The Shark Mutiny Page 21

  Steve was unable to distinguish the rank and station of his new companion, and he was talking fast, in the slightly high-adrenaline way Navy pilots do after a tense landing on a flight deck. But he was a nice guy, born a mile from the runway at the Navy air base in Pensacola, a flier all his career, just like his father before him.

  He inhaled the milk, got up to get another glass and brought back another cup of coffee for his new buddy. Winding down a little, he asked finally, “What’s that first name of yours? I didn’t quite catch it.”

  “Oh it’s just a nickname. The guys all call me Clouds because I’m interested in astronomy. I used to be a navigator. I got kinda used to it.”

  “Hey, that’s cool. Clouds…I love it. You just arrived? Didn’t see you around before.”

  “Yeah, I’m pretty new. Got in a while before midnight. And we’ll be gone by fifteen hundred.”

  Steve Ghutzman hesitated. Then he dropped his lower jaw in mock astonishment. “H-O-L-E-E-E SHIT!” he said. “You’re one of ’em, right?”

  “Guess so,” said Lt. Nathan, smiling. “Guess I’m one of ’em.”

  The pilot knew better than to ask details of a classified SEAL mission, but like most of the 6,000-strong crew of the gigantic Nimitz-Class carrier, he knew there was a SEAL team on board for less than 24 hours, and that they were going into Iran later that day. He knew nothing of the mission, the objective or when they were due to return—just that they were “going in,” God help them.

  Throughout every corner of the U.S. Navy the SEALs were regarded as men apart. And, Jesus Christ, I’m sitting here with one of ’em, right now. Steve Ghutzman was hugely impressed, and he did not know quite what to say. This was a condition to which he was utterly unused, and he just muttered, “You having a little trouble sleeping tonight?”

  The SEAL nodded. “Some,” he said. “This is my first mission. Guess it’s on my mind.”

  “You been in the platoon awhile?”

  “Oh, yeah. Five years now. And I’ve done a lot of training…but you always think of this day…the day you’re going in. And for me that’s today…right now…and I can’t sleep worth a damn.”

  Steve nodded. “They tell you a lot about it before you go?”

  “Everything there is to know. I’ve never even been to the Middle East, but I know what I’m headed for. I know every hill, and every rock. I know how warm the water is and where to be careful. But it doesn’t stop you from thinking about it. Can’t get it off your mind, really.”

  “You think it takes courage, or is it just the training?”

  “Well, I guess it’s mostly the training. But in my case it’s gonna take courage. I don’t really know about the others.”

  “Shit, Clouds, you scared?”

  “Damn right, I’m scared. Wouldn’t you be?”

  “Damn straight I would. But you guys are the best. What do they say, one SEAL, five enemy, that’s fair odds, right?”

  “Seven.”

  Steve laughed. “Hey, you guys are indestructible.”

  “Not quite. We bleed. And we hurt like everyone else. We’re just a bit tougher to get at.”

  Steve Ghutzman drained his glass. “I gotta go. I’m back up there at zero-eight-hundred.” He stood up, stuck out his hand and said, “Hey, it was good to talk to you, buddy. Good luck tonight, wherever the hell you’re going.”

  “Thanks, Steve. We’re staying the hell out of Hell, that’s for sure.”

  1500. Tuesday, May 15.

  The Flight Deck. USS Harry S Truman.

  For the short run out to USS Shark, the 15-strong SEAL team embarked in one of the last of the Navy’s old warhorses, the HH-46D support/assault Sea Knight helicopter. The explosives and other gear had been airlifted in a cargo net four hours previously, and now Rusty Bennett stood at the loading door and saw each of his men aboard.

  They all wore just light pants and olive green T-shirts. They carried their heavy-duty welder’s gloves for the hot-rope drop to the deck of the submarine. It was too hot for them to wear wet suits, and an area had been set aside in the submarine for them to change and prepare for the swim-in during the final hour of the journey up through the partially cleared minefield.

  There were, as ever, the flight-deck crews on the takeoff area as the two rotors on the big white U.S. Marines Sea Knight roared into life. The SEALs had already blackened their faces with waterproof greasepaint, and were just about unrecognizable.

