A RHIB was a Rigid Hulled Inflatable Boat. This design had long ago replaced the floppy “Zodiac” boats for most SEAL operations. With one exception. Because the rigid hull of the RHIBs could not be loaded onboard or unloaded from a sub, the “combat rubber raiding craft” of World War II fame lived on. When the deficiency became evident, Roland and Hunter had worked together to developed a design for a RHIB that would work for these operations. The hull was hinged so that it folded and then fit into a torpedo like cylinder called a “shape.” It could be shot out a torpedo tube and float to the surface. Once on the surface, a few latches were sprung and the RHIB was ready to go.
“Any more questions or suggestions?” LT Roland concluded.
Hunter pored over the charts for a few minutes. “I think that we had better do the lock-out here,” he said, pointing to a spot about twenty miles out from the island. “That way, if we accidentally broach it might not be detected from the surface clutter. It makes the tow longer. Does that present any problems?” he asked.
“No, sir. The time line works so that the squad will have plenty of time to get ashore and hidden before first light. With the depth of water we have, the XO tells me that you can tow into about a thousand yards from shore. That significantly reduces the time to paddle ashore,” Roland responded.
“The one thing that we really could use is an intel update,” Bill Fagan added. “We haven’t seen anything in a week. The latest satellite imagery would make the SEALs’ job a lot easier.”
Sweat poured off Hunter's body. It formed a rapidly enlarging pool on the steel deck below him. Just another minute and he would have it. His heart was thumping so loudly that he felt sure that the watch-standers could hear it even over the gasping of his breath. Don’t slack off now. Just thirty more seconds. Keep hammering.
Finally, the timer started ringing. “Not bad, for an old man,” Roland said from behind him.
Hunter stepped off the Versa-Climber and grabbed the towel hanging from a convenient valve hand wheel. The two were on a small platform in the after part of the engine-room. In the cramped space of a nuclear submarine, this was the only place that Hunter had found to fit in this piece of exercise equipment. The Versa-Climber was suspended off the deck by rubberized mounts designed to prevent any vibration from transmitting from the equipment to the submarine’s hull and then out into the water. Similar rubber mounts supported the top of the climber. It was crammed into a corner at an oddly skewed angle. The user had a scant few inches clearance on his left from a chill water pump. A large seawater valve was a couple of inches from his right knee. The view in front was entirely taken up by the dark metal after end of the port main condenser.
He had placed exercise equipment in various places around the engine-room soon after reporting aboard. He hadn’t bothered to ask for official permission, knowing the Naval Reactors’ official policy frowned on any such "frivolity". When Commodore Calucci saw the equipment, he threw a fit and ordered it removed. The Commodore told COMSUBPAC of the problem, but when the admiral decided that he liked the idea, it suddenly became the Commodore’s idea. Hunter was ordered to submit the plans for his installation to the squadron engineer so all the boats could enjoy the benefits of the Commodore’s idea.
“What do you mean, not bad?” Hunter shot back, attempting to keep his breathing under control. “That is a new world record for a Versa-Climber on a submarine. Twelve thousand vertical feet in an hour.”
“Maybe in the over-forty class,” Roland kidded the Commander. “I’m afraid that I did fifteen thousand yesterday.”
“You’re up and about early,” Hunter commented, turning the direction of the conversation.
“Yes, sir,” the SEAL leader answered seriously. “I always have trouble sleeping before an operation. This one bothers me worse than most, probably because I’m not going in with the first group.”
Hunter nodded. “I know where you are coming from. You worry a lot more when you are sending your men in and you aren’t going. You trust Boats and your men, don’t you?”
“Absolutely. Boats is as good as they get and the men all know their jobs. They’re like your crew. All professionals,” the SEAL platoon leader responded.
“Then you have to trust them to get the job done. You have planned it out, rehearsed it to perfection. There is nothing for you to do but sit back and wait. That's the hardest part,” Hunter said. “Is there anything left that we need to work out?”
Roland answered, “No, sir. We have looked at all the contingencies that we can think of. What is left is the truly unexpected. That always comes up.”
