Operation Golden Dawn

by George Wallace

  23 Jun 2000, 1134LT (0334Z)

  With SAN FRANCISCO safely bobbing on the surface, the XO snatched the 21MC microphone from its holder and ordered Master Chief Hancock, "Search and rescue party lay topside. Be ready to recover the downed pilot."

  The search and rescue party raced up the ladder through the forward escape trunk.

  A fresh breeze had picked up out of the East. White caps were starting to form as the wind pushed the water to near a sea-state three. The protected Java Sea did not build the long deep rollers of the open Pacific, but an erratic chop made working on the round slippery hull interesting. A group of silvery flying fish broke the surface, skittered across the bow and disappeared back into the waves.

  The two rescue swimmers donned wet suits, fins, and masks and reported to Master Chief Hancock that they were ready to enter the water for the rescue. First aid supplies and a stretcher were passed topside to a pair of emergency medical technicians. Two riflemen with M-16s also rushed up the ladder to give some limited protection from sharks.

  Doc Pugh and two of the cooks set up the wardroom as an emergency operating theatre. The wardroom table became a make shift operating table, complete with high intensity operating theatre lights in the overhead. Bottles of oxygen were standing by, Doc’s instruments were arrayed neatly on the buffet.

  Doc was ready to handle anything but the most complicated emergency procedures. If necessary, communications could be set up with the doctors onboard either NIMITZ or ESSEX. They could talk him through the procedures that he could not accomplish on his own.

  The circling Tomcat directed SAN FRANCISCO toward the downed pilot. Finding a tiny bobbing head in the vast expanse of the open sea required vigilance and patience. Even with the F-14 above pointing the way, the man in the water was all too easy to miss as he rose and fell in the swells.

  Finally, Petty Officer Buell, looking through the periscope yelled, "I see him! About one thousand yards, dead ahead." A tiny yellow one-man inflatable raft came into view. The pilot was lying in the miniature boat, not moving. It was impossible to tell if he was unconscious, dead, or merely resting.

  When SAN FRANCISCO was about three hundred yards from the flyer, Fagan ordered, "Ahead one third." The churning wake behind SAN FRANCISCO eased to a narrow white ribbon. At one hundred yards, he ordered, "Back one third." At fifty yards, he ordered, "All stop." The submarine quietly slid to a halt a scant few feet from the small boat.

  Both swimmers leaped over the side into the water and pulled the life raft the final few feet alongside. The little inflatable raft was lashed to the side of SAN FRANCISCO. The party gently lifted the injured flier onboard. Doc Pugh checked his vital signs and examined him for any easily apparent injuries. The unconscious pilot had a nasty bleeding gash across his forehead and his right leg jutted at an odd angle, obviously broken.

  Dead in the water, SAN FRANCISCO wallowed in the seas. The action of the wind and waves pushed her around until the seas were from dead astern. Waves rolled up the stern as the pilot was strapped into the stretcher and carefully lowered into the boat.

  Doc Pugh followed the stretcher down the ladder just as a large wave rolled up the stern and poured down the hatch, thoroughly soaking him. He cursed loudly for the rest of the climb down. The topside party followed him down the hatch and the submarine once more slipped beneath the waves.

  The flier, whose flight suit bore the name “LCDR ‘Red Dog’ Jones, was placed on the wardroom table. Doc conducted a first-aid ABC examination. The patient’s airway was open. He was breathing, but respiration was rapid and shallow. Circulation was adequate, but his pulse was rapid and thready. Still in his soaked poopie suit, Doc inserted a saline IV and used a pneumatic cuff to immobilize the broken leg.

  As he viewed the pilot, lying on the makeshift operating table, Doc worried. He had done all that he was trained to do with this type of injury, but his years of experience told him that something was still wrong, very wrong. The pilot was not exhibiting the responses that Doc expected from the injuries that he could see. He had slipped in and out of consciousness several times as he was being treated. His respiration was becoming more irregular, short and shallow.

  Doc sat slumped in one of the chairs and thumbed through the thick medical text, frequently stopping to check LCDR Jones’ symptoms. Something didn’t add up. He just had to find it.

