Operation Golden Dawn

by George Wallace

  Suddenly the stateroom went dark. He flipped the light switch. Again the switch didn’t work. Nothing but darkness.

  He stepped out into the passageway and walked to control. The AE again came to troubleshoot the problem. Again the switch worked perfectly for him.

  The XO was mystified. He certainly understood the simple lighting circuit. An Electrical Engineering degree from the Academy and the Nuclear Power Training pipeline insured that. This should not be happening. There had to be a logical explanation to this. But, what was it?

  18

  18 Jun 2000, 0045LT (17 Jun, 1845Z)

  The sinister black shape slid silently through the warm tropical night. The only sound of its passage was the faint lapping of the torpid waves against the steel monster.

  A gentle land breeze mixed the fetid smell of rotting vegetation and the earthy smell of a freshly plowed field with the salty tang of the sea air. Clutches of stars peeked quickly through the fleeting clouds scurrying across the sky. The twinkling lights from several small fishing villages were visible around the periphery of the wide bay. The lights were the only sign that the bay ended and the island began.

  All was darkness around the black hulk, as if it sucked in all light like a sea-going black hole.

  The unexpected message had arrived early in the morning. Orders from COMSUBPAC were to make best speed to this remote bay on the North side of Java. Rendezvous with the agent at 2230. But no one had shown.

  Hunter stayed at the mouth of the bay for an hour past the rendezvous time. When no one showed, he elected to drive slowly into the bay, as far as he dared, in hopes that the agent was merely delayed and he could be met on the way.

  Loitering on the surface within spitting distance of land was not a smart move. They had stayed in the confines of the bay as long as they dared. Too many things could happen, all of them bad. Patience was not Hunter's strongest characteristic and this was trying him to the limit. They should be a hundred miles closer to their destination and hours closer to completing their mission.

  There was nothing to do but turn around and head out to deep water.

  "Captain, Nav reports one-five feet under the keel. He recommends turning now. The bottom is coming up fast, four hundred yards to shoal water." Jeff Miller's whispered voice came out of the darkness.

  Hunter looked around once more and whispered, "Very well, Weps. Back one-third, left full rudder. Train the outboard to port nine zero and start the outboard. Let's get out of here."

  Hunter was already drafting the message to SUBPAC in his mind as he anxiously paced the tiny deck. Maybe the agent had been compromised, possibly his boat had failed, or he just had cold feet and didn't show. There was no way of knowing. But they had wasted eight priceless hours in this futile effort, what with the deviation from the planned track and the wait in the bay. And for nothing. What should have been a source of precious information had turned out to be a dangerous waste of time. Hunter was not happy and he intended to let SUBPAC know it.

  Jeff Miller nudged Hunter with his elbow. "Skipper, look. Call it two points off the port bow. Out about five hundred yards. Thought I saw a glimmer of a light."

  Hunter looked out into the blackness. "Don't see anything but black, Jeff. Come to ahead one third. Steer course zero-two five."

  Dark clouds were moving in and obscuring what little starlight was available. The light breeze carried the promise of rain.

  "There it is again," Miller all but shouted, pointing excitedly.

  "I see it now." Hunter answered. "Steer for the light. Let's get a little closer before we answer. Could only be a fisherman out here, fishing. No sense letting him know we are here until we are sure."

  Miller looked through the alidade on the compass repeater, reading the bearing to the faintly visible light. He ordered, "Helm steer course three-one-three." He continued to stare in the direction of the light. "Skipper, the light is flashing now. I make out two shorts and two longs repeated every thirty seconds."

  "That’s our signal," Hunter replied. "Come to all stop and drift up to him." He took the little penlight from his coveralls pocket and answered the signal.

  The little perahu pinisi almost bumped against the SAN FRANCISCO's hull before they could see it. Its low dark wooden form was all but invisible in the blackness of the night.

  Large droplets of a warm rain began to sputter down.

  SAN FRANCISCO slid to a stop as the fishing boat came abreast of the sail. Someone could just be seen sitting in the stern. Hunter reached for his Beretta, just in case.

  "Captain, sorry I'm late. Permission to come aboard." The jaunty Australian drawl was unmistakable. "Oh, yeah, password is 'matey'."

