Northern Thunder

by Anderson Harp

  As the lit bell tower receded, Will noted the gash marks on its side created by the spray of December 7, 1941, bullets. Funny, he thought, we’re always in danger. North Korea just wants to do it in a different way.

  As the caravan pulled up to the gatehouse that accessed Ford Island, the security for the Florida resembled that of a bank just after a robbery. Honolulu motorcycle police, in their wraparound Maui sunglasses, directed traffic past the long, two-lane bridge, the only link to Ford Island. Sailors and Marines in flak jackets, all armed with M4s, stood near Humvees blocking the entrance.

  “There’s some nice real estate here, boss,” Moncrief said, smiling.

  “No doubt.” Will and Moncrief, having rolled down the windows, felt warmer as they passed over the open harbor. A tropical breeze blew inland across the bay.

  “The battlewagons used to tie up to Ford Island like horses at a stable,” said Will.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now, there’s a few quarters for senior officers, a monument, and an abandoned airfield,” said Will. The orange-and-white-checkered tower, with streaks of dark brown rust, stood out in the center of the field. Grass poked through the joints of a massive cement runway stretching several football fields long. The USS Missouri, the last of the great behemoths, rested at her mooring, a tourist attraction temporarily closed for repairs. At least, that’s what its mainland tourist office told the public.

  The Suburbans pulled up to a dock on the far side of the island. It had no buildings or structures, only a long, tall, chain-link fence. Will noticed a sandbag bunker on the left and another on the right—camouflaged—then the faint movement of men. As he got closer, he realized they were Navy boys. Dressed in gray shirts, blue trousers, bulletproof vests, and gray helmets, they were armed with pistols, shotguns, and M4s. It was then he noticed the steel structure sitting behind the wharf, rising above everything else, as tall as the few trees, but pitch-black. A pair of gray and black leopard-like camouflaged periscopes rose above the mainsail. The submarine’s huge mast gave some suggestion of its size, but it was misleading. The vessel stood six stories deep.

  Scott led the way out of the vehicles and quickly pulled Will and his men together. “From this point forward,” he said, “use no names. All your names have been pulled from your packs and your uniforms.” They had been given a new issue of utilities and packs when they left Fallon. “Tomorrow, when you leave, all remaining identification of any kind must be turned in.”

  “So, ah, Mr. X, what about our bills and all that other crap?” said Moncrief, who loved this spy business.

  “It’s all been taken care of. This is a special-operations boat, and they’re used to handling all that.”

  “Sir?” A curly-headed and heavily freckled lieutenant commander interrupted Scott.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Lieutenant Commander Mack Wade, executive officer of the boat.”

  “Where’s your CO?” said Scott.

  “He’ll be joining us shortly. He’s up at PAC.” It was rare for a Trident to visit Pearl, and the Pacific commander was a submariner by training. He would likely keep the Trident’s commanding officer for some time, the two submariners exchanging stories like long-lost fraternity brothers.

  “The team is welcome to come aboard,” said Wade.

  Will grabbed his MOLLE pack and followed Wade, who came up the gangplank and stopped before an armed chief. “Permission to come aboard?” said Wade.

  “Aye, sir.”

  Wade turned to the standard American flag on the vessel’s tail and saluted. Each of the men did likewise and followed.

  “You, sir, are the team leader?” He addressed Will.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Sir, please come with me. The others will go to berthing in the aft section.”

  The team did not mind this minor distinction, not only because Will was their boss, but also because submarine duty was well-known for treating everyone well. All the bunks would be snug and fairly quiet, and the food would be good and unlimited.

  Will followed Wade past the mast, looking up at it from the main deck and taking in its enormity. Immediately beyond the sail, the young officer climbed down into the vessel. Waiting at the bottom of the ladder, he signaled Will to pass his pack down through the hatch.

