Into the fire, p.21
Into the Fire, page 21
Brian Dawson scrambled up through the pressurized collar that served to mate the ASDS with Greenville. As he did so, Master Chief Mecoy was there to meet him and drop the hatch to seal the minisub from the outside. The main portion of the ASDS was comprised of three compartments: a forward compartment for the pilot and copilot/navigator, a center compartment that housed the docking collar that also served as a “moon pool” entrance for the launch and recovery of swimmers under water, and a rear compartment for troops. These three compartments were connected by access hatches and accounted for the first two-thirds of the sub’s length. The after portion housed the batteries and propulsion unit. Once Dawson was aboard, he followed Mecoy forward to where Naylor was preparing to undock from the mother ship and strike out on their own.
“You guys ready to break away and do this?”
“Just say the word, Mr. Dawson,” Mecoy replied as he slid into his control station.
“Then make it happen, Master Chief—and it’s Brian.”
“Roger that, Brian.” Then to his lieutenant he said, “Ready, sir?”
Naylor just nodded, neither speaking nor taking his eyes from the displays in front of him. Master Chief Mecoy tended to the mechanics of unlocking the docking collar. The ASDS was held to Greenville only by the residual pressure differential between the lower boarding hatch of the ASDS and the escape trunk of the parent sub, as well as the external sea pressure. Naylor flooded this small space with seawater while blowing air into the ASDS ballast tanks and making turns for three knots. It was a neat piece of watermanship and airmanship. The ASDS separated from Greenville and rose to the surface like a buoyant sausage. Naylor immediately turned away from Greenville’s base course, flooded his ballast tanks, and dove his boat. He took the ASDS to the planned cruise depth of fifteen feet and took a heading for Kujido at the little boat’s max speed of eight knots.
Looking over Mecoy’s shoulder, Dawson could feel little. The boat rolled slightly in the Yellow Sea chop, but there was no sensation of motion once Naylor had it on a steady course, speed, and depth. There was only the slight vibration of the seventy-horsepower motor that pushed them through the dark waters.
“So how do you know when we get there?” Dawson asked.
Mecoy turned his head and motioned him closer. “This is not a sophisticated craft,” he whispered. “We have an inertial navigation system, but the lieutenant flies this as much by intuition as by instruments. He’ll feel his way to get us close to Milwaukee. Then he’ll make the final approach visually using the port periscope.” He further lowered his voice. “It’s all on him to get us there. But he’s the best there is.” He turned back to monitoring the dials and gages in front of him.
Sensing he was only a distraction, Dawson made his way aft to check on the others. As he made his way back through the docking compartment to the troop compartment, he realized that the entire operation rested on the talents of this quiet, baby-faced lieutenant. Brian Dawson prided himself on not being a worrywart, but now he was having the same thoughts Mike Volner was having.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
KUJIDO ISLAND IN THE YEONPYEONG ISLAND GROUP
November 15, 2245 Korea Standard Time
Master Chief Crabtree had come out and positioned himself just behind the coaming that led out onto the flight deck. It was here that he had a good vantage point along the starboard side of Milwaukee from amidships aft to the stern. It was a cold, quiet evening with the wind slackening from what they had experienced earlier that day. As darkness continued to settle over the island and the grounded ship, he thought he saw a mast appear in the water, but it quickly disappeared from view. It came and was gone so quickly that he was not sure it was ever there. But then he wasn’t thinking all that clearly. He’d just had a confrontation with Commander Jack O’Connor about the staging of the wounded for transfer. Crabtree had wanted to move them to where they could quickly be lowered to the rescue sub. O’Connor had overruled him. “We’re not even sure that sub is going to be here. If and when it does, we’ll move the wounded. Not until then.”
Crabtree had almost called Captain Bigelow, but going over his executive officer’s head ran contrary to what the master chief knew and liked about the Navy. The tension between the skipper and the XO was well known to Crabtree and was becoming apparent to most of the crew. It was not a good thing, to be sure, but Crabtree was not willing to jump the chain of command, at least not yet. Then suddenly, a dark form mushroomed at the starboard side of Milwaukee some twenty feet from the stern. A hatch opened just forward of the middle of the vessel, and three figures poured out. One tossed a grappling iron over the rail to hold the ASDS close alongside Milwaukee, then quickly scrambled aboard. The other two moved fore and aft, each carrying a half-inch mooring line. The forms on deck quickly made the black tube secure forward, then ran back to secure its stern. The ASDS now rested gently on the fenders Crabtree had put over the side earlier that morning.
Moments before, Lieutenant Bill Naylor had brought the ASDS to a dead stop just fifty yards from Milwaukee. Then, taking a sighting on the starboard quarter of the LCS with a periscope that had low-light-level capability, he quickly judged the distance to the ship. He then downed the scope and proceeded to bring the ASDS gently alongside the ship. He knew his craft and his boat that well.