“And that is why you trained and coached them so well,” Hunter concluded, climbing the ladder to engine-room upper level. “Have a good work-out. See you at breakfast.”
20 Jun 2000, 1530LT (0830Z)
Hunter stood beside the number-two periscope, a step behind the diving officer. “Jones, you are just about the poorest excuse for a Chief Petty Officer that I have ever laid eyes on. I still can’t believe that stupid stunt you pulled when the Commodore was riding. You know that he is the ultimate prude and yet you show skin flicks in radio. And to make matters even worse, you invite the Squadron Master Chief to watch. Do you have a death wish for your career? If you weren’t the best Diving Officer in the Navy, you wouldn’t even be here. You'd be a Second Class Petty Officer counting blankets in Nome, Alaska.”
Jones replied easily, “Skipper, if I weren’t the best Diving Officer in the Navy, you wouldn’t be here, either. Without the two of us, this mission would be impossible. Besides, it’s common knowledge there is no love lost between you and the Commodore. The crew thinks he’s a spineless weenie, particularly after he nixed your chances of making O-6.”
Hunter answered, “OK Chief, let’s review the bidding here. If I hadn't gone to bat for you, I would be home in bed with my wife right now under a beautiful Hawaiian moon. Instead, I am out here, just off some God-forsaken island that's full of people with big guns who want to do bad things to us. I am about to start a maneuver that has never been done in combat before and has every likelihood of getting our asses shot off. For this I am supposed to be thankful, because you are the best Diving Officer in the Navy? My judgment must be faulty. Now strap on this boat and make her dance.”
“Yes sir!" Jones replied as he settled more comfortably into his seat. Reaching out with both hands, he boxed the helmsman’s and planesman’s ears. “You heard the Skipper, let’s make her dance.”
“XO, are we ready to go?” Hunter questioned.
Fagan answered, “Yes, sir. The first four swimmers are ready to enter the forward escape trunk. Their gear is stowed in the after trunk. It’s flooded and equalized with sea pressure. A watch is stationed at the ESGN to report velocities. The ship has a good zero speed trim. The crew is standing fast so that their weight doesn’t mess up the trim. A hose has been rigged from the forward trunk drain to the machinery one bilge. We’ll have to do three cycles to get all ten men out.”
Fagan seemed to have recovered from the KILO affair, but Hunter wasn't totally convinced. He would have to be watched closely for any more signs of cracking.
Hunter said, “Let’s get this show on the road. Officer of the Deck, proceed to periscope depth and take a look around. We will be doing the lock-out from eighty feet, just like we practiced.”
Sam Stuart ordered, "Diving Officer, make your depth six-two feet." He then raised the search periscope. As SAN FRANCISCO started her ascent, Stuart began the slow sweep around to make sure that they were not coming up under any quiet ships that sonar had failed to detect. This was a real concern, particularly in these island waters where fishing from sailing smacks was a way of life. They had expected to see a great deal of fishing, but strangely, had seen none since arriving at Nusa Funata.
Initially rotating the scope's field of vision up to almost directly overhead, he slowly lowered it as the diving officer shouted out the decreasing depth. A few brightly colored tropical fish flashed in and out of hi
s field of vision. Other than that, all he saw was the deep blue of open water.
As the scope broke the surface, Stuart lowered the field of vision until he felt the slight click of the handle detent, telling him he was looking straight out at the horizon. He had not seen any telltale shadow that would foretell an underwater collision. After a quick sweep around, he reported, "No close contacts." Another, more careful search and he reported to Hunter, "Completed initial search, no contacts."
Hunter acknowledged the good news and ordered, "Very well. Make your depth eight-zero feet."
Stuart brought the sub down to eighty feet. The slow, delicate procedure to turn a warship designed to fly effortlessly through the depths into a rock solid launch pad for the SEALs began.