  Inside, Will was amazed at the array of cables and pipes, small and large, which surrounded him. He could only sense the vessel’s actual proportions when he crawled down to the first deck. Beyond the cables and pipes to the bow, the bulkhead curved out, giving the sense that its nose extended well beyond and below.

  “Excuse me for playing tour guide,” said Wade, “but the Florida is over five hundred and sixty feet long and displaces almost nineteen thousand tons when submerged.”

  “Yeah, I’m happy you’re on our side,” said Will.

  “Follow me, sir.” He led Will down a short hall, past side rooms with men by computer screens and beyond the control and periscope room. As they passed, several young officers, along with a well-wrinkled boat chief, looked up from a chart board. Their eyes reflected their curiosity. The boat chief nodded. The crew had received no orders other than logistics and stocking requirements. The Florida’s officers would have only a general sense that this mission involved something in the Sea of Japan, or perhaps Russia.

  “This way, sir.” Wade hopped down a short steel stairway to the next lower deck deeper into the submarine’s bow. Will glanced down the stairs, which continued down several more flights.

  “This is you, sir.” Wade stopped at a door marked Executive Officers’ Quarters.

  “I’m bunking in with you?” Will asked.

  “No, sir. You’ve got it to yourself. We got word to provide quarters to a colonel, no questions asked.”

  “Doesn’t that violate your protocol?”

  “Well, sir, not to be too glib about it,” said Wade, “but I figure you’re going to earn your paycheck on this one more than me.”

  Will smiled. Though he never expected special consideration because of his rank, he had to admit that it felt good. His room—no bigger than an oversized bedroom closet in a new upscale suburban home—somehow squeezed in a small desk, computer terminal, chair, and bunk bed, onto which he tossed his pack. Wade was providing him the only luxury on the boat—privacy. These quarters were no more spacious than those assigned the commanding officer, but in all boats, almost everyone shared rooms.

  “Attention, CO arriving.” The loudspeaker echoed throughout the boat. Will worked his way back upstairs to the command and control room, where the men stiffened up.

  A six-foot man was climbing down the front ladder where Will had entered. He removed his pisscutter hat, a naval term for the Boy Scout–styled cover, and turned, showing bright silver eagles on each collar.

  “Attention,” Wade yelled out.

  “Carry on,” said the CO, his unhesitating voice that of a leader. His brown hair was accented by slightly gray sideburns, his eyes were bright green, and his face was tanned, surprising for a submariner.

  “So, you’re our guest,” he said to Will.

  “Yes, sir.” Will added the term of respect.

  “Welcome aboard, sir.”

  “Thank you,” said Will.

  “Chief, my hat.”

  “Aye-aye, sir,” said the well-wrinkled chief, his head well on the side of pudgy, retrieving a washed-out blue hat marked with a bright orange AU and the words Auburn University.

  “Excuse me—my old school,” the CO said.

  “It’s a good one.” Will smiled.

  Captain J.D. Hollington, the commanding officer, had graduated Navy ROTC with honors from Auburn University. It was not easy for a non–boat-school graduate to get command of a Trident. The Naval Academy, or boat school as it was commonly called, risked losing its supremacy when engineering students from ordin
ary universities were given such prestigious commands, but this was Hollington’s second tour, and one for which he had been requested.

  “This is the gold crew,” said Hollington. “Gentlemen, the mission requires our not mentioning names, so this is the Marine Officer and let’s leave it at that.”

  “Welcome aboard, Marine.”

  “Yes, sir, welcome.”

  “Okay, Marine, let’s go down to my room and discuss a few things,” said Hollington.

  Will followed the lanky captain down the stairs to another door, immediately adjacent to Will’s room. Hollington’s bunk bed had been pulled down to accommodate a couch. Hollington closed the door and turned to Will.

  “Will Parker, you sonofabitch,” he said. “You chose us on purpose, didn’t you?”

  “Absolutely, Skipper,” said Will. “You’re the only submariner I know who could pass Naval War College, and definitely the only one I wanted behind me in a fight.”