  Hunter slid the 9mm Beretta back into its holster when he heard the password. He really didn't remember drawing it, but he saw Jeff Miller holstering his Beretta, too. Tensions were running high.

  Hunter reached down into the cockpit and grabbed the coil of knotted rope lying on the teak grating. After checking to make sure that one end was firmly tied to a stanchion, he tossed the coil down to the waiting agent. "Quick, grab the rope and get up here. We haven't got all night."

  The agent grabbed the rope and climbed up the vertical side of the sail. He stepped onto the port sailplane and then hoisted himself up the last few feet to the lip of the cockpit as Hunter reached over and yanked him in, head-first.

  The agent regained his footing and stood next to Hunter. He stuck out his right hand and jauntily said, "Durstin Turnstill. Sorry to be a bit late. Bloody motor on that boat. Had to paddle all the way out."

  Turnstill looked to be a middle-aged, medium height, slightly over-weight Australian, dressed in jeans and a Foster's beer tee shirt.

  Hunter ignored the proffered hand and growled, "Time for pleasantries later. Get below. We have to get out of here."

  Turnstill ducked below the cockpit coaming and disappeared down the ladder.

  Hunter grabbed the 7MC microphone and said, "XO, our guest is coming below. Get him in dry clothes and make him comfortable in your stateroom. I'll be down as soon as we are out of here.

  "Nav, course to deep water?"

  Fagan promptly replied, "COB has him now, looking for a poopie-suit. Nav recommends course zero-one-zero. Fifty fathom curve in thirty miles. Twenty fathom curve in twenty-five. Recommend ahead one-third. Visibility down to one hundred yards."

  The little perahu pinisi was left to drift ashore in a few days, one more mystery of the Java Sea.

  The rain quickly grew from a gentle shower to a torrential downpour. The drops were hitting so hard that any exposed skin stung painfully. Hunter and Miller gave up all pretense of trying to look out ahead. The driving rain made that impossible. They tried to find a little shelter below the cockpit coaming.

  Hunter grabbed the 7MC microphone. "Chief of the Watch, get two pairs of arctic goggles up here quick. Quartermaster, you'll have to keep a good look-out through the scope."

  "Captain, Navigator." The tinny speaker was barely audible above the hammering of the driving rain. "Recommend making bare steerageway until this clears. Petty Officer Buell reports visibility down to twenty-five yards. We won't be able to see anything in enough time to avoid it."

  Jacobs gave Hunter the "by the book" answer. Maritime law requires bare steerageway when visibility is nil to reduce the risk of running into something or someone. Hunter understood that it was the Nav's job to give him the "by the book" recommendation.

  Hunter listened to the recommendation and hesitated the barest instant. "Nav, log your recommendation. All ahead full. Where are those goggles?"

  There were times when the book just didn't work. There was no telling when the rain would clear. It might be ten minutes, it might be after daybreak. Then they would be stuck twenty-five miles from the nearest water deep enough to hide in. Ordering Jacobs to log his recommendation would prove that Jacobs had done his job if they hit anything. The responsibility rested solely with Hunter.

  The tiny speaker s
quawked, "Nav, aye. Goggles on the way up. Answering ahead full."

  The fur lined arctic goggles looked incongruous when they were barely four hundred miles South of the equator, but they protected Hunter's and Miller's eyes from the driving rain. Hunter peered out over the top of the sail, willing himself to see anything out there. He could barely make out the white curling wave that washed halfway up the side of the sail before collapsing on its self. SAN FRANCISCO,s eighteen knots, added to the twenty knot wind, drove the rain until it felt like gravel thrown against their flesh.

  Miller took station on the port side of the tiny cockpit and stared ahead. He yelled above the wind, "Skipper, I can't see shit. How about you."

  Hunter yelled back, "About the same. Keep looking."

  A white blur flashed toward them and slammed into the sail just forward of Miller. They were both splattered with feathers and blood, which the driving rain washed away. Hunter shouted, "Seagull. He couldn't see either."

  They charged through the blinding storm with the wind howling in their ears. Hunter prayed that no fisherman was desperate enough to challenge this storm or any tramp steamer was trying to make way up the coast.