Zero velocity, both horizontally and vertically, was essential. The force of any water flowing past the hatch would tear a SEAL out of the sub as he emerged or exhaust him as he tried to keep up with the moving ship. To make matters worse, the escape hatch on SAN FRANCISCO opened forward so that it had to be held open against the flow of water for any forward motion. Too much speed could slam the one ton steel hatch shut on any SEAL unfortunate enough to be emerging just then.
Any vertical motion would result in pressure changes too rapid for the SEALs to equalize. At best they would have ruptured eardrums, at worst, the terrible pain of an embolism.
Forward motion had to be maintained at less than a tenth of a knot while vertical motion had to be kept at less than a foot per second. Depth had to be maintained in a six-inch band. This required an inherent sense of anticipation of the forces acting on the great ship and an uncanny talent to counter them precisely. Chief Jones was truly unique in his ability to, almost unconsciously, integrate the input from the ship’s sensors with his own “seat of the pants” feel for the ship’s response. Flood a few pounds of water into one trim tank; pump a few pounds out of another. Watch the water temperature and depth gages with an eagle eye. Listen to the reports of ship’s velocity in the X, Y and Z-axis. And maintain very careful track of the vital lockout evolution happening thirty feet aft and a deck below his location. Doing all this instantaneously, precisely and for a four-hour period was not something that anyone could be trained to do. It required the one individual in a million who was born with these unique talents.
“All right, Chief. We are at eighty feet. I’ll slow to two knots. You trim the ship,” Hunter said. They had learned through many hours of trial and error the tricks that made this impossible maneuver possible. One key trick was to slow down incrementally to a hover and to trim the ship very carefully at each speed.
As the sub slowed, the stern started to sink. The ship came to rest with a three-degree up angle.
“Damn, Skipper, we’re heavy aft. Pumping one thousand pounds from after trim to forward trim,” Chief Jones commented.
The angle gradually eased, but the ship had sunk several feet in the ensuing minutes.
“Pumping from Auxiliaries to sea, one thousand pounds.”
The descent slowed, then stopped.
“Depth nine-zero feet coming to eight-zero,” he reported, as he used the little remaining speed to plane back up to the ordered depth. She settled out at precisely eighty feet. “Skipper, I’m ready to go to one point five knots.”
Hunter ordered, “Maneuvering, make one point five knots.”
The EOOW in the maneuvering room acknowledged "Make one point five knots, aye."
The sub slowed to one point five knots. The tedious, yet delicate procedure was repeated. Feel the sub’s response. Pump a little, flood a little. Carefully correct the minor imbalances of weight. Then slow again. Repeat the procedure. Slow some more. Repeat; until finally speed was down to almost zero.
At these very low speeds, just the turning of the great bronze screw caused enough torque on the ship to disturb the delicate balance. As each blade tip passed through the low pressure near the surface on the top of its rotation and then bit in to the higher pressure water on its downward travel, it would push the stern down and to port. This resulted in the bow moving to starboard and up. The inevitable result was for the sub to broach.
“Lower the outboard and shift to remote,” Hunter ordered. “All Stop.”
He grabbed the 7MC microphone. “Maneuvering, Captain. When the shaft is stopped, put the main engines on the jack.”
The mains would be warmed and ready if they were suddenly needed, but for now the outboard and its small electric motor and tiny screw would be used in quick bursts to gently move the ship.
The first four SEALs entered the cramped dark space of the escape trunk and dogged the lower hatch shut. The space was so small they could not don their scuba tanks but, rather, had to place them under their feet and stretch the regulator hoses to breath.
Boats climbed a little higher in the trunk and spoke into the intercom, “Swimmers ready, commencing to flood the trunk.”
The noise was deafening. The rush of water under pressure into the steel confines of the trunk drowned out all possibility of communicating. The swirling water rose to the swimmers’ knees, then their waists, until finally three of them were completely under water. Only Boats had his head above water. A small steel skirt, attached to the underside of the upper hatch combing, provided a tiny air pocket for him to use while operating the trunk controls.
