“XO, there's still some stuff we need to talk about,” Hunter called through the doors to the shared head that separated his stateroom from the XO's.
Bill Fagan stepped through and took a seat at the small settee that served as the outboard bulkhead of the closet-like CO's stateroom. Hunter remained seated at the small fold-down desk that made up most of the after bulkhead.
The wood-grain Formica-paneled stateroom was a study in compact placement. All of the necessary facilities for the Commanding Officer to live and conduct the day-to-day operations of the complex ship were clustered in easy reach. The settee folded down into a narrow bunk. A large, heavy safe containing classified material and papers sat above the fold-down desk, while the space below the desk contained drawers. Just outboard of the desk were several small electronic panels that displayed vital functions from the ship’s systems. Also included was a telephone handset that allowed him to communicate with key stations around the sub.
“Skipper, sure looks like a mission for the books, doesn’t it?” the Bill Fagan said as he flopped down onto the upholstered seat.
Hunter glanced up from reading the message boards and nodded, “And my last in the Navy. Wouldn’t expect it to be run-of-the-mill. My retirement papers came in today’s mail, effective upon relief.” He paused. “Any word on naming my relief?”
“Nothing official, but scuttlebutt over at SUBPAC has someone in the next Prospective Commanding Officers Class getting the nod. So, you’ve made up your mind?” answered Fagan.
“It's time to go,” Hunter sighed. “I want to be there as the girls finish growing up. I’ve already missed too much.
Hunter slowly shook his head, “When I started this business, we were deep in the Cold War. We were scared, but we knew the mission.”
He removed his reading glasses and wearily rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“Now it’s worse. At least then we had a threat that we could see. We knew that their leaders were logical. Now it's all these terrorist groups and religious fanatics. Don't even know where it's coming from." Hunter sighed. "I don’t mind telling you that I’m scared.”
After a pause to change topics, Hunter said, “Anyway, we need a list of the problems and how to deal with them. The first thing that comes immediately to mind is security. I sure didn’t like what the Commodore was saying about possible security leaks here on the Islands. The group that knows the total picture is small; you and I on the boat, the Commodore at the Squadron, Admiral O'Flanagan and his special intelligence officer over at SUBPAC.
"The larger risk is someone piecing information together. There’s not much more that we can do about hiding our underway. I want to dive as soon as we are clear of the buoy Papa Hotel. We'll then head due south for a day before we start to head west. SUBPAC is bringing CHICAGO around to delouse us. Anything after that, we’ll just have to deal with as it comes along.”
Hunter stood and rummaged in his safe. “Let's not brief the wardroom on any part of the operation until we are submerged. Until then, they'll think that this is just another weekly op. We’ve done enough exercises with the SEALs so the crew might buy it for a little while. The Navigator, communicator and the leading radioman will have to be told something about what to expect, at least where we are headed. Let’s get them in the wardroom right after the pre-underway briefing.”
“OK, Skipper, I’ll set that up,” the XO acknowledged.
Hunter continued, "And remember, XO, nobody’s to know about the smallpox. That's the really important thing. Remember the SUBPAC briefing. They think the terrorists stole a genetically engineered form from some Australian research lab. A very deadly new cousin to smallpox with no known vaccine. A real panic in the making if any word leaks out. Even to the crew and even after we are underway."
Just then the Weps knocked and stuck his head past the dark blue curtain covering the doorway and reported, "Excuse me, Skipper, XO. All pre-underway checks, up to two hours before departure, are done. The ship’s divers have completed their security swim of the hull and the maneuvering watch team members are all mustered in the wardroom for the briefing. Nav says the Schulers are dampening as he expected."
6
25 May 2000, 2030LT (26 May, 0730Z)
Hunter and Fagan walked down the ladder to the Middle Level Operations Compartment passageway. Not much more than shoulder width wide, it was the sub’s real center of life. The chiefs’ quarters, commonly called the goat locker, and the ship’s office were at the forward end. Along the port side of the passageway were the crew’s berthing and the tiny dual-purpose signal ejector/Doc’s office space. The access to the officers’ staterooms and the wardroom was along the starboard side.
