Operation Golden Dawn

by George Wallace

  The smooth greased cylinder of the periscope moved rapidly upward in front of him. As the optics section cleared the ring, he slapped down the two handles, spun the scope around to look down the bearing toward the frigate, placed his right eye to the eyepiece and began to rise with the scope.

  As he rose, Jon Hunter’s vision dimmed and tunneled in from the outside. Darkness surrounded him and an incredible feeling of dizziness and disorientation overcame his senses. The tunnel of light in his vision narrowed until all the light disappeared. With a low moan, he slid down the front of the scope to lay prostrate on the deck.

  Petty Officer Buell grabbed the 1MC microphone hanging on the bulkhead behind the periscope stand and shouted, “Corpsman, lay to control! The Captain is down!”

  A brief moment of pandemonium broke out in control as they all realized that Hunter lay on the deck unconscious.

  Fagan reached over to lower the periscope and said in a loud commanding voice, “Quiet everyone. The Skipper is out. Doc will take care of him. We have a target that we need to attack. Engineer, you take over as Fire Control Coordinator. I will do the approach. Carry on.”

  Doc Pugh rushed into control carrying his emergency equipment bag. Kneeling beside Hunter, he checked over the downed Captain. Although still unconscious, Hunter's vital signs were near normal. Enlisting the aid of two sailors, Doc carried Hunter out of control and laid him in his stateroom bunk.

  Hunter began to slowly regain consciousness, although he was still very groggy. “WWWhat happened?” he questioned as he came around.

  “I warned you,” Doc said. “You passed out in control. Too much coffee, not enough rest. It was bound to happen. Something’s lowering your blood pressure and it’s not doing it all the time. You are going to lay there for awhile.”

  “Nonsense, I have an attack,” Hunter said as he started to sit up and immediately fell back on the pillow. “Ohhh, dizzy,” he said.

  “Now, maybe you’ll do what I tell you. The XO will handle the ship. You rest for awhile,” Doc Pugh ordered.

  23 Jun 2000, 0940LT (0140Z)

  “Observation, number two scope, on the frigate,” Fagan announced, squatting by the scope base.

  The scope slid silently upward with Fagan dropping the handles and swinging it to the correct bearing.

  “Bearing mark,” he said as he pushed the small red button on the right handle that sent the bearing to the fire control system.

  “Range mark! Down scope.”

  The scope slid silently down. The whole evolution had taken just ten seconds. Now all the data that he had absorbed in that three-second mental picture had to be related to the assembled party so that they could use it in prosecuting the attack.

  “Point five divisions in high power,” Fagan announced. The frigate had taken up half the distance between two of the small horizontal marks on the scope optics.

  Knowing the height of the frigate from the waterline to the top of the mast, Petty Officer Buell whirled the little circular slide rule that hung around his neck to compute the range. “Range one-two thousand yards,” he said.

  “Range checks,” replied LTJG Baker, sitting in front of one of the fire control computers analyzing the incoming data to compute the fire control solution.

  “Angle on the bow, port four-three,” Fagan said. This indicated that the frigate's bow was pointed forty-three degrees to the left of the submarine or that the submarine was forty-three degrees to the right of dead ahead of the frigate.

  “Indicates port three-one,” said LTJG Baker. The solution in the fire control system said that the angle was narrower than the XO had estimated.

  “Set port four-three,” Fagan ordered decisively.

  Fagan was confident of his estimate and needed the fire control party to share his confidence. A submarine periscope approach, probably more than any other situation in combat, depended on the vision and perceptions of just one man, the Approach Officer. The rest of the party had to rely on him and they had to have complete confidence in his abilities. Indecisiveness was not an option for an Approach Officer.

  “He had a white bird on the rail,” Fagan continued, relating what he had seen.

  White birds were warshot surface-to-air missiles. They were loaded on the launcher rails only seconds before a launch. The rest of their life was spent protected in the environmentally controlled missile magazine deep in the bowels of the surface ship. The frigate was preparing to shoot at the incoming F-14s. SAN FRANCISCO needed to press the attack. The F-14s might be able to out maneuver the missiles, but the inbound OSPREYs would be sitting ducks.