  Among the crowd was Steve Ghutzman, and he just yelled a solitary, “GO, CLOUDS, BABY!” And his voice rang out in the general serious hush that surrounded this departure. But big Lt. Nathan heard him, and he half raised his right hand in response, smiling to himself at his new 20-minute friendship with the Navy Tomcat pilot. For all he knew, he might need Steve’s fighter-attack aircraft not too long from now. The Navy had mounted rescue attacks for missions a lot less dangerous than this one.

  They flew low, out over the calm blue water, toward the waiting submarine. It took less than 15 minutes, and as the Sea Knight hovered above the deck, they all saw the thick rope unravel downward to a point in front of the sail, right behind the long deck shelter on the right, where the miniature submarine awaited them. One by one the SEALs grabbed the rope and dropped fast, away from the aircraft, sliding down 30 feet, before gripping hard with the big rough leather gloves, their brakes, and coming in to land gently on the casing of the Shark.

  Lieutenant Commander Schaeffer led the way, followed by Lt. Dan Conway, then Lt. Nathan, then Petty Officer Combs, then the big Chief Petty Officer Rob Cafiero. The next seven combat rookies came sliding in right behind them, with Commander Rusty Bennett bringing up the rear.

  They were greeted by the Officer of the Deck, Lt. Matt Singer, who hustled them quickly through the door at the base of the sail, and on down the ladder. The hatches were slammed shut and clipped behind them, and Commander Reid ordered Shark to periscope depth heading north.

  “Steer course three-six-zero…make your speed one-five for fifteen miles, then stand by for course change to zero-seven-zero.”

  They all felt the submarine’s gentle turn to due north, settling on a course that would allow them to cleave right through the middle of the now-three-mile-wide “gateway” through the minefield, and then on up the strait until she turned in toward the shore of Iran.

  Lieutenant Commander Dan Headley led them down to a more-or-less empty area in which they could prepare for the mission. He fell into conversation with Rusty Bennett, and mentioned he had a good friend in the squadron…“Guy named Rick Hunter…Commander Hunter now, I believe. He and I grew up together.”

  “Hey, you gotta be from Kentucky, right?” said Commander Bennett. “Rick’s a real good friend of mine. Just left him, matter of fact, down at DG.”

  “That right? I didn’t know he was anywhere near here.”

  “Oh, just Rick and about seven-eighths of the entire United States Navy,” Rusty replied with a chuckle. “I’m telling you, someone in the Pentagon’s awful jumpy about whatever the hell’s going on in the gulf.”

  “Guess so. All we know is what everyone else knows. The Iranians somehow mined the Strait of Hormuz and shut down most of the world’s oil supply.”

  “Big minefield, I understand. That’s gotta be a major worry.”

  “It ought to be,” replied Dan Headley, smiling. “’Specially for you. We’re just about in the middle of it right now.”

  “Shit,” said Rusty. “I knew I shouldn’t have come. Your CO any good?”

  “I don’t really know him well enough to say. But I don’t think he’s hit anything recently.”

  “God forbid he starts now.”

  Both officers laughed. And Shark’s XO asked what Rusty’s men needed between now and the 1900 ETD.

  “They had lunch, steak and eggs, at fourteen hundred,” said the SEAL Commander. “Maybe you could fix a few sandwiches, slices of pizza or something. Just in case anyone’s hungry. But I don’t think many of them will be
. They’ll need a lot of cold water, though. They got a two-hour journey in the ASDV, then a long swim…don’t want them to get dehydrated.”

  “Okay. I’ll get that organized. By the way, you’re not going yourself, are you, sir?” The XO paid due deference to Rusty’s higher rank.

  “Not this time. But I’m gonna help your boys get the ASDV moving, if you think I could help. I’ve done it a few times in my life. And this is a very big vehicle.”

  “I’m sure my crew would appreciate that, sir. The damn things are always difficult. And this one’s the biggest we’ve ever had.”

  “Anyhow, right now I want to talk to the guys while they’re getting ready—so we’ll catch up in a little while.”

  “Good enough, sir. My watch starts in a few minutes. I’ll be in the control room, you need to find me.”