The deck was actually the top of a hydraulically operated ramp that lifted up to mate with the upper edge of the forward hatch. When weapons were being loaded, two-ton torpedoes were gently lowered down this ramp to the torpedo room on the lowest deck.
The passageway ended with the crew’s mess. Both the crew’s mess and the wardroom were really multi-purpose spaces, eating facilities for the crew and officers, as well as a place to study or relax. Both served as meeting spaces for training and briefings.
Hunter stepped into the crowded wardroom to a chorus of “Attention on deck!” Everyone sprang from his seat to stand at attention.
“As you were,” Hunter said quietly, making his way to the chair at the head of the table, traditionally reserved for the ship’s Captain. The seat to his right was the XO’s. A steaming mug of strong, black Navy coffee sat on the table in front of the CO’s seat, placed there by the cook.
The wardroom was a study of efficient utilization of a limited space. The large table took up most of the floor space. The inboard bulkhead was composed of storage cabinets with a long counter between the upper and lower cabinets. At the aft end of the counter stood a large coffee machine.
The forward bulkhead contained an upholstered bench where the supply officer sat during meals. Navy tradition held that the supply officer was to be available as the target of verbal criticism by the captain if the meal was not up to his liking. There were numerous sea stories of submarine captains who felt that verbal abuse was not adequate and had found this arrangement of seating convenient for throwing the offending food item at the responsible supply officer. There was a gouge in the Formica above the bench that legend held was the result of a rather heavy gravy boat being heaved by one of the Commander’s dissatisfied predecessors.
Above the bench sat a small locker containing operating manuals, a tiny TV, and a VCR.
The outboard bulkhead was made up of a short built-in Naugahyde couch, more lockers, and a collection of small indications and communications (IC) panels similar to the ones in Hunter's stateroom. Even the wardroom chairs were utilized for storage. Under each seat was a heavy metal locker containing an emergency breathing apparatus for use in the case of fire or other toxic contamination of the sub’s atmosphere.
Crowded in the small space were the players who would guide the ship safely out of the harbor. The navigation team, led by the Navigator, LCDR Warran Jacobs, and the leading quartermaster, QM1(SS) Buell, would be taking visual fixes through one of the periscopes and backing that up with electronic fixes from the GPS. The sonar team, led by Master Chief Holmstad, would listen for any underwater indications that could help the OOD. The ship’s control party would carry out the OOD’s orders to steer SAN FRANCISCO safely out of Pearl Harbor. Even the line-handler supervisors were present. It was important that they all performed as a closely coordinated, well-rehearsed team and that they all knew Hunter’s plan for the operation.
Sitting down, Hunter looked around the room, casting a critical eye on each person. He then said, “Gentlemen, we are going to brief the underway. The XO and the Nav will cover the details, but first, I want to say a few words. Right off the bat, let me emphasize the security procedures that we will be following. The idea is to sneak out of here without anybody being the wiser. The Commodore wan
ts to see if it’s possible to get to sea without it showing up in tomorrow’s Honolulu Advertiser."
Hunter looked down the table at Chief Tyler, the leading radioman. "That means no use of the bridge-to-bridge radios on the bridge and no talking on the harbor common frequencies. If Harbor Control challenges us, we will ignore them. I don’t expect this to happen, but it may."
The portly Chief busily scribbled a few notes on his pad, not questioning the unusual procedures.
Hunter continued, this time directing his gaze over at QM1 Buell, "The radars will be off and housed. We will be operating without running lights or the sub ID light. Remember, the goal is to leave Pearl without any fanfare.”
Buell nodded.
“The second point I want to make is, although this underway is a little different, by and large, it is similar to night underways we've done before. Pay attention to the XO and Nav, and remember what you've learned.”
The assembled group fidgeted restlessly as the Nav stood to speak. They had a thousand questions.