  Finally the tinny speaker squawked, "Captain, Navigator. Twenty fathoms under the keel and dropping fast. Recommend we dive now."

  Hunter yelled into the microphone, "Ahead one-third. Nav, take the conn. Weps and I will rig the bridge for dive. Have personnel stand by in the trunk to hand down gear."

  18 Jun 2000, 0445LT (17 Jun, 2145Z)

  SAN FRANCISCO slid silently beneath the waves and dove into the depths. The wild driving rainstorm was forgotten, three hundred feet above them.

  Hunter walked forward to meet their guest. His shoes squished wetly, leaving puddles on the tile. He reached into his stateroom and grabbed a towel. Vigorously drying his hair, he walked on down the passageway to the XO's stateroom.

  Sniffing the air as he walked, Hunter smelled the acrid odor of cigarette smoke. Stepping into the XO's stateroom, he found Turnstill leaning back in Fagan's chair, his feet propped up on the desk. He was nursing a cup of coffee and a cigarette. Turnstill was dressed in a dry poopie suit. His tousled reddish hair, ruddy complexion, and grey-blue eyes gave him a devil-may-care air.

  Hunter snapped, "Please put that out. Smoking is not allowed here."

  Turnstill slowly dropped his feet to the floor and slipped the cigarette butt into the remains of the coffee. "Sorry, Skipper. Didn't know the rules. Glad you happened along when you did. Didn't relish going back to the island. Landlord was getting upset. When he finds out his daughter’s in the family way, my welcome is shot."

  Hunter exasperation boiled over. Risking his ship and the mission for this low life was too much to bear. He answered back sharply, "You had better have something useful for us. If we pulled you out just to avoid an irate father, I'll have your ass nailed to a mast!"

  Turnstill raised both hands in surrender. "Captain you have no idea how upset one of these Muslim fathers can get. It could mean my head! But I do have a little information for you. I have worked for Suluvana. I know about Nusa Funata."

  Hunter pulled up a chair and sat. "All right start talking. You have my attention."

  Turnstill leaned back again and began to talk. "Captain, for some reason, I get the feeling we started out on the wrong foot. Let's start over."

  Hunter answered drily, "That depends on what you have to say. Tell me what you know about Suluvana."

  Turnstill folded his arms across his chest and leaned back in the chair, again. "Fair enough. Let's say that I'm a bit of a free-lancer. Someone wants something done, I do it. Not too many questions. Suluvana wanted mining equipment. Needed it delivered to Nusa Funata quietly and quickly. I found what he wanted and had it delivered. Whole boat load of stuff. Enough stuff to do some major rock moving. Funny thing about delivering it to Nusa Funata. There's nothing to mine there. Most God forsaken piece of rock you can imagine. Insisted on delivery at night and the crew was not allowed off the boat while his people off-loaded the stuff."

  Hunter stood as Bill Fagan walked into the stateroom. There wasn't room for three chairs in the cramped space. Hunter folded his chair and leaned against the bulkhead. "When was this?"

  Turnstill scratched the stubble on his chin for a second. "Call it a year ago. Yeah, it was just before the monsoons. He was real anxious to get the stuff in before the rains hit."

  Fagan chimed in, "Did you get to see any of the island?"

  Turnstill looked over at Fagan. "Only what I could see from the deck at night. Just a short cement pier and a little metal warehouse."

  Hunter responded, "Anything else? A little more recent?"

  Turnstill fidgeted in his seat. "Not much. Just rumors of some troops being reassigned to some unknown location. The enforcers from some local gangs dropping out of site. That sort of thing. Nothing that you could put your finger on."

  Hunter glared at the erstwhile agent. "Mr. Turnstill, I hope your memory improves. What you have told us so far has certainly not been worth the risk of pulling you off Java. Until either your memory improves or we can drop you off SAN FRANCISCO, you will confine yourself to this stateroom and the wardroom for meals.

  "XO, draft a message to SUBPAC telling them that we retrieved Mr. Turnstill. Relate what he has told us. Add a CO's summary that says I don't think his information is worthwhile or timely."