  The periscope observation sequence was repeated to check the solution just prior to shooting. Even though the ADCAP torpedo would sweep out a large section of the ocean in searching for its target, it would take almost seven minutes for the torpedo to reach the target. In that time, the frigate would cover over three miles. Correctly calculating the geometry of the attack was vital to achieve a hit. A minor adjustment to the range and the solution was ready.

  It was time to shoot. One final check to make sure that everything was ready.

  “Firing point procedures!” Fagan ordered.

  “Solution ready,” Sam Stuart replied. The solution about to be sent to the torpedo was the best that they had.

  “Ship ready,” Warran Jacobs reported. The ship was ready to launch the weapon.

  “Weapon ready,” Jeff Miller reported. The weapons system and the ADCAP torpedo were ready to launch.

  “Shoot on generated bearing!” Fagan ordered.

  “Set,” LTJG Baker reported. He punched a button to send the best solution and bearing to the target to the torpedo.

  “Standby,” Weps reported as he took the large brass firing switch to the STANDBY position. Interlocks on the torpedo tube aligned to start the firing sequence.

  “Shoot,” the Weps continued, throwing the firing switch to the FIRE position. The resounding double thump of the tube firing was heard and felt throughout the ship. The ADCAP torpedo was on its way, racing toward the surface ship.

  It was time to make sure that nothing had changed and the solution was still tracking.

  “Observation, number two scope on the frigate,” the XO ordered.

  As the scope broke the surface he saw a brilliant streak of white light rise from the foredeck of the frigate. He watched as the missile arced high into the sky. “Shit, the son of a bitch has a bird in the air! He’s shooting at the F-14s,” Fagan announced.

  The missile unerringly tracked until it intercepted one of the Tomcats. There was a dirty puff of smoke as the flaming remains of the Tomcat headed for the water below. Fagan could see only one parachute deploy from the doomed two seat aircraft. The downed airman would land several miles from the sub.

  Fagan lowered the periscope. “Plot this point,” he directed. "Bearing zero-two-seven, range two-zero thousand yards. Label it as estimated position of downed pilot. What is the status of the torpedo?”

  “Estimate one minute to acquisition, solution still tracking,” LTJG Baker reported.

  The next minute was an excruciatingly long wait. They couldn’t run to the downed airman’s aid until the attack was finished. Unless the frigate was put out of the fight, the rest of the plan and the people on Nusa Funata were doomed.

  Finally, Jeff Miller yelled out, “Weapon acquisition!” The ADCAP had detected the frigate and was in final attack.

  “Conn, sonar. Our weapon is in high speed. It is in attack.”

  “Observation, number two scope on the frigate,” Fagan announced.

  The scope slid smoothly up as the XO looked down the bearing toward the frigate. “Bearing mark, range mark, down scope.”

  Everything was just as he expected it. The frigate didn’t yet know that it was under attack and now it was too late for it to evade. He lowered the scope.

  The ADCAP made its final run at the frigate. It came up in depth to twenty feet below the surface and passed directly under the keel of the wa
rship. A small upward looking hydrophone detected an object above the torpedo as an interferometer detected a large metal object within its sensitivity field. The two pieces of information activated the firing signal, which detonated the 1,000 pounds of PBNX explosive in the warhead. The explosion lifted the center of the hull and formed a large bubble of hot gases under it. As the bubble cooled and collapsed, it would not support the weight of the warship. The center portion of the ship fell into the bubble while the two ends were still supported by the water. This broke the hull in half just behind the bridge.

  A loud explosion reverberated through the hull of the submarine.

  “Conn, sonar, loud explosion on the bearing to the frigate,” the report from sonar was redundant.

  “Raising number two scope,” Fagan said. Peering through the periscope, he could see the two ends of the frigate rise out of the water as the center section sank below the surface. Survivors were leaping clear of the rapidly sinking warship.

  “Down scope. Best bearing to the pilot?” the XO inquired.

  “Best bearing zero-three-eight, range one-nine-five-hundred yards,” LCDR Jacobs replied.