  27

  23 Jun 2000, 1245LT (0445Z)

  The two OSPREYs flew low over the horizon. They headed directly toward the island. After a quick pass around the remnants of the airfield, the two birds shifted to a hover fifty feet above the field. A squad of Marines, clad in cumbersome full NBC protective clothing, fast roped out the back of each. They rushed to set up a protective cordon around the landing zone. Both OSPREYs gently touched down at the end of the pockmarked runway.

  As the OSPREYs landed, the SEAL platoon and the hostages broke free from the tangled jungle at the far end of the runway and ran toward the waiting planes.

  When they were about a hundred feet away, Roland raised his hand, stopping the on-rushing group. He yelled out, "Hey Marines, glad you could make it. Now that the action is over. Password is Sierra Six."

  The senior Marine signaled them forward with a wave and yelled good naturedly, "So you SEALs need to be picked up again."

  “My Chief is hit bad,” Roland panted. “We need an IV and a doctor real quick!”

  “We have stuff onboard the bird,” the Marine answered, jerking his thumb toward the lead OSPREY. “There’ll be an IV in there.”

  Passing through the Marines’ protective cordon, the SEALs and hostages ran straight to the planes and climbed aboard. The Marines followed, keeping a careful watch on the tree line.

  The planes were seriously overloaded. Lifting off in the hot air with all the extra passengers was problematic. The SEALs and the Marines stripped the plane of anything that wasn’t absolutely essential. All the gear and most of the weapons were dumped onto the ground. The planes lumbered down the cratered runway and finally lifted off with just inches to spare.

  As the last OSPREY went feet wet and cleared Nusa Funata, the pilot radioed a report from Roland that all SEALs and hostages were safe and accounted for. Almost as a postscript, he added that all facilities on the island were completely destroyed.

  23 Jun 2000, 1430LT (0630Z)

  “XO, get into radio and get SUBPAC on the horn!” Hunter yelled frantically. “We’ve got to tell them that the mission was completely successful! Make it a Flash Priority message and Code Word it “Golden Dawn.” God, I hope we’re in time!”

  “Skipper, calm down. I’ll get it out right away,” Fagan answered.

  He had been in control, but hurried to the CO Stateroom when he heard the Skipper shout.

  “In time for what?”

  “XO, I can’t tell you. It is that Special Appendix that I couldn’t show you. Just get the damn message out as fast as you possibly can. As soon as you get it out, get COMSUBPAC on Secure Voice. I need to talk to the Admiral. Use every precedence you can think of to get through. This is really, really important!” Jon Hunter was so excited he was shaking.

  23 Jun 2000, 1515LT (0715Z)

  The return flight, although flown down on the deck and all-out, was uneventful. As the two grey birds passed over the ESSEX, the passengers fortunate enough to be seated by the small porthole like windows saw that the deck was cleared. There were neither helicopters nor people on the flight deck. All the external doors and hatches were shut, too. For a warm tropical morning, this was very unusual. Normally there would be a dozen or more helicopters parked topside, some being readied to fly, some parked there for rapid use if needed. There would be dozens of crewmembers in brightly colored jerseys moving about the flight deck, each performing some vital function in the operation of this sea-going heliport.

  Vulture’s row was empty. The bridge and the Flag Bridge were both closed up. If they could have seen inside the ESSEX, they would have been even more surprised
to find that Condition Zebra was set. All access to the outside was secured. The atmosphere inside the ship was being maintained at a twelve-ounce overpressure so that any air leakage was from inside the ship to outside. The only air entering the ship passed through several levels of filtration and was monitored continuously to make sure it remained pure.

  The OSPREYs swooped down and squatted for a landing on the empty flight deck. They taxied so they were parallel to the island and parked nose to tail. As their massive turbine powered propellers spun to a stop, sailors in full NBC gear raced out of a large set of double doors in the side of the island, dragging a large plastic tent-like structure from the door to the side hatch of the forward OSPREY. They taped the plastic decontamination chute to the plane, forming an air-tight seal. The chute made a plastic tunnel all the way from the plane to the island doors. As this was happening, another group of NBC-clad sailors, standing at a discreet distance, continuously hosed down the first set with a mist of clean seawater.

