Operation Golden Dawn
Page 29
“Very well, Chief. Lay to the bridge,” Hunter replied.
Chief Tyler made the long climb to the bridge and handed the Commander a stainless steel clipboard prominently labeled “TOP SECRET, SPECIAL CATEGORY” in inch high red letters.
The Commander flipped up the front cover and read the flimsy message form underneath.
TOP SECRET, GOLDEN DAWN, Special Handling required
EYES-ONLY: CO USS SAN FRANCISCO
From: Chairman, JCS
To: CO USS SAN FRANCISCO
Subj: Survivors INS SAWAL, LIMDIS
BT
Proceed best surfaced speed to vicinity 114.30E 07.45S to rendezvous with units of Indonesian Navy for transfer of survivors. Advise expected ETA soonest.
Transfer Captain Balewegal in prisoner status to Senior INS Officer Present.
Transfer LCDR Jones for treatment. Advise any other immediate medical requirements for transfer.
Well Done!
General Schwartz sends
BT
24 Jun 2000, 0620LT (0320Z)
The cell phone began its annoying buzz, disturbing Mustaf from his reverie. He angrily grabbed the offending device and growled a greeting. Who would dare call him on this number? Only three people had access to it.
“Mustaf, this is General Schwartz.” The gravelly voice was unmistakable. “Your operation has been totally destroyed. Have you made your peace with Allah?”
How did he get this number? What did he mean by totally destroyed? None of the operatives had reported in. The silence was most disturbing, and now this mysterious phone call.
“What do you mean, General? I have no operation. I am a peaceful businessman dealing in the trading of commodities. I have always been faithful to the teachings of Allah, why do you ask?" Mustaf countered calmly, but his mind was racing.
“That’s good,” the General responded, “because if you step outside that tent and look to the East over that anti-aircraft gun emplacement guarding your commodities, you will see your trip to Paradise coming over the ridge about now. Good-bye, Mustaf.” The line went silent.
Mustaf stepped outside as the General had suggested just in time to see four small, low flying missiles clear the horizon. All were pointed directly at him. He stood rooted in place, unable to even shout a warning. They rapidly grew from hummingbird size until they seemed to fill his entire vision. Three of the missiles made minor course corrections and crashed into other parts of the encampment, causing tremendous explosions. The last one continued directly at him. His mind told him to run, but his legs would not respond. It was too late, no time to run. What was that horrible screaming? What coward feared death so? His last conscious thought, just before the blinding flash, was that it was his own voice.
General Schwartz replaced the receiver and noted with grim satisfaction that the satellite intercept of Mustaf’s cell phone was located exactly in the center of his tent. Too bad that he was such a creature of habit. The first flight of four Tomahawks launched from the PITTSBURGH would be arriving right now. The next four would follow in thirty seconds and the final four would be thirty seconds behind them.
29
13 Jul 2000, 0630LT (1730Z)
The sun was just peeping over Koko Head, the ancient volcano marking the windward end of Oahu. The lights of Honolulu shone brilliantly from Waikiki up the twin mountains of Tantulus and Round Top. Jon Hunter was alone with his thoughts, sitting on the ice cap for the number one BRA-34 antenna, on top the sail of SAN FRANCISCO. Jeff Miller stood in the cockpit, a few feet forward of him and directed the ship toward the entrance to Pearl Harbor, a couple of miles ahead.
They had surfaced shortly after midnight and steamed through the remnants of a beautiful, star-filled tropical night. Hunter usually relished this time, alone under the stars, just he and the sounds of the sea. That time was drawing to a close. Soon they would be steaming into Pearl Harbor to all the tumult a homecoming brought. It should be a joyful time, sweet to contemplate. Returning to family, the mission successfully completed. Back to the day-to-day routine.
Hunter was troubled and angry. He held the offending message tightly wadded in his hand. Admiral O'Flanagan had sent him a "Personal For" message last night that recounted the terrorists taking Peg and the girls hostage. It told of the rescue and reassured Hunter that his family was safe and healthy. The closing paragraph ordered Hunter to not divulge any of this. The story was to die behind a veil of secrecy.
Hunter breathed deeply. The warm air tinged with the scent of land calmed him. On the one hand, his family was safe. That was an immense relief. On the other, the fact SUBPAC had waited three weeks to tell him was infuriating.
“Captain, XO on the JA,” Jeff Miller turned around and handed Jon Hunter the handset.
“Skipper, Harbor Control has requested that we stay out here for a couple more hours. They request an ETA at Papa Hotel of zero-eight hundred,” Fagan relayed from control.
Papa Hotel was an imaginary point outside the channel entrance to Pearl Harbor. It had been established in the late 60’s after the QUEENFISH had run aground on the coral reefs returning from an important mission on Christmas Morning. Papa Hotel was the final checkpoint before entering the harbor. The ship had to be completely ready for navigating the narrow entrance channel and had to receive permission from Harbor Control before venturing beyond Papa Hotel.
“Alright, XO. We can kill some time out here. Come on up and enjoy the view. Send the messenger to get a couple of cups of coffee,” Hunter answered. He needed to talk to someone and forget that message for a while.
