.
No sooner than the last figure had dropped, the plane again banked around in a 180-degree turn to repeat the procedure for the other ten passengers. As the last figure dropped, the ramp rumbled shut. The pilot dove the bird back down to wave-top height and sent, “Black Shark, delivered twenty.”
The immediate reply came back, “Night Train, acknowledge receipt twenty. Thanks, good trip home.”
“Black Shark, good hunting. Night Train out.”
“XO, who thinks up these corny call signs? Sounds like something out of a cheap spy novel,” Hunter commented as he stepped back from the scope.
“I don’t know,” Fagan replied as he replaced the red radio handset in its cradle. “My guess is that there is some over-paid, under-worked GS-15 in a closet at the Pentagon whose only job is to come up with these. Hadn’t we better pick up our guests before they think that we are neglecting them? I have the Chief of the Boat with his party standing by in the forward escape trunk.”
“Right. Let’s get this show on the road. Officer of the Deck, All Stop. Prepare to surface,” Hunter ordered and returned to staring through the scope eyepiece. “I can see their IR Chem-lites about a hundred yards off the port bow.”
“Answering All Stop. Ready to surface,” the OOD replied.
The huge submarine glided to a halt a scant few yards from the cluster of men in the water.
“Surface! Surface! Surface!” blared over the 1MC, followed shortly by the blast of high-pressure air forcing the water out of the ballast tanks.
Twenty men huddled closely, clustered together, alone in the black water of the vast empty ocean.
Suddenly they weren’t alone. A massive black shape appeared a few yards away, blocking out the starlit sky.
“Wow, I never get over how they just suddenly appear out of nowhere,” one of the swimmers commented.
“It’s a damn good thing they do. Otherwise, it’s an awful long swim home,” another replied dryly.
“Knock it off and start swimming,” ordered a third.
16 Jun 2000, 2215LT (1515Z)
“On the surface and holding. One inch pressure in the boat,” the Chief of the Watch reported.
“Very well, equalize the ship,” Jeff Miller directed.
The crew realigned the ventilation system so that air came in through the snorkel mast to equalize the air pressure internal to the ship with the outside air pressure. Otherwise, the one-inch pressure differential, which equated to about 250 pounds of force across the escape trunk hatch, was enough to launch anyone trying to open it forcefully out of the ship.
“Zero pressure,” reported the Chief of the Watch shortly.
“Send the party topside,” Hunter ordered.
The coverall-clad figures scurried out the hatch into the moonlight. One threw a short rope ladder down the slick curved rubber coated side of the sub to the swimmers waiting in the water.
Master Chief Hancock reached out to help the first black-clad SEAL up the ladder. “Welcome aboard the cruise ship SAN FRANCISCO. Cocktails are being served on the promenade deck. The shuffleboard tournament will commence on the fantail in twenty minutes.”
“Thanks, COB,” chuckled one of the hulking figure as he scrambled up the ladder, “but where’s the chow and did the Skipper beat my record on the Life Rower?”
“Welcome back aboard, Lieutenant Roland. Hot chow is waiting for you below decks. Saw the Skipper coming forward the other day from using the Life Rower grumbling something about “Damn young upstart SEALs” and “Teaching them respect” so I would venture that your record is gone. Sure wish I could eat like you guys do,” he chortled as he pointed out the slight paunch over his belt.
“You could eat like us if you had just jumped out of a perfectly good airplane into the cold dark Indian Ocean, with every expectation of swimming all the way home,” the SEAL lieutenant retorted.
“Lieutenant, water temperature is eighty-four, so don’t give me that “cold dark ocean” crap,” Master Chief Hancock joshed good-naturedly.
All of the figures quickly slid down the ladder and the hatch swung shut. The sub slid beneath the surface, leaving no sign that anything had just happened in this lonely part of the ocean.