  Finally, the sailors stepped away from the plane. Only then was the pilot told by radio that he and his passengers could deplane. The aircrew and Marines, who had all stayed in their NBC clothing for the entire ordeal, left first. They entered the island and were directed through a series of chemical showers before they were allowed to remove their protective clothing. Even then they were isolated in a separate, sealed contagious disease ward in the ship’s hospital.

  When the last of the NBC-clad crew departed, the hostages and SEALs walked down the chute. Roland and Jankowski gently carried the stretcher bearing Boats.

  They were sent through a different path. Two NBC-clad corpsmen relieved Roland and Jankowski of the stretcher and carried Boats into an isolation ward operating room where surgeons were waiting to attend to his wounds.

  The rest walked into shower facilities. They disposed of all their clothing into plastic burn bags. They then showered, scrubbing vigorously with harsh antiseptic soap. As each emerged from the shower, they were given a hospital gown, several shots and directed to a bed in a second isolation ward.

  When the last person on the first OSPREY had entered the island, the chute was collapsed, sealed shut and placed in a barrel for disposal. Another decontamination chute was rigged to the second OSPREY. The whole procedure was again completed.

  When all the new arrivals were safely inside the ship, one of the deck crew entered each plane and disengaged the wheel brakes. The crews then pushed each plane over the side, into the water.

  High up on the island, out of sight from the flight deck, Admiral Schwarz and General Kendall observed the operation. As the OSPREYs splash into the three-mile deep Timor Sea, General Kendall commented, “There go two $25 million-dollar birds. How are we going to explain this back in Coronado?”

  Admiral Schultz shrugged and replied, “It was a deck handling accident. They weren’t properly secured and rolled off the deck in heavy seas. That’s the way it will be logged and that’s what the investigation that I am about to start will find.”

  23 Jun 2000, 1520LT (0720Z)

  “XO, we have a problem,” RMC Tyler said over the 21MC to Fagan, who was standing in control. “We can’t synch with the satellite. We’re troubleshooting, but I can’t find the problem.”

  “Did you get the message out?" Fagan queried.

  “No, sir. We’re down on all satellite channels. No SSIXS, No Satellite Voice, nothing,” Chief Tyler replied. “Looks like it is going out. Standing wave on the BRA-34 looks good. Could be the satellite is down. Could be the cesium clock is out of spec. I just don’t know.”

  “Do we have communications with anyone right now?" Bill Fagan continued his questioning.

  “Only voice with those F-14’s. The OSPREY’s are over the UHF horizon and everything else has been satellite. How important is this message, anyway?" Chief Tyler asked.

  “Chief, the Skipper says that it is as important as you can get. We need to get it to SUBPAC anyway that we can. Let me tell him the problem,” the XO answered.

  He had just turned to walk to the CO’s stateroom when he saw Hunter maneuver through the door into control.

  Hunter stepped to the periscope stand, saying, “I heard that. This is Murphy’s Law at its worst. We have to have that message to SUBPAC immediately. We have less than half an hour. Chief, have you tried switching masts, transmitters and cesium clocks?”

  Chief Tyler answered, “Yes, sir. I’ve tried every possible combination.” The tone of his voice said that he was hurt by the Skipper’s implication that he might not have tried the most basic troubleshooting.

  “Figured that you had, Chief,” Hunter answered in an attempt to smooth the Chief’s ruffled feathers. “Had to ask to make sure. Are you sure that the only circuit is with the F-14? Long haul HF won’t work?”

  “Skipper, I checked the propagation charts,” Chief Tyler answered, even more in a huff. “There is a point three percent probability of reaching the HF relay station on Guam. That is the highest. The F-14 is it,” He said with finality.

  “OK, Chief. Get that F-14 pilot on voice. He is about to get the biggest surprise of his life,” CDR Hunter said. “I hope that the NIMITZ comm center is up to snuff and has a circuit that works.”

  Hunter grabbed the red secure voice phone and started talking.

