Operation Golden Dawn

by George Wallace

  He continued, referring to a large-scale map of the base. "The area is surrounded and cordoned off, here, here and here," pointing to the roadblocks. "I don’t think a centipede could sneak through. No direct contact from the terrorists yet.”

  “Alright, we let PACOM worry about this. What about SAN FRANCISCO?” The admiral continued.

  His operations officer turned from his desk and answered, “Last communication was about four hours ago. They were working on setting up the relay of targeting information to the NIMITZ for the Tomahawk strike. Everything appears to be working OK so far.”

  Admiral O’Flanagan turned to his Chief of Staff and, in a low voice, asked, “Chief of Staff, what do we do about telling Jon Hunter what is happening here? Clearly we don’t divert him anywhere.”

  Captain Hughes was a senior submariner who hoped to occupy the admiral’s seat in a couple of years. He thought quietly for a few moments. He answered in a carefully measured tone, “Admiral, this is a tough one. Jon has every right to know what is happening with his family. It's the humane thing to tell him. Normally we would HUMEVAC him back here as fast as possible. But this isn’t a normal time. It is absolutely vital that this strike be carried off. He is the only one in position to do it in time. We can’t afford to call him off station for a HUMEVAC. If we tell him and then don’t HUMEVAC him, the worry may affect his judgment."

  He took off his glasses and began to wipe them with a tissue. This was a ploy that he long ago developed to buy time while he formulated his thoughts. He began slowly. “Remember back in the Cold War days when we both were commanding boats. If something bad happened at home, we weren’t told until we came home. Cold, calculating and cruel. But it kept us at our job. That’s what we have to do here. Don’t tell him until everything is resolved and he is on his way home from the mission. It’s the only sensible thing to do."

  Hughes let his glasses fall to his chest, hanging from a long black cord draped around his neck. The finality of this small act was a more effective emphasis than anything else.

  "He can’t do anything about this except worry over it. We have to have him working at his peak. It's far too important.”

  Admiral O’Flanagan acquiesced, “You’re right, Chief of Staff. That is what we will do. Make sure that no message goes to SAN FRANCISCO about this. Get PACOM involved so that Jon doesn’t find out through some inadvertent slip somewhere.”

  Captain Hughes shook his head just a bit. “It’s going to leave Hunter mad as hell. When he gets back and finds out about his family, no matter how it turns out, I wouldn’t want to be in the blast radius.”

  O’Flanagan answered, “I guess that’s my job.”

  21 Jun 2000, 0520LT (1620Z)

  The hostage response plan was swinging into high gear. A temporary headquarters was set up in the harbor control tower, atop a water tank high above the Pearl Harbor Shipyard. This afforded the local commander a panoramic view of the house and all approaches, without being seen by the terrorists.

  Colonel Johnson was in command of the local team. His boat from Ford Island rushed across the placid harbor water, landing at the shipyard docks. A staff car hurtled down the narrow shipyard streets to deliver him to the water tower. He charged into the command center just as the MH-53’s from Kaneohe landed at nearby Hickam Air Force Base. Two huge C-17's roared down Hickam's runways to cover the noise of the incoming MH-53's.

  Johnson busied himself setting everything in place for the long slow process that would, hopefully, result in the release of the hostages. He could not afford to think of the hostages as friends and neighbors. Megan and Maggie had slept over with Sally many times. He and his wife had been frequent guests at the house he was now observing. That all had to be set aside; forgotten for now. It would only cloud his judgment.

  Looking down at the house, he could see that all the windows were still dark. This was unusual. On a normal morning, the lights would be coming on as the household arose to greet the coming day. They should be listening to the sounds of a happy family making plans for the day’s activities from the microphones that his people had planted. There were no lights and no sounds.

