Operation Golden Dawn

by George Wallace

  The pilot brought the ungainly black bird around to fly in the launch parameter envelope as the mission commander finished the pre-launch sequence. The bomb bay doors rumpled open and the rotary launch magazine lowered enough to expose one AGM-86B nuclear cruise missile to the slipstream.

  The command radio crackled alive as the mission commander lifted the red launch cover. “Gold Eagle, this is Knee Cap. Mission Abort, Repeat Mission Abort! Authenticator Lima Zulu Six Tango Gulf. You are directed Romeo Tango Bravo. Report status. Over.”

  National Command Authority had just canceled their mission. The pilot swung the bomber around and climbed as the bomb bay doors rumpled shut. They were headed home.

  23 Jun 2000, 1640LT (0840Z)

  LCDR Jones lay unconscious on the wardroom operating table. His leg was splinted and the gash on his forehead now sported a neat row of sutures under the gauze bandage. But he had slipped in and out of consciousness repeatedly since they had pulled him from the water.

  “Doc, we have Dr. Morgan from the ESSEX on satellite voice,” Chief Tyler said over the MJ phone. “We've patched it through on the 21MC box to the wardroom for you.”

  Chief Pugh, this is Dr. Morgan on the ESSEX,” the box on the bulkhead squawked. “I have reviewed the information that you relayed to us. Has there been any change in the patient?”

  “He is currently unconscious,” Doc Pugh answered. “Blood pressure has been one-six-zero over nine-five. There has been recurring emesis. There is evidence of anisocoria. The right pupil is dilated considerably larger than the left. When the patient was conscious, he complained of a severe headache. The onset of cephalalgia, together with the other symptoms point to a subarachnoid hemorrhage. The other possibility is a subdural hematoma. Both are way beyond my capability to treat.”

  Dr Morgan responded, “Chief Pugh, it sounds like your diagnosis is on the spot. You know your stuff. Is there any sign of opisthotones?”

  Doc Pugh answered, “No sir, the neck is stiff and he resists movement but no sign of opisthotones.”

  After a brief pause, the 21MC again squawked again as Dr. Morgan answered, “Well, I think that we have a Grade IV subarachnoid hemorrhage. He needs to be moved to a neurological unit as fast as possible. The nearest one appears to be in Jakarta. Can you get him there?”

  “I’ll have to talk with the Skipper,” Doc Pugh replied. “We’re a long way from Jakarta and I’m not sure how friendly they will be. What do I do in the meantime?”

  “We’ve got to relieve the intracranial pressure, relieve the swelling. You have mannitol and dexamethasone in your AMAL.” Dr. Morgan’s voice crackled over the circuit. “Administer an injection of mannitol and continuous dexamethasone through the IV. That will reduce the swelling and buy us a few hours. Place the patient in a cervical collar and catheterize him. Measure the urine output and give me the numbers every hour.”

  Dr. Morgan prescribed a regime of analgesics, nimodipine and anti-hypertension medications to combat the symptoms and to make Jones as comfortable as possible. That was all that they could do for the injured flier until they could get him to a proper hospital.

  22 Jun 2000, 2220LT (23 Jun, 0920Z)

  “Have they gone nuts on SAN FRANCISCO!” Admiral O’Flanagan ranted. “What’s this crap about attempting to rescue the survivors from that frigate? There are probably two to three hundred of them. SAN FRANCISCO doesn’t have any place to put them. They’ll be stuck on the surface, sitting ducks. And, worse, they will blow cover for any deniability in this. Get me General Schwartz on the red phone, again!”

  After a brief pause to establish the communications link, COMSUBPAC was speaking with the Chairman. He first briefed the General about the activities of the night around Nusa Funata. He then launched into an explanation of the intentions on SAN FRANCISCO.

  General Schwartz warily questioned, “What are the alternatives here? As I see it, we can’t leave them in the water. The nearest land is Nusa Funata. If any make it that far, they’ll die of the smallpox with the remaining terrorists. There are no other ships in the area. If we leave them, we have a couple of problems. Just for a start, it violates international law."