25 May 2000, 2315LT (26 May, 1015Z)
The warm Hawaiian night greeted Hunter as he climbed up to the bridge cockpit. High cumulous clouds scurried across the sky, playing hide and seek with the stars. A quarter moon momentarily peeked out of the clouds to the West, out beyond Barbers Point. It would soon drop below the horizon. No one was visible around the waterfront, except three SEALs over on pier Sierra-Nine and three more here on pier Sierra-Five. Even the normally noisy submarine repair facility across Magazine Loch at Kauhua Point was quiet.
Standing in the narrow bridge cockpit, Hunter and Lieutenant Commander Sam Stuart, officer of the deck, started the long process of getting the large ship underway. SAN FRANCISCO was as graceful as a ballerina in her element, submerged out in the open ocean. Alongside the pier her single screw and rudder, together with her long cylindrical shape, made her very ungainly. Any mishap in inching her seven thousand ton bulk carefully out into the channel’s relatively open water could cancel the mission before it even started. It was a real test of their combined ship handling skills.
SAN FRANCISCO was ready to get underway. A two-inch Kevlar and Dacron mooring line was passed from a bollard on the neighboring pier to port, over the rounded bow of the sub, and aft to the capstan positioned above the engine-room. Line-handlers stood at each of the four retractable cleats along the ship's starboard side. The reactor was supplying all the ship’s power needs, so the large heavy shore power cables were laboriously manhandled off the ship and the brows removed. The last umbilicals to the shore were severed. She was ready to return to her element.
“All right Eng, let’s get this show on the road. Lower the outboard, shift to remote and train to port zero-nine-zero degrees” Jon Hunter said.
“Aye, sir,” Sam Stuart acknowledged and repeated the order over the 7MC announcing system to the control room supervisor, thirty feet below in the ship’s control room.
The order was relayed to the engineering officer of the watch (EOOW) in the maneuvering room, back in the engineroom. He, in turn, relayed it to a watch-stander at the aft elliptical bulkhead, as far aft as you could get and still be inside the boat. The operating station for raising and lowering the outboard was mounted on the bulkhead just to the starboard side of the massive main shaft. The watch-stander pressed a button that actuated the hydraulic controller. Out in the ballast tank, on the other side of the elliptical bulkhead, the outboard lowered smoothly until it extended four feet below the submarine’s hull. A green light flashed at the ship's control panel, telling the helmsman that the outboard was lowered and he had control. He held a switch near his left leg in the “Port” position until the dial indicator showed that the outboard had rotated to a position of "Port 90" degrees. Finally, the Helmsman reported, "The outboard is lowered, shifted to "REMOTE" and trained to port zero-nine-zero."
"Eng, single up all lines," Hunter directed.
"Skipper, we can't," LCDR Stuart reported, frustration dripping from his voice. "The lines-forward phone talker just reported that Weps ordered the capstan line put over line one rather than under. They won't be able to cast off line one with the capstan line in the way. They will have to run it again.”
He shook his head slowly. “I don't know what Weps was thinking. Just looking at it, even an idiot could see you can’t get a line off the cleat with a taut line over top it."
"What the hell!" Hunter snatched the JA handset. "XO, get topside and straighten this mess out. Talk to me about the Weps after we secure the maneuvering watch."
"Yes, sir. I’ve just sent the COB forward to take care of it. Five minute delay." Bill Fagan answered.
Hunter could already see men straining to move the line. They unwound it from the capstan, lugged the heavy hawser forward and then manhandled it under line one. When it was rewound around the capstan, all was really ready.
Finally, Stuart ordered, "Single up all lines. Slack lines one, three and four. Hold two." This left a single thread holding SAN FRANCISCO to the pier at each cleat. All lines draped loose except line two. It was a spring line. Instead of stretching to a bollard directly across from the cleat, it was stretched from a cleat just forward of the sail, aft alongside the ship, to a bollard directly across from number three cleat. It prevented the ship from moving forward into the mud, coral and stone beach scant inches away from her tender fiberglass bow. Line two was held taut.
“Take a strain on the capstan,” Stuart ordered. The line stretching from the capstan, forward to the number one cleat and across to pier sierra nine came taut. Seawater sizzled as it was squeezed out of the line. It groaned under the load. .