  “Colonel, we have the infrared scan results" one his assistants reported. “We are seeing seven hotspots that equate to seven people. Looks like four terrorists and the three hostages.” Looking toward a computer monitor, he continued, pointing out blobs of bright yellow-white against a background of darker reds and blues. “Look here. This is the master bedroom. Looks like three people close together. I’m guessing they're sitting on a bed. Someone's standing over here by the back window and someone else by this side window. When we move to the front bedroom, we see another person standing by a front window. One last person downstairs. Over here in the enclosed lanai.”

  “That gives us some idea of what we're up against,” Colonel Johnson answered. “I make out the three women are sitting on the bed, two guards at the windows in that room, a guard covering the front of the house from upstairs and one guard downstairs. Neat and efficient, professional. Looks like the women are all still alive. You can see movement. Still no contact?”

  “No, sir. Not a word out of there, yet,” another member of the team answered. He was wearing earphones and sitting in front of a bank of switches and dials, monitoring the telephone circuits into the house and the dying cell phone. Other people were setting up high power tripod mounted binoculars and sensitive directional listening devices. The makeshift command post was taking on the look of a high tech bunker.

  “I think it’s their move. For now we sit and wait,” the Colonel said, more to himself that to anyone in the room.

  21 Jun 2000, 0800LT (1900Z)

  “It’s time,” Ashad told Peg, pulling a cell phone from his pocket. He dialed a number that was supposed to be known only to a very few top submariners.

  The private red phone in Admiral O’Flanagan’s office began to buzz loudly. Mike O’Flanagan reached for the receiver. He was not expecting a call on this line. It was almost never good news when it rang. The last time had been over a year ago. That time had been the report of a submarine in trouble off San Diego.

  Peg Hunter was on the other end. She sounded tense, but in rigid control. “Admiral, they are holding us hostage. They’re armed and tell me that they will kill us if you don’t do as they say.”

  Another voice, male and heavily accented, replaced Peg’s. “You will order your submarine SAN FRANCISCO to surface and head immediately for the nearest Indonesian port. It will contact Indonesian Naval Control as soon as it surfaces. You have twelve hours. Then we will kill a hostage every six hours until we hear that it is in port.”

  Admiral O’Flanagan answered, “But SAN FRANCISCO is in the Aleutians, off Alaska. She is conducting exercises up there. We can’t even contact her until her next communications cycle in ten hours. We can’t…”

  “Don’t play us for fools, Admiral,” the terrorist interrupted. “We know that Hunter and SAN FRANCISCO are in Indonesia. We know their mission. You have twelve hours!” The phone was slammed down.

  Admiral O’Flanagan turned to his Chief of Staff and Commodore Calucci. “You heard what he said. I doubted very seriously that they went to all this trouble to carry out a bluff.

  “I see that we have two problems to solve. One is how to get Peg and the children out of there. PACOM will handle that problem. Commodore, you coordinate with them and give them all the assistance that they need. You have my authority to use every asset in SUBPAC.”

  Calucci answered, "Yes sir." This was a plum. If all worked well, he could be a hero.

  Admiral O'Flanagan continued, “The other problem is to find out where the security leak is. They have information on a mission that has the highest possible classification. Not a dozen people in the country know about it. Chief of Staff, you take charge of finding the leak. Don’t leave a single stone unturned. I want to find the bastard who leaked this and then fry him. Do you two understand me?”

  The two nod
ded as they rose to leave. Commodore Calucci felt the cold, clammy sweat of fear trickle down his back.

  23

  22 Jun 2000, 0430LT (21 Jun, 2130Z)

  The targeting information from the SEAL squad on the island arrived as a data stream on SAN FRANCISCO. The pieces were correlated and passed to the Tomahawk Afloat Targeting Group onboard the NIMITZ, still racing across the Timor Sea. The targeting group took the information and revised existing mission profiles to refine the target locations on Nusa Funata. After four hours of number crunching, a Mission Data Update (MDU) message flew back to SAN FRANCISCO. The revised data and imagery gave each missile the information that it needed to precisely locate its assigned target.