  Doc Pugh walked into the control room. His patient was not responding to anything and was rapidly deteriorating. If he didn’t get help soon, Doc was afraid that he would lose him before they had any hope of reaching a medical facility. The only help within several thousand miles was onboard either NIMITZ or ESSEX. If he could just talk with one of their doctors, maybe they had the answers.

  “Skipper, I need to talk to you,” Doc Pugh said as he stepped up to the periscope stand.

  “Doc, if you are up here to tell me to take it easy, I don’t have time right now,” CDR Hunter retorted with exasperation. “I’m a little busy.”

  Just then the F-14 pilot that he had been talking with on the secure voice circuit asked for yet another repeat of the message. The two Lieutenants flying in that bird were in way over their heads with this situation. The comms center onboard the NIMITZ wasn’t helping matters any either. Hunter was growing increasingly frustrated.

  “It’s not that, Skipper, but it’s really important,” Doc continued. “I need to talk with you.”

  “Doc, talk with the XO. I really don’t have time right now,” Hunter said with finality.

  Doc Pugh turned to the XO, who had been standing beside the Skipper listening in utter disbelief to what Hunter was telling the pilots. It was an absolutely unbelievable, horrible story. He tore his attention away from the radio interchange to listen to Doc Pugh. “OK, Doc. What is it?”

  Doc Pugh opened his medical text to a marked page and began to talk, “I have been trying to figure out what is wrong with my patient. He has not been responding to the treatments I have been giving him. His symptoms are pointing me here.”

  The paragraph that he pointed to started out with, “The meniges are the three membranes that encase the brain and spinal cord, the pia mater, arachnoid, and the dura mater.”

  “I think that we have a problem with either a subdural hematoma or a subarchnoid hemorrhage. You can see the list of symptoms here. I discounted the headaches and nausea. After all, he did punch out of a jet at 600 knots and swallowed a lot of seawater when he hit it. He complained that he was dizzy, but I discounted that, too. What I can’t write off to the expected effects of the crash are a couple items. First, he complains of tingling in his right arm. His motor responses show a partial paralysis in that arm. He also has some selective amnesia.

  “I can’t tell from the symptoms which problem we have. I don’t have the equipment or training to tell them apart. Now look at this,” Doc Pugh concluded, pointing at the final paragraph of the explanation for subarachnoid hemorrhage. It said:

  “About one-third of all patients die from the initial hemorrhage, and a further 15 to 20 percent die within the n
ext month. It is therefore necessary to locate the area of bleeding as quickly as possible. Neurosurgery may repair the damage”

  “I need to talk with those Doctors on NIMITZ and find out what to do” Doc said as the XO looked up from reading the troubling words.

  Bill Fagan turned to CDR Hunter, “Skipper, we need to use that pilot as soon as you are done.”

  22 Jun 2000, 2045LT (23 Jun, 0745Z)

  Admiral O’Flanagan threw down the flimsy sheet of paper and grabbed the red phone from his desk. He hurriedly dialed a well-remembered number as he glanced anxiously at the wall clock.

  The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs answered the secure phone, “Schwartz here.”

  “General, they did it! Everything. Call off the special mission. We only have a few minutes. I’ll give you details when I have them,” COMSUBPAC reported.

  General Schwartz yelled across his desk at the National Defense Command Center, deep in the bowels of the Pentagon, to the Flag Watch Officer, “Call them off. God, this is cutting it close. Their launch window opens in thirty seconds!”

  Admiral O’Flanagan, in Pearl Harbor, turned to his Communications Officer, “Get another satellite overhead down there. I don’t care if we lose coverage on the whole rest of the Pacific! I need comms with SAN FRANCISCO. Now! Damn it!”

  23 Jun 2000, 1450LT (0750Z)

  The B-2 came around to a launch course that pointed directly at Nusa Funata and came to a launch altitude of 10,000 feet. The mission commander began the pre-launch checklist. He took the unlock codes envelope out of the pre-sealed safe resting just outboard of his station. Both crewmen broke open the envelope and checked that the codes matched the ones on the message that they had received less than an hour ago. All that was left to do was to load the codes into the missiles, verify the targeting data and launch the first nuclear strike since World War II.