Fagan made the long climb up to the bridge and took a seat on the Number 2 BRA-34 ice cap. The messenger delivered the steaming coffee in large white Navy mugs.
Together they gazed out toward the dimming lights of Honolulu and the blazing orange-red sunrise. After a long pause, Hunter commented, “We’ve learned a lot on this time out. It’s time for both of us to move on. You’re ready for your own boat. And, it’s time I went ashore for good. When you have your own boat, remember this. Enjoy the moments, it doesn’t last forever.”
13 Jul 2000, 0800LT (1900Z)
The immaculate white barge, really a thirty-foot motor launch but nautical tradition dictated that an admiral’s boat be called a barge, flew a blue pennant with two white stars. It lay quietly waiting for the approaching submarine, bobbing gently in the swell. Two side-boys in dress white uniforms stood at parade rest against the stern rail. Rear Admiral O'Flanagan and several of his senior officers stood in the covered cockpit, behind the coxswain.
As SAN FRANCISCO slid alongside, Hunter could make out a yellow sundress peeking out from under the awning. Then he could see Peg waving gaily. It was good to be home.
The barge picked up speed and matched SAN FRANCISCO's progress. Hunter could see a line being tossed from the barge. The COB caught and tied it to the number three cleat. The crew on the barge passed a short gangplank over to SAN FRANCISCO. Rear Admiral O’Flanagan charged across the gangplank, pausing at its end to salute Old Glory, flying proudly above the submarine's sail. His staff and, finally, Peg along with the XO’s and COB’s wives followed him onboard the sub.
As the sub entered the confined dredged channel through the coral reef, CDR Hunter saw that Jeff Miller and his lookout were struggling with something being pushed up through the bridge hatch. A large duffel bag was slowly emerging. Reaching down, he grabbed a handle of the bag and chided Miller to pay attention to where the sub was going.
As he opened the duffel bag and handed the lookout one end of a long rope with cloth flowers tied along its length, he asked, “Can you imagine the headlines, “Sub runs aground while Skipper and OOD tie Lei around Sail”? That wouldn’t look very good for either of us. You drive the boat. We’ll handle the lei.”
Hunter saw a flash of yellow coming up the ladder to the bridge. Unfortunately it turned out to be Admiral O’Flanagan’s gold shoulder boards and not the pert yellow sundress that he had hoped to see emerge from the hat
ch.
“Jon, damn good work. Welcome home,” the gruff admiral growled through the unlit, but well chewed, cigar as he climbed out of the bridge cockpit to join Hunter on top the sail. “Sure hope you’re not planning on spending much time at home. You’re scheduled to give your post patrol debrief to the Joint Chiefs and SECDEF in five days. Beautiful morning up here, isn’t it?”
Hunter greeted the admiral heatedly, "Sir, I don't know whether to welcome you aboard or to tell you what a cold son-of-a-bitch I think you are. It'll be a while before I can forgive you for not telling me about Peg and the girls being hostages. Damn it, they're my family. I should have been told."
Admiral O'Flanagan took the cigar out of his mouth and jabbed it toward Hunter, "Just a minute, Jon. I understand you being upset. Look at the big picture. There was nothing you could do but worry. You had a job that had to be done. It wasn't an easy decision, but it was the right one."
Hunter, the anger still hot in him, growled, "That's bull-shit. You took the easy way out. You were being PC, just like the rest of the flags."
"Jon, that's enough!" O'Flanagan warned. "Shut up before you say something you'll regret. It's over. You and I both have to live with it. Face facts, the way they are. Your family needs you and ranting doesn't help anyone."
Hunter sputtered some, but he had to admit that the admiral was right.
The two were silent. Admiral O’Flanagan looked out over the approaching tropical landscape for a few moments.
Up ahead, alongside the Hickam Officers Club, sat the waiting harbor tug that would escort them to the pier. Draped across the side of the tug was a huge cloth banner. Flanagan chuckled and grunted, “Jon, you really have to do something to control the wives on your boat. How is a picture of that sign going to look on national news?”
The huge banner said, in letters over three feet tall, “Caution, horny wives ahead!” The tensions of the moment were broken.
As if an afterthought, the admiral said, “Oh, by the way Jon, there is someone down in control waiting to see you. Why don’t you have her come up here? She certainly deserves to have the royal ride into port as much as anyone.”
This time, the flash of yellow that he saw really was the sundress. Having her up on the sail with him made the homecoming complete.
Epilogue
14 Jun 2000, 1830LT (1030Z)
The Super Puma helicopter flew in low and fast. It bore Indonesian Navy markings along both sides. The two passengers in the back sat silently. Not a word had been exchanged between the two since they had taken off from Surabaya over an hour ago.
The pilot brought the small helicopter to a hover only ten feet above the waves. Nusa Funata sat menacingly just a few hundred yards to the East. Dark storm clouds formed an ominous crown over Mount Guishu. A surreal blue haze surrounded the rest of the island. To the West, the sun was setting in a glorious explosion of colors.
