Operation White Out, page 13
As soon as we lifted off San La Muerte, I called Conqueror on the Secure Gertrude. “Conqueror, this is Mystic. We are returning with thirteen crew members, one seriously injured with a gunshot wound to his chest. The captain voluntarily remained behind. He refused to surrender his logbook and chose instead to go down with his ship.”
“Mystic, this is Teuthis. We monitored your communication with Conqueror. Our sonar just picked up flooding sounds in San La Muerte, followed by a gunshot. We believe Capitán Fernández opened his diesel air intakes to the sea and then shot himself.”
“Conqueror, this is Teuthis. If you believe retrieving the San La Muerte logbook is worth the effort, we can have divers inside the sub within an hour.”
“This is Conqueror. Stand by.”
As we were about to attach to Conqueror’s after hatch, she called us. “This is Conqueror. Their XO tells us that the log is written in waterproof ballpoint. We believe retrieving the logbook is strategically important.”
“This is Teuthis. We will press divers down and move alongside San La Muerte.” After a short pause, “Teuthis to Mystic. Drop off your passengers and rendezvous with Teuthis at San La Muerte.”
As soon as Mystic had secured herself to Teuthis, her crew and I returned our firearms to the COB, and I went to Dive Control. Jimmy, Ski, Jer, and Sergyi were still pressing down.
“Jimmy will tend,” Ham told me. “Ski, Jer, and Sergyi will dive with rebreathers. Jer will remain outside while Ski and Sergyi enter the sub.”
“Sounds like a plan,” I said. “How long have you planned for the dive?”
“Half hour, but whatever it takes.”
Wally launched the Basketball, placing it so we could observe the divers exit the DDC. Not surprisingly, Borysko showed up and nosed his way to the Basketball, bumping it slightly.
“You got company out there,” Ham told the divers.
When they reached 1,000 feet, the divers dropped through the hatch into the pitch-black water, except for the bright circle cast by Wally. Sergyi carried a heavy wrench designed to open most submarine hatches from the outside. Each diver took a moment to scratch Borysko’s tongue and then headed to San La Muerte’s after hatch. Borysko stayed with them before darting to the surface for a breath of air. Sergyi inserted the crank-like wrench end into the socket in the middle of the hatch. Since the inside pressure was the same as outside, he did not anticipate any difficulty turning the wrench.
“It won’t turn,” Sergyi said, his voice distorted by pressure, helium, and the through-water comm set. “I think the captain jammed the handle.”
Ham looked at me. “What do you think?” he asked.
“The sub’s got two more entrances,” I answered. “He jammed the after hatch. He probably also jammed the Control Room hatch, but he could not have accessed the Torpedo Room hatch.”
“So,” Ham said, “the divers can enter the Torpedo Room hatch, open the Torpedo Room watertight door and enter the sub.”
Ham was about to tell the divers when Ski said, “We’re going through the Torpedo Room.”
Ski and Sergyi had no problem entering through the Torpedo Room. They found the captain in full dress uniform, sitting in the captain’s chair in the Control Room with a gunshot through his temple. Sergyi patted his body down and discovered the logbook, sealed in a plastic bag inside his dress tunic.
“Why plastic bag?” Sergyi asked. “Why not destroy?”
“His legacy, guys, it mattered to him,” Ham said over the circuit.
At noon on day forty-eight, right after the divers locked back into the DDC, Seth got Teuthis underway for Mare Harbour. It would take us four days and seven hours to transit the 820 nautical miles. The four divers would only have decompressed halfway when we arrived and would not surface until after we had departed for Thurston Island.
The transit to Mare Harbour was entirely uneventful. Sonar picked up three fishing vessels and twice thought they heard Conqueror without confirmation. Waverly tied us alongside Conqueror about 2200 on day fifty-two and turned the watch over to Wilbur.