  Schwartz paced the length of his desk, turned and paced back. The red cord for the handset trailed behind him. "SAN FRANCISCO can do the rescue with little risk as long as we can keep air cover over her. More importantly, when word gets out that we sank that frigate and then left the survivors to die, we have a huge black eye. On the other hand, if SAN FRANCISCO pulls it off, we lose all deniability.”

  “My sense is to go for it. Keep as many topside as they can. Don’t let any of them have any hard information that SAN FRANCISCO is a US sub. Anything they can hand over to CNN.” General Schwartz concluded.

  23 Jun 2000, 1710LT (0930Z)

  “Come around to two-one-seven and go to Ahead Full. I want you to get over to the area where the frigate sank and start a box search for survivors,” Jon Hunter directed, his voice weak and scratchy.

  He had returned to the conn and was slumped down in a fold-down jump seat behind the periscope stand. The flushed skin and sunken eyes spoke volumes.

  “COB, make sure that there is nothing on the mess decks or anywhere near there that says “SAN FRANCISCO”. No ball caps or insignia on any uniforms. That includes dolphins. Station guards at the forward and aft end of the mess decks. I don’t want any of our guests wandering around.”

  “Aye, sir. It’s a good thing the weather is reasonably calm. As long as we keep the speed down, a lot of them can stay topside,” the Chief of the Boat replied.

  “That’s my intention,” Hunter said. “Until we fill the space topside, I only want the injured below decks.”

  “Skipper, the EMT team will set up a triage in the mess decks, but I’ll still need to use the wardroom as an operating room and I will probably need to use the twelve-man berthing as a hospital ward for the seriously injured,” Doc Pugh stated. “The EMT team will have to handle the initial diagnosis and treatment. I still have LCDR Jones to worry about and I expect that there will be some seriously injured people in the water.”

  “OK, set it up with the Chop and the COB. Keep guards on the spaces that you use,” Hunter replied. “And, COB, I want at least two armed men topside. I’ll have an additional one up on the sail. I want everyone searched and anything that could be a weapon seized. That includes any injured men. I don’t expect any trouble, but better safe than sorry.”

  “Yes, sir,” the two chimed as they departed control to get ready for their guests.

  23 Jun 2000, 1740LT (0940Z)

  The black sub raced all out across the crystal blue sea, leaving a wide, frothy white wake behind it. The sooner they arrived there, the better for the survivors' chances.

  Jonathan Hunter and Jeff Miller, both with 9 mm Berettas strapped to their hips, stood together on the bridge. Seaman Lipinski, carrying an M-16, joined them.

  Overhead, a pair of S-3B Vikings from the NIMITZ made lazy circles in the cloudless pale blue sky. Higher still, a pair of F-14s orbited like sea eagles looking for prey.

  Below decks, the sub was ready to receive their unexpected guests. The question still remained unanswered of what to do with them after they were plucked from the water.

  "Captain, JA," the 7MC blared, disturbing the stillness on the bridge.

  Hunter picked up the handset and said, "Captain."

  "Captain, this is Durstin Turnstill. I know you don't think much of me, and with good reason. What you are doing for these people is great. I want to help. I speak Bahasa, the local dialect. Let me be your interpreter."

  Hunter thought for a minute. The Australian cost them valuable time and had been of no use so far. Maybe he would be useful after all. But, could he be trusted?

  Finally Hunter replied, "OK Mr. Turnstill. Tell the Chief of the Watch to get you a harness and deck traveler. Report to the COB topside. And thank you."

  As they approached the site, the sub slowed. Miller ordered, "Lower the o
utboard." He would use it to maneuver in close to survivors and to protect them from being hit by the great bronze main screw.

  The COB led the search and rescue party as they rushed topside. They hurried to lay out their equipment, ready for instant use.

  The plaintive cries from men in the water slowly became audible above the slight wind as the first of the flotsam drifted past the boat.