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the bow started to swing away from the pier. The large soft inflatable camel that had been wedged tightly between the bow of the massive submarine and the pier floated free, while the after camel squealed in protest as the force of the ship’s pivoting movement was felt.
Stuart pressed the key on the 7MC microphone and ordered, “Start the outboard.” The stern of the sub started to move ponderously away from the pier.
As soon as motion to port was perceptible, he ordered, "Stop outboard. Ease the capstan." Slowly SAN FRANCISCO slid into the center of the slip and came to a halt with the gentle restraining force of the still singled lines.
“Train the outboard to port one-eight-zero, cast off all lines and back out into the harbor.”
Precisely as the last line slid into the water, Hunter heard a faint rustle behind him and looked back to see Old Glory proudly waving in the glow of the pier lights. SAN FRANCISCO was underway.
The black submarine glided silently out of the pool of light between the piers into the inky blackness of the central turning basin. Sam Stuart used the rudder and outboard to turn her so that she faced the waiting ocean. He ordered the main engines warmed as the few men topside carefully, yet quickly, rigged for submerged operations. Every piece of topside equipment was checked twice. Nothing about the examination was cursory; a rattle caused by a loose fixture or the coke-bottle sound of water flowing over an uncovered opening could mean the difference between being the hunter or the hunted.
The required half-hour seemed to stretch to eternity as they sat rolling in the almost imperceptible swell of the inner harbor. In the maneuvering room, Lieutenant junior-grade Rich Baker stood, observing the throttleman spin the large chrome hand-wheel to open the Ahead turbine throttle. Just as the roaring steam rolled the turbine, the throttleman flung the hand-wheel shut and spun the Astern hand-wheel open. This process was repeated every minute.
Baker, who had just recently finished the difficult qualification process to be an EOOW, reveled in finally having charge of the engine-room himself. This was great, but he really wanted to be up on the bridge, driving SAN FRANCISCO out to sea. He knew that he would have to spend almost another year of qualifying before he saw that day.
Finally LTJG Baker reported, "The mains are warmed and the bridge has control."
Sam Stuart ord
ered “Ahead one third, steer course three-three-one,” over the 7MC from the bridge.
From thirty feet below, the helmsman replied, “Answers ahead one third, coming right to course three-three-one.”
Unlike surface ships, where the traditional spoked wooden ship’s wheels were still used; the helmsman's station resembled an aircraft pilot’s controls. He had no broad expanse of glass through which to gaze at the horizon. His only means of sensing direction and depth was a myriad of gauges and digital readouts set in a blank steel panel.
The great bronze screw turned, leaving a swirling frothy white wake in the glassy smooth harbor water. The huge black warship slowly gathered speed.
Glancing over the side of the tall sail, Hunter saw they were being escorted by one of the large gray hammerhead sharks that frequented the harbor. The hammerheads had discovered that the shallows of the West Loch were a perfect place to mate and give birth to their young. It glided along effortlessly for some distance before lifting its grotesquely shaped head to gaze emotionlessly at the man-made shark of steel. Then, with a flick of its tail, it dove deep and was gone.
“Looks like we have an escort out of the harbor after all,” he said, more to himself than anyone else. “Nice to see the professional courtesy.”
26 May 2000, 0135LT (26 May, 0935Z)
From the lanai of his official residence on Ford Island, Rear Admiral Mike O’Flanagan watched SAN FRANCISCO glide down the channel. He stepped inside and picked up the red secure phone resting beside his bed and dialed a series of numbers. When he received an acknowledgment at the other end, he simply said, “They are on their way,” and hung up.
26 May 2000, 0135LT (26 May, 0935Z)
At an apartment in one of the modern high-rise buildings in Pearl City, overlooking the Pearl Harbor Naval Base a similar call was being placed. This one was placed over normal commercial phone circuits, but hundreds of complex switchings and dead ends made the call untraceable. Half a world away, the information was received with a guttural grunt.
Operation Golden Dawn Page 6