For the last three hours, while the photographer’s mate had been photographing every page of the San La Muerte logbook, I examined a ComSubLant top secret message. Submarine communication equipment is very capable of sending any kind of text, encrypted or not, but it has limited ability to send images. It is marginally possible to send images by using the Teletype letters and symbols to create light and dark areas on a page that appear much like a fuzzy newspaper photo. The message in my hand was such a photo of Lt. Heather Wells along with her physical description: 5 feet five inches, 140 pounds, short brown hair, brown eyes. The image did not match in any detail the Heather I knew. Obviously, something was wrong, but I wanted—needed—more information before drawing any conclusions.
When the photographer’s mate finished filming the logbook, he brought it to me. I put it on my bookshelf and grabbed a couple hours of sleep. I wanted to be present for the prisoner transfer.
USS TEUTHIS—MARE HARBOUR, FALKLAND ISLANDS
A Navy ship operates around the clock, even in port. So, a few minutes after midnight—about two hours after we docked—I was topside, bundled against the cold night air, observing twenty-four San La Muerte crew and four officers mustering topside on Conqueror under her XO’s supervision. Someone in Heather’s outfit had supplied plastic cuffs that Conqueror’s armed COB was placing on all the enlisted crew, hands forward for comfort instead of behind their backs. He linked them together with a light line. The officers continued their parole on their word as officers.
The officers walked down the brow to the dock, rendering proper honors. The crew shuffled across the deck and brow, looking miserable and despondent. Whatever jubilation they might have felt at being rescued off their stricken submarine probably vanished with the reality of their being taken prisoner by the British sub.
I returned below to my stateroom for another couple hours of sleep filled with ominous dreams where Kate morphed into Heather who morphed into a decaying body in a shallow grave. About 0430, the duty runner, Seaman Aiken Beverton, knocked quietly on my door and opened it. He handed me a cup of Joe and a large brown envelope.
“Thanks, Bever. I really appreciate the coffee.”
“No sweat, Sir,” Beverton said, shutting the door quietly behind him.
I sipped my coffee, stood, and splashed water on my face, and sat at my desk to examine the contents of the envelope.
It was a high-resolution facsimile of Lt. Heather Wells. I shook my head in dismay. There was no mistaking it. My Heather was a tall, slender, blue-eyed blond, weighing in at no more than 120. The Lt. Heather Wells in the facsimile was short and stocky with brown hair and eyes. There was not the slightest chance one could be mistaken for the other.
Furthermore, the included report informed that a decomposing body matching the real Lt. Wells’ description had been found near Norfolk, Virginia. The coroner placed time of death at about the time the Mare Harbour SOSUS team received its training in Norfolk.
I was shocked, devastated, mortified. I sat at my desk for thirty minutes, sipping on my now cold coffee, reading the report over and over. Only one question remained: Whom did the fake Heather Wells work for—Argentina or the Soviets?
I could see no reason to awaken the skipper before his scheduled time. I sat in the Wardroom, sipping coffee and rereading the report. Shortly before 0600, the skipper entered for a cup of coffee.
“Skipper,” I said, “you need to see this.” I handed him the envelope.
He sat at the Wardroom table, slipped the contents from the envelope, and slowly perused the material. He looked at me and shook his head.
“Mac, with you, everything seems bigger than life. I don’t remember anything you’ve done that was just routine—normal.” He paused, scowling at me. “This is a major fuck-up. I don’t mean just you personally, but generally for the mission. Maybe you had no way of knowing, but Je-zus, the Teuthis executive officer, sleeping with a Soviet spy!” He shook his head again. “You were thinking with your dick, Mac, like any enlisted sailor on liberty. Tell me you didn’t discuss our operations.”
“Only on a strict need-to-know basis as it related to the onshore operation here. I would have discussed that with whomever was in charge.” I truly wasn’t defending myself, but even to my own ears, this sounded like it.
I came to my feet. “Skipper, I want to handle the arrest. Can you arrange it?”
“I’ll see what I can do, Mac. Je-zus…”
Whatever the skipper did worked. I crossed Conqueror’s brow at 0700 to meet a bundled-against-the-wind, but very pretty Heather. I carried my Walther in a shoulder holster under my left arm. Heather took my arm and walked me to her Land Rover. As we climbed in, a large truck arrived carrying fresh meat, produce, and other supplies for the remainder of our operation.