  As Miller carefully maneuvered the sub through the remains of the frigate, they came upon a group of ten survivors huddled together, floating in their life jackets. The shipwrecked sailors eagerly paddled toward the waiting submarine and attempted to pull themselves onboard with the lines thrown by the SAR party. Most were too weak from their harrowing experience to actually get aboard without help. Seaman Osterburg led the rescue swimmers into the water. Together with the SAR party topside, the SAR swimmers helped the bedraggled survivors aboard SAN FRANCISCO.

  Turnstill shouted encouragement and instructions to the men in the water in both Bahasa and English.

  As each new survivor was plucked from the water, they were given a cursory check for major injuries and a more careful search for weapons. The injured were then carefully lowered through the hatch to eager hands below waiting to aid them. The EMT team treated those with minor injuries and worked to stabilize those with more serious problems.

  The submarine quickly became the center of a mass of survivors, all clamoring to be pulled aboard. The process worked reasonably smoothly. The severely injured, primarily burns, concussions, and broken bones from the explosion, were triaged topside and treated in the wardroom. Everyone else huddled just aft of the sail, topside.

  The beds in the twelve man berthing area were soon full. Wardroom berthing, and then the chiefs’ quarters, were pressed into service as additional medical wards.

  Every crewman with even the most rudimentary medical experience was busy. Seaman Martinez found himself in the Engineer's stateroom administering IVs to three badly burned survivors. Chief Jones and three of his ETs were in crew’s berthing watching twelve patients with a variety of injuries, from broken bones to saltwater ingestion.

  The mess decks were filled to overflowing. Soon, every available square inch was in use. Those with relatively minor injuries filled the passageways. The uninjured filled topside.

  The SUCAP S3-Bs were pressed into service as longer range SAR birds. The combination of their advanced forward looking infrared sensors (FLIR) and inverted synthetic aperture radars (ISAR) were very effective in finding isolated survivors, particularly as night began to fall.

  28

  23 Jun 2000, 2336LT (1536Z)

  As the last of the survivors was being pulled aboard, Fagan climbed to the bridge.

  “Skipper, we've got two hundred and forty survivors onboard. The mess decks and all the middle level berthing are crammed full. We have over a hundred topside. Doc reports that he is almost out of medical supplies. He has ninety-four patients, all in fair or better condition and nothing he can’t handle. Burns, broken bones, salt water ingestion, a couple of concussions, some lacerations and bruises.

  "The crew has been doing a great job. Everybody's pitching in to help. Even Turnstill is finally being useful. Don't know what we would have done without him interpreting."

  Hunter commented dryly, "About time he did something besides eat, breathe and sleep."

  Fagan continued, “More interesting, the CO was in that last bunch. He's not a happy camper. Demanding an explanation of why his ship was attacked in sovereign waters and making all kinds of dire threats. He's been using Admiral Suluvana’s name liberally. He evidently is a close follower and supporter of the admiral.”

  “Interesting,” Hunter replied, scratching the stubble on his chin. “Any clue of why he was in these waters? He give you any ideas?”

  Fagan replied, “No sir, but I bet it has to do with the island. They must be here to escort the delivery ship.”

  “Maybe they are the delivery ship,” Hunter mused. “Pick-up was supposed to happen last night if we believe that comms intercept. Have you seen any other ship anywhere close?”

  He gazed out over the water for a few moments and then said, “Here’s what I want you to do. Isolate that Skipper in the Chief’s quarters under heavy guard. No one is to say anything to him. Find out who his leading quartermaster is and interrogate him. Take Turnstill with you.

  "I’m betting that only the Skipper and maybe a few of his senior officers are in on this. The leading quartermaster will know the planned routing and schedule. He probably doesn’t even know that it is anything but a routine port stop.

  “We’ll use that against the Skipper to pump what he knows out of him. Get a message drafted to SUBPAC giving them the status of the rescue and telling them we have the Skipper. Let them know that we suspect that the frigate was the pick-up ship and that we are planning to interrogate the Skipper. Also find out what they have done to help us off-load our guests. By the way, do we have that Skipper’s name?” Hunter asked.

  “Sure Skipper, his name is Balewegal, Commanding Officer of the Indonesian Navy Ship SAWAL,” Fagan replied as he started to lower himself down the long ladder to the control room.