As the water rushed in, Chief Jones pumped water from the Auxiliary Tank located in the submarine’s bilge almost directly below the escape trunk. Experimentation and careful practice had taught him how to precisely pump water from the sub at the same rate that it was being flooded into the trunk. Pumping too fast would result in the sub bobbing quickly to the surface and embolising the SEALs, while pumping too slow would result in the sub descending and exposing the SEALs to unendurable pressures. Chief Jones performed his balancing act carefully and precisely. The great ship barely quivered as the trunk flooded. The SEALs did not notice any changes in pressure.
Just as quickly as it began, the rush of water ceased. In the almost unnatural quiet, Boats reported, "Flooding was completed. Equalizing with sea pressure."
The squeal of pressurized air destroyed the stillness. The tiny air pocket quickly came up to a pressure equal to the outside sea pressure. The SEALs popped the upper hatch open and swam free of the submarine.
The SEALs left the dark confines of the escape trunk and emerged into the blue of the open ocean. Below them the blue darkened into blackness; above it was an iridescent turquoise. In this blue, their only touch with reality was the hard black shape of the sub.
As soon as the last swimmer exited the forward trunk, the crew pumped the upper hatch closed and started the procedure to drain the trunk for the next set of swimmers. Within minutes the next four SEALs entered the trunk and the difficult, tedious procedure was repeated.
The four swimmers sprang to their well-rehearsed tasks. Boats tied a line to the sub and inflated the attached buoy with a small CO2 canister. He freed the buoy to float to the surface.
The second swimmer, EN2 Stuart, tied another line to the sub and swam to the after escape trunk. There he tied the other end, forming a guide rope for his teammates to follow.
The third swimmer, HT1 Jankowski, began opening the after escape trunk upper hatch so that they could retrieve their equipment. As his three teammates joined him, he started to lift out the first ungainly bag and allowed it to drift to the surface while holding on to the guide rope. As the bag broke the surface, it automatically inflated into a small six-man raft.
“Control, maneuvering. We hear activity in the after escape trunk. Sounds like the SEALs are unloading it.”
“Maneuvering, control Aye.”
Up rose the second bag to become a second raft. The rafts were tied to the floating buoy to keep them from drifting away. The four swimmers began the laborious task of transferring the rest of the equipment from the after trunk to the waiting rafts on the surface.
After four hours, Chief Jones and his team sat in pools of swe
at, reduced to exhaustion by the constant unbearable tension.
Ten SEALs were seated in the CRRCs. As the cool night air wafted around them and the gentle swell of the sea rocked them, the SEALs rigged a line between the two small boats and paddled a few feet apart, leaving the line to float on the surface.
19
20 Jun 2000, 2230LT (1530Z)
The top of the mountainous island was just visible as a darker blotch on an already darkening sky. Black cumulous clouds blotted out the brilliant stars, leaving that whole quadrant a study of deep grays and blacks. A tropical shower deluged the land.
Overhead and to the West, the night sky was filled with stars. The Southern Cross just peeked over the horizon to the Southwest. The setting moon outlined a river of silver off to the Northwest. Waves gently lapped against the side of the boats. Warm tropical winds carried earthy scents of jungle out to the SEALs.
The ten SEALs were alone in the glory of the tropical night. A shape suddenly appeared, blacker than the night, moving silently toward them. An arrow of phosphorescence trailed behind as it glided through the water, closing the distance to the SEALs’ tiny rubber boats. The men paddled to move their boats perceptibly further apart to increase the separation. The shape seemed to aim for the space between them, as if undecided as to which boat to encounter.
As it approached closer, the shape could be seen to be two small vertical tubes moving side-by-side, about a meter apart. Although small on the surface, like an iceberg, the shapes had the unmistakable aura of an ominous power just below the surface. Silently the tubes moved forward until they snagged the line connecting the two small boats. The boats swung around and met in a towing position behind the shapes.
Thirty-four feet below the surface, Hunter grinned, “Split the middle. Snag completed. Commencing to tow the SEALs to the beach. Nice driving everyone.” Hunter eased back from the number two periscope and rubbed his eyes. “Nav, how far to the drop off point?”
Operation Golden Dawn Page 19