Now that the minisub was made up alongside, more dark figures poured from the hatch and swarmed aboard. The first of them were, once again, dark forms, but these were heavily armed men with assault packs, body armor, night-vision goggles, and weapons. They scattered about the ship and took up security positions. The few who saw Crabtree waiting a step behind the coaming paid him no heed. Then a form dressed like the others but without an automatic weapon, assault pack, or body armor moved onto the deck. Like the others, his face was painted black and he carried only a sidearm—a .45 caliber automatic. The boarding had taken less than a minute.
“Ahoy there, Milwaukee,” he announced in a quiet, confident voice. “Anyone home?”
Crabtree stepped forward and saluted. “Command Master Chief Crabtree here. And you are?”
“I’m Brian Dawson, command master chief. I’ll be orchestrating your redeployment from the garden spot. Is Captain Bigelow about?”
“She’s still on the island, Mr. Dawson. Our wounded, my executive officer, and a part of the crew are belowdecks waiting for the word to begin the transfer.”
“Then we better get cracking, Master Chief. We’ve a lot to do and not a lot of time to do it.”
The transfer of the wounded took close to an hour. The first of the wounded had to be brought aft to the after-mission bay of the LCS, something Dawson immediately noted should have been done earlier. The critically wounded had to be lashed into Stokes litters and lowered out the side of the mission-bay door to the ASDS. Then they had to be unlashed and gently lowered through the top hatch, into the locking collar compartment, and aft to the troop compartment. All this required multiple hands and a great deal of coordination among the Milwaukee crewmen and the ASDS SEALs. Aboard the minisub, Greenville’s medical officer tended to each as they came through the troop-compartment hatch, dispensing meds and starting IVs. It was almost after midnight before the ASDS was loaded and ready to leave the LCS. In addition to the thirteen wounded crewmen, they were able to take only two additional members of the crew. On direct order of Commander Bigelow, Commander O’Connor and Chief Corpsman Picard were those two. Only Picard objected to this initial boarding. Lieutenant Denver remained on board Milwaukee while Petty Officer Collins stayed aboard the sub. As the ASDS took on the added weight of the passengers, close to three thousand pounds, only a skillful reballasting effort by Lieutenant Naylor kept the top of the craft awash during the transfer. Once loaded, the ASDS cast off, submerged, and made its way back to Greenville, a run of close to two hours.
Once the ASDS reached Greenville, it was quickly made up alongside. Because the parent sub had its afterdeck just above the surface, a brow was put over making the unloading much easier than had been the vertical drop from the LCS to the ASDS. It took twenty minutes to get everyone onto Greenville, allowing for twenty minutes of battery-charging time. Air hoses were also put over to top off the ASDS ballast and breathing air. Then it was away and headed back for Kujido Island.
* * *
Mike Volner split his force into two fire teams. Four of his men would remain aboard Milwaukee, where they would take up firing perches on the upper portions of the superstructure. The other three, along with Volner, made their way ashore in the Zodiac, which had just delivered another increment of the LCS crew back aboard their ship. Dawson and Carpenter also went ashore. While the JSOC men took up security positions around the cannery, the two Op-Center men stepped inside. They were met immediately by the captain of Milwaukee.
“You must be Brian Dawson,” she said, extending her hand. “Commander Kate Bigelow. I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you, sir.”
On entering the cannery, Dawson felt like he was entering some kind of medieval dungeon. He was immediately taken with the dampness and the stench of too many people kept in close quarters for too long a time. It was a cramped, depressing, unhealthy place. His first glance at Commander Kate Bigelow told him he was dealing with a courageous lady who was not too far from her breaking point. But when he made eye contact with her, he came up with another calculus. She was a leader who might be tired and beaten down, but she would never be broken. He reflexively took her hand with both of his own.
“Captain, you’ve made a gallant stand here. But now I think it’s time to get you out of here. I have a security team that will take over from your people. When you’re ready, I think it’s time to get all your people back aboard your ship and ready to move out.”
A short distance away, Jesse Carpenter didn’t have to be told what to do. He immediately found Petty Officer Matheson and began to set up his gear. While he did that, Kate Bigelow directed the evacuation of the cannery. Brian Dawson was never far away. The ASDS returned at 0345 and was able to take off eighteen members of the crew, including all the tech reps. This time it made for Santa Fe, which had closed to six miles southwest of the island. That left forty-three on board Milwaukee plus the eight-member JSOC team, the two Op-Center personnel, and a single SEAL lieutenant. If they were quick, they could possibly get one more pickup in before sunrise. The last run or runs would have to be done in the daylight.
* * *
In the weeks since he had met with the handler, Seung Min-jae had been a blur of activity. He told his professors at New York University that his mother was dying of congestive heart failure and that he needed to return to North Korea to arrange for her care. He also had to see to the welfare of his two younger sisters, one of whom was autistic, and his younger brother. Only then could he return to the United States and continue in his prelaw program. Seung was a bright student and something of an extrovert, a ruse he had quietly cultivated in his two-plus years at this American university. His teachers, as well as the NYU school administrators, had bent over backward to accommodate this smart, eager young North Korean student. One of his professors had even quietly asked other teachers and students for donations so Seung could pay for his airfare from New York to Pyongyang as well as his train fare from the North Korean capital to his family home along North Korea’s northwest coast.