Heather leaned over and kissed me. Despite myself, I responded. As she commenced driving, I patted my right breast where the report nestled in my jacket pocket. When we entered her quarters, she threw her arms around my neck, giving me a ferocious kiss. I placed my hands on her shoulders and gently moved her against the bed.
“We need to talk, Heather,” I said and sat her on the bed.
I slipped off my overcoat and reached into my right jacket inner pocket. The report papers, including the image of the real Heather, were folded lengthwise. I handed them to her. She opened the papers and blanched. Her mouth opened, and she looked up at me in shock.
“This can’t be,” she said, her voice filled with anguish. “You can’t believe this. I’m Heather…someone is framing me.” Tears filled her eyes. “You know me!”
At that moment, I hesitated. Do I really know her? What’s real, the documents in front of me, or her words and my heart?
As these thoughts filled my head, and I wavered, she fell to her left side, reaching under her pillow. Before she could bring her little Beretta to bear, my Walther filled my hand with a bead on her forehead. I had made up my mind.
“Not this time, Heather. You took out Navarro before he could talk. That won’t happen again.”
She moved slightly, but I anticipated her move and struck her left upper arm forcefully with my Walther barrel. She dropped the Beretta and rolled over, crying.
I whistled loudly, and three Royal Marines entered her door, weapons at the ready. I gestured, and a marine handed me plastic cuffs.
“Turn around, Heather,” I said, “hands behind you.”
I cuffed her hands tight, even pulled an extra stay. I didn’t want her to have any opportunity to play games with her former marines.
“I really thought we had something,” I said to her, my heart aching. “You’re a real piece of work!”
As they marched her out, she turned toward me. “Пошел на хуй!” (poshel na khuy) [Fuck you!], she hissed in Russian and spat at me.
I walked back to the dock, savoring the morning air. Part of me hurt—I had really fallen for Heather, but I also knew she had conned me big time. The skipper was right—I had been thinking with my dick. I was lucky things had turned out as they did. I would not be receiving an official reprimand, although the skipper would have been totally within his rights. Obviously, I still had to work out some things inside my own head. Something like this simply couldn’t happen again.
Out in the cove, Borysko whistled and turned a big flip. I’m not sure how he recognized me, but he did. When I crossed over to Teuthis, he lifted himself out of the water and gave me his tongue. Some loyalties remain, I whispered to myself and clutched Kate’s ivory cylinder safely nestled in my trouser pocket.
USS TEUTHIS—UNDERWAY FOR THURSTON ISLAND
As we departed Mare Cove, Conqueror sounded her ship’s whistle to wish us farewell, and a significant portion of the garrison personnel came to the dock to see us off. Borysko did his usual, to everyone’s delight, and headed out the harbor before us. Overhead, dark clouds roiled in from the west, telling us the sooner we submerged, the more comfortable would be our ride.
Waverly took us out of the harbor and set our course to 110 degrees. Within the hour, as soon as the water was sufficiently deep, Seth took us to 300 feet. We were on our way to a location never before visited by a US submarine, Thurston Island. This was a short leg to get us south of the Patagonia Shelf—just forty-seven nautical miles, five hours.
At 1700 on day fifty-three, Seth dropped Teuthis to 500 feet and set course 208 degrees for the first leg of our ten-day transit to Bellingshausen Sea, just north of Thurston Island, where we planned to lay the third SOSUS array.
PART TWO
Thurston Island
USS Teuthis transit from the Falkland Islands to Bellingshausen Sea
CHAPTER NINE
BELLINGSHAUSEN SEA
USS TEUTHIS—BELLINGSHAUSEN SEA
There is something to be said for traveling at 500 feet in Antarctic waters. Sonar detected no contacts during our entire five-day transit. Because we were carrying Mystic, we were limited to ten knots, of course. Otherwise, we could have traveled at flank the entire distance, making it a four-day trip—if we dropped to 1,000 feet. One problem in these waters is the nearly continuous presence of large icebergs. They come in two styles, tabular and otherwise. The typical tabular iceberg drops down anywhere from 300 to 900 feet. You do not want to hit these ice walls at flank or at ten knots, for that matter. We traveled with our forward-looking ice sonar activated continuously. We identified three icebergs, one north of us, one south of us, and one in our path. It looked pretty big, so we dropped to 700 feet and passed well clear of it.