On the mess decks, the SEALs sat before heaping plates of hot food, eating with the gusto of exceedingly fit men requiring constant caloric intake. They had exchanged their black wet suits for camouflage uniforms, contrasting sharply with the submariners' blue poopie suits.
Chief Boatswains Mate Sergiavich, the platoon’s second in command, asked, “Lieutenant, are you ever going to tell the Skipper that you were All American in single sculls back at Brown?”
“No, Boats, I won’t,” commented the lieutenant. “Besides, to a man like the Skipper, it wouldn’t make any difference. Just like when he beat me on the last Super Frog Triathlon. Didn’t make any difference that he is almost forty.”
“He beat you because he is a sub-three-hour marathoner and you run like a duck. As I remember that race, you had a ten minute lead coming off the swim," Boats said, relating the annual SEAL Half Ironman Triathlon. "You were about even after the bike race. He caught you at mile six on the run and then ran away from you. Besides, he's forty-four,” Boats continued, forking another helping of mash potatoes into his mouth. “I can see this competition ending with you two having a swim race to Zamboango and back.”
“That might be an even race. How far is that?” questioned the massive lieutenant.
“About a thousand miles North of here,” Boats answered and returned his attention to the plate before him.
17 Jun 2000, 0530LT (16 Jun, 2330Z)
“Injured Man in engine-room lower level! Corpsman lay to engine-room lower level! Captain is down!”
The 1MC announcement caused the crew to spring into action. Doc Pugh jumped from his bunk in the goat locker, grabbed his bag of emergency medical supplies and sprinted aft. He passed the stretcher team picking up a stretcher and additional supplies. They would follow him aft.
ENS Green and Petty Officer Swain had already stopped breakfast preparation and were well into transforming the wardroom into an emergency operating room.
Doc Pugh ducked through the low hatch into the condensate bay in lower level engine-room.
Hunter was sitting on the deck shaking his head and yelling at Sam Stuart. “Damn it Eng, why did you have to go and call away an injured man? Now we’ve got the whole boat in an uproar!”
“But Skipper, you passed out. One minute you are inspecting the hot well level controller and the next you are laid out on the deck,” Stuart retorted, a hurt and offended note in his voice.
“Captain, sit back and let me take your pulse a
nd blood pressure,” Doc interjected. “Eng, please call control and tell them to stand down from ‘Injured Man’. I won’t be needing the stretcher or any other help for now.”
He wrapped the black rubber sleeve around Hunter's upper arm, inflated it and listened to his pulse as the sleeve slowly deflated.
Removing the blood pressure cuff from Hunter’s right arm, Doc reported, “Well, your pulse is slightly elevated. I expect that after the excitement. Your blood pressure is low, normal for you. I warned you about this. Want to tell me what happened?”
“Not much to tell, Doc. I had just finished my normal morning routine on the exercise equipment. The Engineer wanted me to see the level control for the port hot well. It had been controlling erratically and we were discussing the need to repair it. I squatted down to watch it operate and then started to stand up. Vision went black. The next thing I know, the Eng is shaking me and everyone is rushing about,” Hunter replied.
The Corpsman said, “Well, I think that it is only the combination of your low blood pressure and the stress of the long hours you keep. Add that to your “normal morning routine” of two hard hours on the exercise gear and I can see why you went down. If I had an EKG machine out here, I would hook you up, but I don’t have one. We will definitely have to schedule you for testing when we get back. In the meantime, try to take it a little easier, and don’t jump on the Engineer. He did exactly what he should have.”
“OK Doc, thanks and I guess I owe the Eng an apology,” Hunter concluded, slowly rising to walk out of the compartment.
17 Jun 2000, 1440LT (0840Z)
Bill Fagan was seated at his desk working down the endless stack of paperwork, the bane of an XO’s existence. More redundant reports required by desk jockeys who probably had not set foot on a ship in years. Most likely they were not even read, just filed in some musty closet.
Operation Golden Dawn Page 16