  Two of the three elements needed to conduct the strike were in place. The last step was to insert Roland and the rest of his squad with the weapons and explosives needed to attack the factory cave.

  21 Oct 2000, 1120LT (2220Z)

  She wasn’t answering her phone. He had tried a dozen times. He had to know for sure. He had to see her again. The horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach was getting worse. It was gnawing at his ability to think.

  Commodore Calucci slammed the phone down in disgust. He stalked out of his office, growling at his yeoman that he was going to lunch.

  Her apartment was only a ten-minute drive in his Porsche 944. The spinning tires peppered the guardhouse with gravel as he accelerated out the Supply Depot Gate onto Nimitz Avenue. He parked in the “Residents Only” underground garage and ran to the elevator. Sweat blurred his vision as he punched the button for her floor.

  Somehow he knew, as he slipped his key into the lock, that she was gone. But he didn’t expect to see the Chief of Staff sitting on the couch under the broad window looking out on the bay, polishing his glasses. The same couch that he had shared with her so many times.

  “Thought it might be you,” the Chief of Staff said as he stood. “She’s gone.”

  A pair of plain-clothes Naval Investigative Service agents stepped out of the bedroom, handcuffed Commodore Calucci, and shoved him roughly out the door.

  22 Jun 2000, 0645LT (21 Jun, 2345Z)

  Dawn was just breaking over the mountain ridge behind them when Stuart spotted a squad of soldiers ambling down the path from the compound. The men were smoking and talking as they leisurely strolled along the mountain path. Their automatic weapons were slung across their backs, out of reach for quick use. The dirty, unkempt appearance of their motley uniforms completed the picture of a ragtag outfit.

  As they approached the end of the path, another equally ragtag squad emerged from the brush. The two squads met at the end of the path and carried out an exchange that appeared to be a changing of the guard. The first squad then entered the brush while the second ambled up the path toward the compound.

  The team had found something that warranted the need for a continuous guard. Perhaps they had found the hostages. The only way to know was to go down and take a look.

  Silently Wood and Tagamond slipped off into the waning darkness while Stuart reported this new development back to SAN FRANCISCO.

  Moving scant inches at a time, the two slithered through the undergrowth. They were approaching from two different directions to better observe and to provide each other cover fire. By noon they had almost reached positions to observe what was beyond the path.

  Unexpectedly, another squad came over the ridge from the direction of the compound. Stuart and Heigle watched in dread from their observation point over 500 yards away. The squad approached the end of the path and the SEALs hiding places. It must be time for another changing of the guard. Would the two scouts be detected? Each of the two watching SEALs slipped a massive 50-caliber shell into the breach of their sniper rifle and slid the bolt home. Placing the cross hairs of the 10X Redfield scope on the head of the lead and trailing man, they waited for any sign of alertment.

  The off-going squad emerged from the underbrush and headed back toward the compound as the on-coming squad entered the underbrush. Amazingly, the whole exchange had occurred within inches of the two scout’s hiding places, but they were never noticed. The squads of terrorists would never know how close they had come to death that hot fetid morning.

  The two SEAL scouts slid through the underbrush a few yards, only to find a lava cave hidden behind it. Just inside the mouth of the cave, the soldiers had built a comfortable campsite. Beyond this, further into the cavern, was a group dressed in civilian clothes, separated by steel bars set into the cave floor and ceiling. Observing the activities inside the cave, the SEALs counted all thirty of the hostages and ten guards. A line of fire for the snipers to control inside the cave was all but impossible without endangering the hostages. The only way to handle this was up close and personal.

  Just as silently as they had approached, the two disappeared and made their way back to their teammates. Meeting up with their two companions, they moved higher up the hill and made a temporary bivouac.

  Stuart radioed back that the hostages had been located. The four settled in to wait and watch.