It was all a lie, but a lie that served its purposes. Seung dropped his classes and moved from his apartment into the safe house—a fourth-floor walk-up, one-bedroom apartment in a decaying rent-controlled building in New York’s Murray Hill neighborhood. Seung lived in these cramped quarters with his four partners, three men and one woman, all students at other local universities. Now the five of them were together and fully focused on what might come next. The handler had made it clear to Seung Min-jae that they might never be called upon to carry out their mission. Yet if they were, they would be national heroes and their families would be well cared for. If they didn’t, they would return to their studies and await another assignment. Two weeks after they had begun camping in the apartment and evolving their plan, one of the other men began to complain about the uncertainty of the assignment. Seung had asked him to walk outside with him. Once on the street, Seung guided him into an alley, where they had a one-way conversation.
“You will never question me or the supreme leader again. We were selected from among thousands of equally acceptable candidates whose families had the high honor of putting them forward for this worthy undertaking. You will recall I personally vouched for you and Major General Hwa recommended you to the marshal. Do you understand what will happen to your family if you fail in your duty?”
“I … I am…” The man began to reply, but Seung cut him off.
“Shut up, you fucking coward. You will do what I tell you to do, when I tell you to do it, and how I tell you to do it, is that clear?” Seung barked, and as he did, he grabbed both of the man’s shoulders and roughly slammed him against the brick wall in the alley.
“Yes,” was all the man could say through his whimpering.
“Good, now go to the market and get us food for tonight.”
As the man retreated down the alley to do Seung’s bidding, the leader of the sleeper cell paused to ask himself the same question the man had asked him. When would they be called upon? One week after giving him his assignment, the handler produced a 1998 Honda Odyssey minivan for their use. The tired-looking vehicle was designed to blend into the background in New York City’s chaotic, constantly snarled traffic. But it had not spent much time in the city. The handler’s instructions had been explicit regarding where they were to buy the explosives and other materials they needed for their assignment. They had ranged as far west as northern Ohio and as far south as eastern Kentucky to carry out their duties and make their purchases. Then they had carted all this up to the already-cramped apartment, and now they slept with enough explosives to level several city blocks. They would need that much to destroy the building that was to be their target. The handler told Seung he would be informed what his target was to be “in due course,” but he did reveal that their safe house had been selected for its proximity to their intended target. Seung was well aware of the news and knew his country and the United States were in a shooting war. Though he dared not say it to the others, Seung himself was beginning to wonder when they would be called upon to act.
* * *
After receiving the eighteen crewmen from the ASDS, Santa Fe took up a patrol station west of Kujido Island. Greenville’s sister was on a heading of 030, making a mere two knots and listening intently for any surface or submarine activity between the North Korean mainland and the island. It was about to leave station and take a southeasterly heading to join Greenville, which was about to take on board yet another ASDS passenger load when the lead sonarman heard something. He listened for another several minutes to connect what he was hearing to what he was seeing on his visual waterfall display.
“Control room, sonar. I have an underwater contact at zero-one-five, range nine thousand yards.”
“Sonar, control, can you classify it.”
The sonar tech recognized his captain’s voice. “It sounds like a submarine blowing ballast, Skipper. And if I had to guess, it’s a sub that has just surfaced.”
When it comes to underwater acoustics, no one is more practiced or vigilant than the U.S. Navy. Navy submariners have always prided themselves on having the quietest submarine technology and the best underwater listening capability. But this superiority applied only to nuclear-fleet submarine operations. The one hole in their game was finding the quieter diesel submarines. Good as they are, U.S. nuclear submarines have a difficult time finding these smaller submarines when they’re operating inshore and running on batteries. And Santa Fe would not have found this one had it been more careful in blowing air into its ballast tanks to surface—that and the fact that this submarine was all but a museum piece. The captain of Santa Fe knew immediately what he had to do.
“Come to periscope depth and get the communications mast up ASAP. Meanwhile, get me a firing solution on that contact and prepare to put fish in the water on my command.”
There was a flurry of activity aboard Santa Fe, but all was disciplined and professional activity—quiet and purposeful.
* * *
Two miles north northwest of Kujido Island, a Romeo-class North Korean submarine had just surfaced. This one had a large walrus nose that rose from the deck almost as high as the sail. It was a Romeo variant officially classed as a PZS-50 but known in the submarine community as the Ugly Romeo. It had more piping and valves than a Kuwaiti oil terminal. The Romeo was large as far as diesel boats went, displacing close to two thousand tons submerged. Of an ancient Russian design, this Chinese hand-me-down had been modified by the North Koreans to support the landing of special operations teams. From a deck hatch abaft the bulbous nose and another in the forward part of the sail, dark forms poured out like rats from a flooded sewer. They quickly sorted themselves out, produced four inflatable rafts, and put them over the side. After installing outboard engines, thirty-two commandos piled in and turned their small craft south. They had just cleared the side of the submarine when an orbiting Global Hawk drone, alerted by a burst transmission from the Santa Fe, spotted them. But this Global Hawk was unarmed and could only report what it saw back to its controllers.