  “Just my luck,” he said, smiling, “to have such friends.” They had been roommates at the Naval War College in Newport, where they went on daily ten-mile runs around the points and mansions of the Rhode Island city. Some of the races became quite furious, and others at the college quickly realized not to accept their innocent invitation for an “easy” jog. “Now, why’s Krowl involved?” said Hollington. “That snake would trade in his sister for a promotion.”

  “Not my choice. He came up with this.”

  “Okay, but watch your back.”

  “Oh, yeah,” said Will, well-prepared on that point. “When do we sail?”

  “After dark, we have to float across the harbor to a SEAL base and pick up the ASDS.” The SEAL mini-sub had been noticeably missing from the main deck when Will came aboard. “We’ll leave right after that. It sort of telegraphs your mission to the world when you pick it up in Pearl. They’re leaking the cover that SEAL delivery team one is doing some sea trials.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “It’s supposed to rain tonight, which is a big plus,” said Hollington.

  “What’s latest departure?”

  “Zero-hundred.”

  “I need to get out of here for a few hours,” Will said. “I’ve got a few errands and I want my men to get one last beer at Duke’s.”

  “This Scott guy’s not too high on that. I’d recommend you be back by twenty-two-hundred max.”

  Will smiled. “I can handle that.”

  “And here’s the keys to my car, with a CO’s pass,” said Hollington. “I’ve got some civilian clothes if you need ’em.”

  “No, I’m fine. Let me get mine and go.”

  The black Tahoe with a blue and white eagle sticker pulled out of Ford just before dark. The windows were tinted, but as it passed security at the Ford Island Bridge, the sentry saw four figures inside. He sharply saluted the driver. A half hour later, the Tahoe stopped in front of Duke’s.

  “I’ll be back at twenty-one-hundred,” Will told his men. “Sharp. And then this vehicle’s moving. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Okay, boss.”

  In another half hour, Will was back at the air base, using the backdoor entrance to Hickam. The black Tahoe cut up to Vickers Avenue, and then a side road near the flight line. There, as Will’s Tahoe approached, a man stepped out. The sun was setting, causing the shadow of the building to stretch across the side alley.

  “Hey,” said Will.

  “This wasn’t easy, sir.”

  “I can imagine.”

  The Marine lieutenant colonel in green-black checkered utilities climbed into the front seat. “Go around back of the CIL,” he said.

  Will drove the half-block around a modern one-story brown-brick building to a side entrance and loading dock. One of the doors was open. Above the door, the tan and blocked letter sign said, U.S. Central Identification Laboratory.

  “We had to do a lot of talking to our local contact, but they helped,” said the lieutenant colonel.

  “You know this is important,” said Will. “It’s also life-and-death that nothing’s ever said.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Will turned the Tahoe around, backing it up to the loading dock. Another man on the dock, with gloves on, lifted a black oil drum onto the rear of the Tahoe.

  “Watch out. It’s cold,” said the lieutenant colonel.

  “Got it.”

  “Other than that, you can’t hurt it.”

  “Thanks,” said Will. “Oh, let me borrow two sets of gloves.”

  “Borrow, sir?” He smiled. “I don’t think I’ll be getting them back.”

  “You may be right.”

  The Tahoe pulled out the main gate at Pearl, heading to the far end of the island. It took nearly an hour for Will to reach the last state park at Kaena Point. Highway H-1 was crowded with traffic exiting the football stadium at Aloha Stadium after a University of Hawaii game. It made Will realize how far he had come. The South would be in late fall, leaves changing, college tailgating parties winding down after a long season. He was a long way from what he had left.