  23 Jun 2000, 2325LT (1725Z)

  CDR Hunter stalked into the goat locker with Turnstill close behind him. Hunter glared down at the seated Indonesian Captain. “Well, Captain Balewegal, you should be happy to know that we have two hundred and forty of your crew safely onboard. They are being given medical attention, food and dry clothing. From your recent activities, though, I doubt that you care.

  Turnstill translated Hunter's statement into Bahasa.

  Balewegal angrily responded, in English, "I don't need the services of this spy dog!"

  Turning to Turnstill, he continued harshly, "So, you have returned to your masters. Our money was not enough for you. You take American money, too. Do your American masters know all that you have done for us? Do they know about the drug smuggling?"

  Turnstill lunged at Balewegal, his face contorted with rage. Hunter slammed him back into the bulkhead before he could reach the seated captive. Balewegal attempted to jump up to defend himself, but the COB shoved him back down.

  Hunter yelled, "All right. That's enough!" while jamming the still struggling Turnstill into the corner.

  Turnstill slumped down into the corner and held up his arms defensively. "Enough! I've had enough."

  Balewegal started, "Captain, maybe you don't know that Turnstill was the top heroin smuggler in Java. That's how we found him, or rather rescued him. I'm afraid that our Courts are much harsher with drug dealers than yours. He was caught trying to sneak in a boatload of pure heroin. Sentenced to beheading. Admiral Suluvana saw some use in this mangy mutt and had him released. He has been importing items for us ever since."

  Turnstill looked up at Hunter. "I was framed. Suluvana and this bastard set me up. I didn't know there were drugs on that boat. They told me it was a load of fertilizer and farm tools."

  Hunter replied, "I don't give a damn. We’ll sort that out later. Right now, I have more important things to worry about."

  Hunter turned to Balewegal. "It seems that you have considerable explaining to do. Admiral Suluvana is in custody and is singing like a bird. The lawful Indonesian authorities are demanding that we turn you over to them for prosecution. They sound distinctly unhappy with your activities of late."

  Hunter crossed his arms and looked down at the seated captive. "Using one of their frigates to transport a deadly biological agent for a known terrorist and shooting down an American aircraft will not endear you to them. And, of course, losing your ship is not a career-enhancing move.

  “You know, of course, the facilities on Nusa Funata have been captured and destroyed. I’m afraid that some of the smallpox virus may have leaked from the ruptured containers during the fighting. Our forces have been evacuated and the island is quarantined.”

  Unblinking, Captain Balewegal stared back contemptuously, “Captain, it is you
who are the criminal. You attacked my ship without provocation in Indonesian territorial waters. I do not recognize the ones that you call the lawful authorities. I demand that you release my crew and me immediately!”

  The short, paunchy Captain raised his fist and attempted to rise. The COB slammed Balewegal forcefully back in his seat, again.

  “Captain,” Hunter continued dryly, “I don’t think that you fully understand your position. We will happily release you within swimming distance of Nusa Funata. You can go there and share the fate of your fellow terrorists. I already know that your crew was not part of this plot. They will stay here and be turned over to your Navy.”

  In a more conciliatory tone, he continued, “If you choose to help us, maybe I can arrange for our senior people to intervene on your behalf. As I understand Islamic Law. That’s what the Indonesian law is based on, didn't you say? The penalty for treason is death by beheading. Sounds pretty final. Think it over. If you want to talk, tell your guard. He will get me.” Hunter turned and stepped toward the door.

  “Wait,” the Indonesian Captain started hesitantly. “I’ll help you. What do you want to know? Just don’t turn me over to them.”

  All right, start talking,” CDR Hunter said, taking a seat across the table from the Captain. “I want to hear everything.” Captain Balewegal began to relate a tale of deceit, bribery, terror and treason.

  24 Jun 2000, 0647LT (23 Jun, 2347Z)

  “Captain, message from Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. It’s marked “Personal for” and addressed to you. I’ll bring it to the bridge,” Chief Tyler announced over the 21MC to the bridge cockpit.