  By now the twelve combat SEALs were sorting out their gear. Each man had his own custom-made wet suit and numbered flippers. Each of them had a Draeger oxygen supply, the special SEAL air bottle that leaves no telltale bubbles on the surface. Each man would carry a knife and Heckler and Koch’s superb light submachine gun, the MP-5, a close-quarters weapon, best inside 25 yards, but perfect for an assault on a nonmilitary establishment. Only Petty Officer Ryan Combs would carry in a bigger weapon, the lethal M-60E4 machine gun. They would carry in, between them, 14 ammunition belts, each containing 100 rounds. Ryan himself would carry the gun, plus two belts, to give him a total weight of 40 pounds to carry. The gun would be used only in a dire emergency if they had to fight their way out of the refinery.

  Ryan would also carry on his back a limpet mine, which he could manage just fine. It was the walk through the shallows that was so worrying. The Draeger is just about weightless in the water, but it weighs 30 pounds in the air, and that gave Ryan Combs very nearly 100 pounds in weight to haul to the beach, which would probably prove too much after a quarter of a mile.

  Rusty Bennett had ordered big Rob Cafiero to step up and share the load of the gun and ammunition if Ryan could not cope. All the SEALs were heavily laden, a bomb or mine for 11 of them. Two for three of them. The fusing wire and detonation devices would be carried by John Nathan. Between them, the SEALs would also haul camouflaged groundsheets, two shovels, wirecutters, clips, plus night binoculars, the lightest possible radio for emergency only, water, high-protein bars and medical supplies. The return journey would be one hell of a lot easier.

  In Rusty’s final briefing back on the carrier, they had debated making a request for the crewman of the ASDV, not the driver, to accompany them in, strictly as a beast of burden, until they reached dry land. But that ASDV was priceless, the only one of its kind, and the CO of the Shark probably would wish to take no chances, leaving it in the hands of just one operator.

  However, if push came to shove, Rusty would insist, and no CO wants to go against the express wishes of a SEAL commander on the edge of a dangerous mission, probably on orders directly from the White House.

  And so they prepared for their final talk together. Spread out before them were the chart and the map. As they pulled on their wet suits in a temperature deliberately turned right down to 50 degrees Fahrenheit, they listened to Rusty, who was saying that the ASDV driver would take the vehicle in as far as possible, until the keel touched the sand.

  “Right then we’ll move into the dry hatch, one at a time; as soon as it floods, each man will drop straight through. The man with the attack board goes first, then his partner drops through and they move immediately, swimming east, bearing zero-nine-zero, until the water gets too shallow to swim comfortably. The six two-man teams rendezvous in the shallows. They should be around five minutes apart. After that, you know what to do.”

  For forty minutes more the SEALs made their final preparations, and at 1750 they began to embark the ASDV, dragging in the gear, each man slipping expertly up through the hatch, finding his allotted seat and placing his equipment in the tight overhead space. The loading took all of half an hour as the SEALs struggled to find a reasonably comfortable position for the two-hour ride inshore in this sturdy 65-foot-long electric submarine.

  Down in the control room Lt. Commander Headley had the ship, assisted by the Sonar Officer, Lt. Commander Josh Gandy, and the Navigator, Lt. Shawn Pearson.

  “Right now I have us at our destination, sir. That’s 26.36N 56.49E on the GPS.”

  “Okay, Lieutenant. Depth?”

  “I was just coming to that, sir. We’ve still got plenty of water. I’m showing ninety feet below the keel, and we’re sixty-five feet below the surface right now. You wanna save the battery on the ASDV, I’m certain we could run in maybe another three miles. This chart’s kinda pessimistic about depth.”

  “You agree with that, sonar?”

  “Yessir. I’m showing total depth right here of just over two hundred feet, and Shawn’s chart gives one hundred seventy. We could certainly go on.”

  “Okay…conn-XO. Make your speed eight, steer zero-four-five…depth six five…call out fathometer reading every five feet.”

  “Aye, sir. We just saved the ASDV a half hour’s battery each way.”

  “Good call, Navigator.”

  At which point Commander Reid entered the control room, looking less than thrilled at the way the submarine was being run.