  “Come right, steer course zero-three-eight. Make your depth 400 feet. Ahead flank,” the XO ordered in rapid succession. “Nav, you have the conn. Head to the point for the pilot and come to periscope depth. Get the search and rescue detail ready. I want to get that pilot aboard as quickly as we can. I’ll be in the Captain’s stateroom.”

  23 Jun 2000, 1025LT (0225Z)

  As Bill Fagan stepped out of control, he heard Warran Jacobs making preparations to rescue the downed Tomcat flier.

  Fagan knocked at the stateroom door and parted the curtains to enter. “Skipper, how are you feeling?”

  He took a seat in one of the folding chairs, carefully bypassing the over-stuffed office chair that was the Captain’s domain. Hunter lay on the fold-down bunk.

  Hunter growled, “Still a little dizzy. Damn fine time to get weak at the knees.” He raised his head from the pillow. “Sounds like you did a great job though. Well done, Bill. I take it that you are heading for that pilot?”

  “That’s what I intended, but I wanted to check with you before I surfaced in a war zone,” Fagan replied as Doc Pugh entered the stateroom.

  “Get over there and get ready,” Hunter replied. “I’ll be out there in a few minutes.”

  “You aren’t going anywhere,” Doc protested. “You are staying right here. This is one case where the Doctor's orders supersede. The XO can handle this. The next time you pass out, you might not be so lucky.”

  Slumping back down in his bunk, Hunter grudgingly acquiesced, “Doc, for once I have to agree with you. This dizziness is just not clearing yet. XO, you run this. I’ll advise from here. What’s your plan?”

  Fagan explained, “Pretty simple, really. Thought we would run over there. Take a look around and blow to the surface. Pull the guy aboard and then dive." Fagan started on a new tack. "I’m concerned with what to do about the survivors from the frigate. They’re too far from land to swim and the longer they stay in the water, the more that will not make it."

  Hunter responded, “Locating the pilot will be the hard job. You need to get in the area as quickly as possible. He should have a sonar SAR transponder, so search on that frequency with sonar." Hunter hesitated for a moment. "I don't recall the exact frequency, somewhere around 15 kHz, I think. Ask Chief Holmstad, he'll know."

  Gazing up at the overhead, Hunter continued to discuss the anticipated rescue. He was thinking through the process as he talked. "We don't know the condition of the pilot. If he's conscious and he knows we are in the area, he may be making noise in the water, too. The easiest way, though, is to call him on his SAR radio.

  "Tell Alpha Alpha on NIMITZ what you are doing. They can give you the SAR frequency and ID info on the pilot. They can also tell you if the other F-14s have contact with him. They’ll be buzzing around him like a bunch of mad hornets,” Hunter said. “Tell them that we intend to pick up as many of the survivors as we can once we have the pilot onboard. You’ll need air cover the whole time. Tell them to set it up.”

  23 Jun 2000, 1035LT (0235Z)

  Roland mustered his platoon at the prison cave’s mouth. The battle-hardened SEALs were doing their best to help the missionaries prepare for a dash to the airfield. There wasn’t much time and a lot of ground to cover. And there was no telling if they would have to fight their way out.

  Boats was in a bad way. He was losing a lot of blood and slipping in and out of consciousness. The SEALs had done all they knew how to help him. The only way to save him was to get him to the ESSEX as fast as possible.

  A good looking young red-head emerged from the cave and rushed over to where Boats lay. She threw open a small first-aid kit and then rolled the SEAL over on his stomach.

  “Help me out here,” she said to Roland. “I’m a nurse and if we don’t do something quick, he’ll die.”

  “What do you need?” Roland grunted. He knelt down beside her.

  “Water, I need clean water,” she answered, pointing at the gaping exit wound. “Wash that out so I can see.”

  Nan plunged her hand into the wound and felt around. Boats groaned in pain.

  “There. Got it,” she called out. The bleeding stopped almost completely. “Severed artery. I’m holding it shut. He’s going into grade four shock. We need to keep pressure on this and get lots of fluid into him. He needs an IV right now and surgery real quick.”

  Tom Clark grabbed a couple of saplings and fashioned a make-shift stretcher. “Lieutenant, we’ll carry your man. Nan will look after him.”