"It's time," Admiral Mengatiz said. "Get out."
He pointed a wicked looking Beretta 9mm pistol at the other passenger. Admiral Suluvana offered no resistance. He rose, stepped out the door and dropped into the water below. As the helicopter disappeared over the horizon, he began the laborious swim to the land. He didn't know why he even bothered. He could so easily just slip beneath the waves and end it here. There was no one left on Nusa Funata and there wouldn't be for many generations. The smallpox NX had finished Aswal and all the remaining people there. Now it waited for him.
14 Jul 2000, 1500LT (15 Jul, 0200Z)
Hunter and Fagan sat back in their lounge chairs. The hot Hawaiian sun beat down on them. Drips of sweat trickled down the sides of the cold beer bottles on the small table between them.
“Seaman Martinez came by the boat this morning. He was looking for you. He had his GED and his new wife. You have never seen a guy so proud. Looks like you steered that one right," Fagan said as the two sat under the great Banyan tree in Hunter’s side yard. "What's next? Are you still planning on retiring after this?”
Megan sat just above them on the branch of her banyon tree, talking to Sally on her new cell phone. Maggie sat on her Dad's lap. They both still had nightmares and didn't stray very far from Peg. Now that Jon was home, Maggie seemed to need to constantly hold on to him. It would take a while for them to forget that awful day.
“Bill, my relief has been named and will be aboard in a couple of weeks. Not much left for an old sailor to do but retire. You saw the Captain’s List. I wasn’t on it, so I can look forward to meaningless desk bound jobs ashore if I stay in. That’s not my style, so I’ll go ahead and retire. I've found a new challenge to conquer. I think that I'll work on cleaning up Wall Street. That’s a real nest of vipers, much worse than anything we've faced,” Jon Hunter replied.
"Besides, there's this," Hunter added, reaching for an envelope on the stand beside his lawn chair. "Results from some tests that I had before we left. Seems that I have a problem with my heart. Something called mobitz type II heart block. Something to do with the way my heart is wired. That was the cause of the dizzy spells. It means that I need a pacemaker. Relatively simple operation, but it will leave me medically disqualified for submarines."
Bill Fagan sat back in the lounge chair, took a deep breath and replied, “Jon, my orders to the next PCO class were in today's mailbag. I'm thinking of turning them down and resigning my commission."
Jon Hunter stared across the water toward Ford Island for a long moment. "It's the KILO thing, isn't it? That could have happened to anyone. You have no idea how scared I was. Now you know what it's like and how to handle it. You won't freeze next time." Reaching for his beer, Hunter added, "Besides, the Navy will always need at least one CO crazy enough to do what we did."
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FINAL BEARING
"This team spins a great tale." —W.E.B. Griffin, author of the bestselling Brotherhood of War series
Commander Jonathan Ward and his crew on the old attack sub Spadefish are on one last mission. A US Navy SEAL team is inserted into South America. Their orders are to destroy the secret laboratories of the world’s most notorious drug cartel, and the Spadefish has been sent to provide assistance.
But Juan de Santiago, the violent billionaire drug lord, has an entire private army and a futuristic new mini-submarine of his own. He will do anything to protect his empire.
And he knows the Americans are coming...
Final Bearing is the first book in The Hunter Killer Series.
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FINAL BEARING: Prologue
Sandy Holmes’ nose was practically touching the VW’s fogged up windshield. She furiously wiped at the glass with the back of her hand and squinted into the wet darkness, struggling to make out the street signs as they slipped by. The address she was looking for should be right around the next corner if she had her directions right.
Damn the Seattle traffic! Why was every-damn-body out on this Friday night? And why wouldn’t
the jerk with the blinding, bright headlights behind her just go on around?
Okay, so the Lake Washington area was unfamiliar territory. But she owed it to herself to finally break some barriers, to explore some new ground, and tonight was the night. The computer-programming job over in Bellevue was all right, she supposed. But since the day she had been assigned her cubicle and issued her desktop box and her own copy of the company employee manual, work had soaked up every drop of what little life she had. Fun was a trip to an all-night grocery for salad-in-a-bag and a pint of pistachio ice cream.
A date? Forget about it!
The rain dwindled now to little more than an aggravating mist. Seattle sunshine. Sandy snorted in spite of herself. What did the Seattle Chamber of Commerce say? “About the same annual rainfall per year here as they had in Washington, D.C.?” Yes, but D.C. got theirs in occasional gulps. Seattle’s precipitation was insistent, constant, and seemingly never-ending. A fitting metaphor, she often thought, for her job.
The roadway, stretching out in front of her, glistened black beneath the streetlights. Sandy tried not to envy the happy couples that walked hand in hand up and down the sidewalk, oblivious to the weather. They were likely heading for the cozy little restaurants that lined the street and backed up to Lake Washington. Lights and fancy neon flickered invitingly in their windows. She could smell grilled fish and alder wood smoke through the Bug’s cracked open window. Those were happy aromas, associated with dates and friends and a life. She rolled the window up.