  “Did you just countermand my orders, XO?”

  “I adjusted our rendezvous point by three miles northeast, sir, because of clear and obvious discrepancies in the chart. We’re still in deep water, and we can save the battery on the ASDV.”

  “The battery on the ASDV is not your concern, Lieutenant Commander. What is your concern is a set of orders, issued to us, by the flag, and signed by me as your Commanding Officer. I do not permit leeway in orders such as those.”

  “As you wish, sir.” Dan Headley looked bewildered. But he replied with a calm demeanor.

  “XO, turn the ship around and return to 26.36N 56.49E. The rendezvous issued by the flag.”

  “Sir, with respect, could we not let the guys out right here, a couple of miles nearer their objective?”

  “I think you heard me, Lieutenant Commander. Turn this ship around immediately and return to our correct position. I have no desire to take my ship any nearer to the shores of Iran than is absolutely necessary.”

  And with that he turned on his heel and walked out of the control room, leaving all three of the ship’s operational officers speechless.

  Shawn Pearson spoke first. “Now that, gentlemen,” he said, “was rather interesting.”

  “If you meant that the way I think you meant it, I do not want to hear any more,” replied the XO, somewhat severely.

  Lieutenant Commander Gandy just shook his head.

  And they all felt the slight lurch as USS Shark made an underwater U-turn and began to transport Rusty Bennett’s SEALs away from their target area.

  Nonetheless, within 20 minutes they were back on station at 26.36N 56.49E, facing the right way, 17 miles southeast of the Chinese refinery, and the underwater deck crew was wrestling the ASDV out of the flooded shelter and clear of the big submarine’s casing.

  Rusty Bennett proved an enormous help to the four-man team, and they shoved the miniature submarine out in near-record time. It was on its way before they blew out the dry-deck shelter, and up in the bow Lt. Brian Sager was conning the little ship in, on instruments only, assisted by his navigator.

  Behind them the SEALs were dry but cramped, and they traveled mostly in silence. The journey was made at six knots all the way, and Brian Sager kept on going well beyond their estimated point of departure at 26.45N 56.57E. He pushed on for another mile and a half, just below the surface, until they gently brushed the soft, sandy bottom, less than three miles from the beach. The sonar on the ASDV had picked up no vessel within 10 miles.

  It was exactly 1900 and growing dark when Lt. Commander Ray Schaeffer, wearing his wet suit, hood up, goggles and flippers on, Draeger connected, attack board in his left hand, slid down into the dr
y compartment, ready for the flooding. Three minutes later he dropped through the hatch into the warm waters of the Strait of Hormuz.

  Ray stared at the compass, breathed steadily and was grateful that his limpet mine, Draeger and weapons seemed to weigh nothing. He tried not to think of the abrupt difference there would be when they hit the shallows.

  Moments later, one rookie combat SEAL, Charlie to his colleagues, knifed downward through the water next to him. Breathing carefully, he placed his right hand on Ray’s wide shoulder. The Lieutenant Commander from Marblehead swung around until the attack board compass told him EAST, and then the two SEALs kicked toward the oil refinery owned by the Republic of China.

  The extra distance covered by Lt. Sager meant the swimmers would essentially run aground inside of two miles. And the two lead SEALs kicked and breathed steadily, swimming about nine feet below the surface, covering 10 feet each time they snapped their flippers. After 30 minutes Ray estimated they had covered 1,200 yards, two-thirds of a mile, and right then nothing was hurting.

  Behind them on Attack Board Two came Lt. Dan Conway, guiding another rookie; Clouds Nathan swam powerfully five minutes back; then Rob Cafiero, then two rookies, both ace swimmers. Last of all swam the tall Petty Officer from North Carolina, Ryan Combs, both hands on his attack board, leading his rookie, who dragged the machine gun in a special waterproof container, which made it nearly weightless.

  The entire operation would have been a thousand percent easier if they had been able to row inshore in a couple of big eight-man inflatables. But senior management at SPECWARCOM had dismissed that as a possibility out of hand…one alert Iranian patrol boat moving through its own waters four miles offshore could, legally, have blown the U.S. Navy SEALs to pieces.