  Darkness was finally falling as he reached the dead end of Highway 930, which stopped at the small state park on the far end of the island. From there, he began walking the old Farrington Highway, which quickly deteriorated into more of a trail than a roadway. He hiked several miles along the cliffs and broken road. On the very edge of the deep blue surf, white spumes of water shot high into the air after colliding with the rocks. A bright half-moon lit his path and a constant warm breeze blew in from the ocean like a large, gusting fan. The road became progressively worse as large gaps caused the surf to spray up. Will worked his way around the rocks and gaps, smelling the ocean surge as he crossed up the trail.

  Finally, after the road almost completely gave out, he came to a break in the ground, where it fell off several feet below. A large, barren mountain range paralleled his path, with nothing but sage and tumble-like weeds. This part of Hawaii was dry, brown, and unoccupied. Only a few tower lights marked the tops of the mountain, and a brilliant red and white light flashed farther down on the point.

  At the gap, staked to the side of the rocks, was a chain that led down across a small rocky path to something dark. Will slid slowly down the trail, holding the chain, inching across the rocks to the end. The farther down he headed, the slipperier the rocks became from the spray of water and the moisture of the salt air. There, near the bottom, was a black hole with an opening the diameter of a man with both arms outstretched.

  Will entered the cave, feeling the cool charge of air and smelling a musty odor of prior hikers or explorers. He went to a large outcropping of rock and reached behind it, struggling with his arm, feeling only the sandy floor until he touched the edge of something man-made.

  “Yes,” he whispered as he pulled out a green and black backpack from behind the rock.

  * * * *

  The Tahoe pulled up to the USS Florida at precisely 10 pm local Hawaii time. Because most everyone was already aboard—the exceptions being a handful of security officers—few noticed Will and his men as they carried a drum and backpack onto the vessel. The chief of the boat was still topside.

  “Chief, this drum needs to be stored in the food freezer.”

  “Aye, sir.” Anyone else making such a request would have to go through several layers of command. The chief knew better.

  “Sir,” said the chief, “a Mr. Scott is waiting for you below, and when you get done with him, the skipper wants you on the sail.”

  “Copy that. I see you got the ASDS.” A smaller black version of the Trident was locked onto the Florida’s deck just to the rear of the mainsail. It may have been miniature, but its structure loomed well above their heads.

  “Yes, sir. Newest version. High-speed. Silent-running.”

  “Great.”

 
At that same moment, Scott climbed out of the aft hatch.

  “Here you are,” Scott said, looking more than a bit dismayed.

  “Yes, Mr. Scott,” said Will.

  “Let’s talk.” They walked to the stern, standing on the black steel where rows of missile tubes used to be.

  “Parker, Krowl put me here at Pacific Command to monitor the mission,” said Scott. “So I’m essentially out of the game. The camera, along with a relay computer and satellite dish, are in your cabin. You’ve worked with them in Quantico. You know where Nampo should be. We’re expecting a visit to the facility by a Chinese Army general on the fifteenth. That’s probably your only chance—one photo, nothing fancy.”

  “Understood.”

  “Oh—and Parker, as best you can, watch yourself.”

  Will wasn’t sure what to make of Scott’s last statement. Perhaps the training had developed a little loyalty after all.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen, but we’re moving.” The chief pointed Scott to the gangplank as two sailors wrestled with it. Scott jumped onto the plank and, with two hops, was on the deck. He turned to Will and gave him a thumbs-up. As the rain began to pick up, Scott disappeared into the dark.

  “Sir, on the sail,” said the chief.

  “Yes, chief.” Will heard the Auburn University fight song piped through the submarine. The skipper knew they wouldn’t all be Auburn fans, but wanted to give the crew a reason to galvanize as a team. Each crew member donned a different version of an Auburn hat and roared in song: “Fight down the field, always to conquer, never to yield.” It could have been Notre Dame or Southern Cal or Alabama. The power of that unity and pride made for a better crew.

  Appropriate, Will thought as he felt the mass of steel gently moving under his feet. Then he smiled, knowing Staff Sergeant Stidham was at home with his old football team.

  “Permission to come up?” said Will.

  “Granted,” said Hollington.