  21 Jun 2000, 2000LT (22 Jun, 0700Z)

  Ashad led the young girl down the stairs and out onto the small front porch. There he stood, framed in the doorway with her, still in her nightclothes, standing in front.

  With theatrically slow movements, Ashad raised the Tec-9 to the side of her head. Maggie stood absolutely still, frozen by the terror of the moment.

  The silenced round found its mark with a barely audible “phfutt”. The little girl fell forward as the blood splattered her nightdress.

  Ashad hurtled backward into the living room as the silenced .308 caliber match grade bullet smashed through his nasal cavity into the frontal lobe of his brain. Death was nearly instantaneous. A sudden, blinding flash and then nothingness.

  It happened so quickly and so unexpectedly that his mind never sent the order to his finger to squeeze the trigger. His blood splattered widely as the hydrostatic pressure from the bullet impact caused his head to explode. The Tec-9 clattered uselessly to the ground, landing beside the prone girl.

  Maggie rolled over and started to stand. Her hand accidentally fell on the Tec-9. Picking it up was an automatic reaction. The terror and the rage of the day welled up inside her and took control.

  The downstairs guard ran to the stairs and started to climb.

  He's going to kill Mom and Megan! Her mind screamed.

  She raised the weapon and, from the classic kneeling position, emptied a full clip into the fleeing terrorist. He fell down the stairs as the slugs stitched across his back. She dropped the gun and ran, crying, into the waiting arms of the Marine sniper who had shot Ashad.

  In the master bedroom, the remaining two terrorists were confused. The gunfire sounded as if it came from the leader’s weapon. They expected that. But they did not expect to hear a long burst of automatic fire. Ashad would have used three rounds. More was a waste. Possibly his gun malfunctioned. That was not uncommon with these shoddy American weapons.

  Still, all did not seem right. Ashad had not come back upstairs. There were no sounds from downstairs, either. They were on edge; every nerve tuned to the slightest hint of danger. Their instructions had been simple. Guard the hostages and prevent their rescue. They understood that the success of their mission depended on keeping the hostages alive until Ashad said otherwise.

  21 Jun 2000, 2005LT (22 Jun, 0705Z)

  Colonel Johnson was frantic. The shooting had been totally unexpected. Preliminary reports were that the youngest daughter was safe, although badly shaken. At least two of the terrorists were down.

  “Get the gas in there. NOW! NOW! NOW!” he roared over the command circuit.

  His team had a small store of a special, newly developed and very secret, crowd control agent that was designed especially for these kinds of situations. A colorless and odorless gas, it rendered anyone exposed to it unconscious in seconds. Better still, it was absorbed through the skin almost as quickly as by inhaling, so gas ma
sks were only of limited usefulness. The effects wore off a few minutes after the exposure ended, but it should give Col. Johnson’s team a few critical minutes to act.

  They had not used it until this time since it could have some very nasty side effects, particularly if the exposed victim had allergies or was asthmatic. Maggie Hunter had both problems, but she was no longer a hostage. If Peg or Megan suffered an allergic reaction, at this juncture, that was better than the alternative.

  Two small, black canisters rolled in through the open front door. The gas spewing from the open valves wafted silently up the stairs. Two more canisters were lowered from the roof so that they were hanging from strings by the inlet of the window air conditioning unit that was laboring to keep the upstairs cool in evening’s heat.

  Within seconds, all four occupants of the house were unconscious. They lay slumped over where they had sat. A dozen heavily armed figures outfitted in whole-body NBC suits raced up the stairs. Two bodies were unceremoniously hauled off to an interrogation facility. The two women were treated much more courteously. They were tenderly placed on stretchers and lowered to a waiting ambulance for the quick ride to Tripler Military Hospital. This crisis was over.

  24

  22 Jun 2000, 1830LT (1130Z)

  The sun was still well above the Western horizon when the lock-out started. The risk of discovery was necessary to allow the squad as much of the night as possible to get ashore. There was simply too much that had to be accomplished under the veil of darkness.