  18 Jun 2000, 0800LT (0100Z)

  Chief Jones stepped into the radio room and selected the XOSR on the MJ phone growler. He spun the crank once and stepped back out again. He hurriedly passed through control and dodged into the sonar room. He scurried through the computer space and peeked around the corner toward the XO’s door. He was just in time to see the XO storm out of the door and charge to control. The room behind him was dark.

  Chief Jones hurried back to the radio room and again spun the MJ growler dial. The relay hidden behind the ventilation ducting above the XO’s stateroom received its signal and returned the light circuit to normal.

  This is working perfectly, he chuckled to himself. A few more days and he would have a truly memorable gag to brag about. The XO was smart. Pulling this off would prove that he really deserved the age-old description of a Chief “devious and cunning, bearing watching at all times.”

  Once again, the auxiliary electrician found the switch working perfectly, to Bill Fagan’s growing irritation.

  Ensign Green stuck his head into the CO’s Stateroom, “Skipper, the wardroom is set up for Mast."

  “Very well, Chop. I’ll be right down. Tell the OOD to pass the word on the 1MC and have the COB muster the parties in the middle level passageway,” Hunter said as he closed the report folder.

  Tucking the folder under his arm he sighed and rose to leave, muttering to himself, "Might as well get this over with. Some parts of this job just aren't any fun."

  “All quiet in the vicinity of the wardroom while Captain’s Mast is in progress,” the OOD intoned solemnly over the 1MC.

  The announcement was made as much to inform the crew that the meting out of justice in the age-old Navy tradition of Captain’s Mast was in progress as to actually instruct them to be quiet.

  Dating back to the early days of the British Navy, carried forward from the very beginnings of the US Navy and firmly entrenched in maritime law, the concept that the Captain of a ship at sea had absolute authority over all aboard was steeped in naval tradition. From Captain Bligh to Captain Queeg, the caricature of the despotic sea captain was a popular literary figure. In reality, far from home and out of communications, sea captains were expected to mete out justice for all onboard. The term “Mast” came from the tradition on sailing ships of holding the proceedings before the main mast.

  This power and duty had undergone modification in modern times. Rapid communications, a more centralized command structure and a more liberal social environment resulted in limiting the commanding officer’s prerogatives to investigating possible offenses and taking action
to correct those that he deemed minor and administrative. Serious offenses were passed on to higher command that had court-martial convening authority. This still allowed wide latitude and discretion on the captain’s part as to deciding if cases should be sent off for courts-martial or to the form of administrative punishment that was appropriate. But even this was subject to review by higher authority.

  Hunter strode down the centerline passageway, passing by the accused without a word or a glance as they stood in their best dress uniforms, nervously waiting. He entered the wardroom, devoid of all furniture save the table and one chair for him. The table had been covered with a deep green felt cloth embroidered with a set of gold dolphins and a gold command star in the center. Neatly assembled on the green felt were a copy of the Manual for Courts-Martial, the charge sheets, the investigation results, and a glass of water.

  As Hunter took his seat, the XO, COB and the chain of command for the two accused crewmembers entered and arranged themselves around the table. The XO stood at Hunter’s right hand, the COB took station at the door. They had all exchanged their normal underway blue coveralls for dress khaki uniforms.

  “XO, are we ready?” Hunter asked.

  With that, the arrayed officers and chiefs came to parade rest.

  “Yes, sir. All parties are in attendance,” Fagan replied crisply.

  “Very well. COB, call the accused,” the Commander ordered.

  The two forlorn sailors marched in to the wardroom and stood before the green table at rigid attention. At the COB’s sharply barked order, the pair rendered a crisp salute and then removed their covers.

  CDR Hunter read solemnly from a prepared script. “Chief Petty Officer Richey, Seaman Martinez, you stand before me accused of a violation of article 132 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice, in that you knowingly and willingly submitted a false official record, to wit, an enlistment contract for Seaman Martinez that falsely stated that Seaman Martinez had graduated from high school. As you have been advised by the executive officer, a Captain’s Mast is not a trial by court martial and the rules of evidence that apply in a trial by court martial do not apply here. You have each been advised by the Executive Officer of your rights. Do you understand these rights?”