  Roland nodded. “We’d better get going. I sure hope those OSPREY’s have a medivac kit onboard.”

  As the group headed down the trail, Tom murmured to Nan, “I didn’t know you were a nurse.”

  Nan smiled and answered, “Not yet. But I will be in a couple of years.”

  23 Jun 2000, 1043LT (0243Z)

  The curtain parted, Buell stuck his head into the stateroom. "Excuse me, Skipper, XO. We're at the estimated position for the pilot. XO, the Nav requests that you come to control."

  Fagan excused himself and stepped back out into control.

  “XO, no sign of him yet,” Warren Jacobs reported as Fagan stepped up to the periscope stand. “I can see a couple of F-14s orbiting to the East. I think that we need to establish contact with them.” He never took his eye from the periscope eyepiece.

  “OK, Nav. Does radio have the frequencies to talk to them? Tell them to monitor the SAR freqs, too. If they have him, we can vector in on that,” the XO replied.

  “The pilot freqs are already set in to the red phone. Their call sign is Victor Six Foxtrot. We are Sierra Lima Four,” the Nav replied.

  “Victor Six Foxtrot this is Sierra Lima Four, we are standing by to pick up your team mate. Do you hold him?” Fagan spoke into the secure phone.

  “Sierra Lima Four, this is Victor Six Foxtrot authenticate golf whiskey seven,” the orbiting Tomcat pilot replied.

  He couldn’t see any other US ships or planes and probably did not know that there was a US submarine in the area. He was clearly concerned someone might be on the circuit that did not belong there. The authenticator procedure guarded against this by requiring the initiator to give a code that changed daily. The receiver had to correctly reply to it. If either side gave an incorrect code, the other would immediately break contact.

  Bill Fagan checked the codebook with the Navigator and answered “Authenticate yankee three.”

  “Sierra Lima Four, this is Victor Six Foxtrot; we do not hold you visually. Where are you?” the F-14 pilot inquired.

  Fagan answered, “Victor Six Foxtrot, we are a US submarine about four miles Southwest of your orbit. We’re the guys who sank that frigate that was shooting at you. We are ready to pick up your downed comrade. Do you hold him?”

  “Sierra Lima Four, roger. We have him,” the pilot responded, clearly relieved.

&nb
sp; The close-knit naval air community went to great lengths to take care of their own. When one of their number was downed, they would stay on station and do everything in their power to protect him and to effect a rescue.

  “He is injured and has been passing in and out of consciousness. I think that he is out right now. We are orbiting about three miles to the East of his location. Suggest that you surface and I will vector you to him. If I can get him to respond, I'll have him pop a flare. We have had no contact with his NFO. Didn’t see a second chute either. Think he went down with the bird.”

  “Roger, we will be surfacing momentarily. Request you provide SUCAP while we are surfaced. Sierra Lima Four standing by,” Bill Fagan concluded.

  SUCAP was the acronym for Surface Combat Air Patrol. Fagan was asking the F-14’s to be his eyes for encroaching surface ships while SAN FRANCISCO was busy picking up the downed flier.

  Turning to LCDR Jacobs, Fagan directed, “Nav, get a quick sitrep off to SUBPAC and Alpha Alpha. Tell them about the frigate firing on the F-14s and us taking it out. Attempting rescue of the pilot. Also tell them we intend to attempt rescue of frigate survivors. We’ll need a SUCAP until we can off-load them somewhere. Show it to the Skipper before you send it.”

  “OK, I’ll get it out right away. The ship is ready to surface,” the Navigator replied.

  The XO turned to the diving officer and ordered, “Diving Officer, surface the ship.”

  “Surface the ship, aye,” the diving officer responded. “Chief of the Watch, on the 1MC, “Surface, surface, surface.” Conduct a normal blow to the surface.”

  The Chief of the Watch stood and announced on the 1MC, “Surface, surface, surface.” He then reached for two large toggle switches on the upper section of the forward ballast control panel. When he flipped them up, a roar of high-pressure air filled the boat. The sub’s depth stayed steady for a few seconds and then slid smoothly to the surface.

  “Three four feet and holding. The ship is surfaced,” the diving officer reported.