During the transit, Seth spent two more hours with me in my stateroom taking another exam. I recognized fewer of the symbols on this exam than on the others, and Seth took longer than usual to complete the exam. He was about to give it to me when he snatched it back. After thirty more minutes he heaved a sigh of relief and handed me his third perfect score.
“I nearly screwed up,” he said. “It’s like navigation—you screw up, and bad things happen.”
Seth was finishing up our eighth day of transit. He was on course 236 degrees at 700 feet when Sonar called.
“Conn, Sonar, we have a new contact dead ahead, drifting left, designate Sierra-eight-seven. The contact has suppressed cavitation. We’re trying to identify it now.”
Seth turned left and slowed to five knots for four miles, giving Sonar a broad base for their observation. Twenty-five minutes later, Sonar said, “Conn, Sonar, Sierra-eight-seven is a Chinese Han Class nuclear fast-attack. She bears zero-zero-five, on a course of two-six-three at five knots, range one-three-zero nautical miles.”
I was in my stateroom with the door open so I could hear the conversation between Control and Sonar. The words Chinese Han Class got my attention. I walked down the passageway and turned left into Sonar. Godfry Mason was the supervisor.
“Did you call King?” I asked as I stepped into the darkened room.
“He sure did,” King said behind me with a chuckle. “I know these guys by sound and sight, but I never seen one.”
Mason pointed to the loose-leaf binder on the table and handed each of us a headset. It was a submarine, all right, noisy, too.
“This guy’s a hundred thirty miles out?” I asked. “He’s pretty noisy.”
“The ChiComs started making these in the sixties,” King said. “The Soviets were helping them. Then Mao Tse Tung had some kind of spat with Khrushchev, and the Soviets pulled out of the deal. The ChiComs had some real reactor problems, so they didn’t commission the first one ’til 1974—the Long March-1 (401). In my briefing for this operation, the spooks told me that 401 was not really operational until just a couple of years ago. They got three of these suckers in service with a couple more to come.
“They got radiation problems, noise problems, and their sonar sucks. They got six torpedo tubes in the bow and can carry eighteen torpedoes or thirty-six mines or some combination of both. They also got three C-801 missiles that launch vertically from the sail when surfaced. These are like the French Exocets—twenty-five-mile range, inertially guided with active radar at the end of flight, a hundred pounds or so of high explosive.”
“Thanks, King. That’s a lot of information you are carrying around.”
“I just like this shit, that’s all.”
It was mid-afternoon. The skipper was in his chair on the periscope stand, giving Sonar sufficient time to get a handle on S-87. I took the submarine book out to him.
“This is what we’ve got,” I said and then briefed him on what we knew about the Han Class in general.
“We don’t know which one this is?” he asked.
“They’ve got three. 401 and 403 just went operational recently. 401 may be the more sophisticated of the three because of her long workup time. 402 has been operational since 1980. Which is Sierra-eighty-seven? Right now, it’s just guessing.”
“A more important question,” the skipper said, “is why one of three operational ChiCom nukes is in the Bellingshausen Sea?”
I thought for a while. “The most obvious reason is our activity. The ChiComs and Soviets aren’t exactly bed partners, but they have common goals.” I was silent for a bit. “Heather could not have known about our Thurston Island operations. If they’re here because we’re here, there’s a serious leak further up the food chain.”
“It seems a bit unlikely, but I agree with your conclusion,” the skipper said thoughtfully. “What if they don’t know anything about us and our operation? What would that mean?”
I gave that some thought, examining the possibilities. “I guess that would mean there is something else going on down here, something that holds the interest of the ChiComs,” I said finally.
The skipper nodded, smiling. “Let’s operate on the assumption that both are true—that they know about us, and that something is going on down here that interests the ChiComs.”
