CHAPTER 28 USS CARL VINSON LOCATION CLASSIFIED
The transfer off the Chuckie V was scheduled for night. The ship went under a radio silence protocol restricting all outgoing and incoming traffic to only the necessities like location beams and essential updates. Nonvital crewmen were sent below decks and even internet access was limited for off-duty swabbies for the next six hours as the big boat ran dark over a looking glass sea. The water was calm despite a steady driving rain. But even the simplest actions at sea could get complicated and the nearly moonless night didn’t help matters. The submarine that surfaced three hundred yards off their port stern was visible only as an intermittent gleam on the water. No lights showed from its tower or masts except one linking UV lantern. The team assembled amidships on a hangar deck open to the sea. Sailors hustled around a small Mark V transport boat with a salty E-6 loudly criticizing their speed and dexterity as well as their parentage and sexual preference. The sailors were securing the boat to the davits that would swing it out over the water and lower it to the sea with the SEALs and boat crew inside. There was a hot wind blowing in through the broad opening. It was heavy and sticky and the team was breaking a sweat in their summer-weight blues and the life jackets the skipper of the Vinson insisted they wear. The captain had all the respect in the world for the swimming abilities of his guests but he wasn’t taking any chances. It was his duty to see the team safely on their way and he was going to see that duty done to the letter of his sealed orders. “I can already smell jungle,” Flame said. “You’re crazy,” Manny said. “We’re twenty miles of the coast at least.” “I can just about smell it too,” said Chili with his eyes closed. “Mold and rotting fruit. You grew up smelling buses, Manny. Your nose is ruined.” “You’d think it’d be big enough to smell that far,” Manny said and touched his nose; an impressive
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honker that hooked to one side after being broken a dozen or so times in training, play and combat. The transport was ready and they boarded it and then loaded aboard a pile of thick canvas gear bags and long steel cases with the help of the swabbies. This was their arms and armor, medical kits, clothing, rations and more. Even more gear would be waiting for them on the sub. Daneker and Davies watched as they were cast off. They would remain on the Chuckie V to monitor the team’s progress and provide any intel support and interpretation they could. Blair Freeman was absent. He was off in his hidey-hole using the excuse of having to stay updated on the target area in order to miss the team’s send-off. Manny and the others were glad of that. The fucker was a jinx as well as a posturing jackass. They could only hope he’d done his homework this time. Daneker and Davies would be here to keep him focused. The crane’s electric motors whined as the transport dropped toward a sea lapping up along the waterline of the becalmed aircraft carrier. A susurrating hiss of spray nearly drowned out all other sounds as the heavy rain struck the gentle roll of the sea. Lines were quickly cast off as the transport was unlimbered and motored away into the night toward the unseen sub. A pair of E-4s piloted them outbound with another four crew members along to assist. They wore goggles that would expose the ultra-violet running lights the sub was now flashing from its stern, bow and tower masts. The pilots said as little as possible beyond keeping the team apprised of their progress and took the ultrasecret nature of this business and their part in it very seriously. The night and rain turned the range of visibility to the hand in front of their faces. A silhouette soon appeared on their bow as an enormous black object against the dark of the starless, overcast night. It was the tower of the USS Henry M. Jackson, an Ohio-class ballistic missile sub. It seemed fixed in the calm sea as surely as if it were somehow bolted to the ocean floor. The tower rose high above them. They came alongside and the crewmen on the transport prepared a boarding ladder and swung it over the Jackson’s deck where it was secured by men aboard the sub. The ladder rested on wheels on the sub side to allow for roll but the sea remained practically still. As they crossed one at a time over the gangway stretched between the decks, the team could see a pair of safety divers waiting on the sub’s deck in case one of them fell into the chop between boats. So, the Jackson’s skipper was going to be as much of a mother hen as the Chuckie V’s was. Next their gear was handed over in a carry chain from SEAL to submariner and stacked as the crew greeted the SEALs with a terse exchange of coded challenges and responses in the unlikely event that a US Navy transport had been hijacked by pirates on the same night a nuclear submarine just happened to surface in the middle of fuck-all on a dark and stormy night. And the team sure looked like pirates. The weeks aboard the Vinson allowed their beards to grow in thicker. Even Flame’s orange red fuzz had turned to an impressive Viking goatee with a bushy mustache tailing down either side of his mouth. They were shown below but not before catching a glimpse of what would be their own personal ride on this trip. Secured on the rear deck of the Henry Jackson, just forward of the tail fin and aft of the tower, was a thirty foot long shape that was about eight feet high and roughly tubular. Unseen beneath it was a special hatchway that would allow access from within through the aft deck of the submarine while submerged. The details of the object were impossible to see as the whole thing was covered by a tarp tied over it and dogged down to the deck. This was the Carp; the vehicle that would carry the team up river.
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Their ride was a highly modified and advanced version of the ASDS; the Advanced Seal Delivery System. It was nicknamed The Carp. It was basically a miniature submarine that could fit six men and their equipment. It ran on two ultra-quiet electric motors powered by hydrogen energy cells. It was a “dry” vehicle which meant that the pilots and crew stayed dry inside while in transit. But this version had the option of going “wet” as well; the interior could be flooded to take on weight and go to greater depths. It had an outside range of two hundred miles at a top speed of nine knots. That range would be reduced as the boat fought the swift current of the river at full monsoon surge. It could remain submerged for twelve hours. The crew breathed an atmosphere mixed from oxygen tanks on board or could raise a pair of snorkels fore and aft to extend the submersion time. The Carp was equipped with sonar, FLIR, GPS, and 360 video imaging. They’d rely on the sonar more than anything else in the dark, silt-choked waters of the Sarawak jungle. The mini-sub was shallow draught and could remain fully concealed under the surface in as little as ten feet of water as long as the water wasn’t clear. That wouldn’t be a problem with the Sarawak at this time of year. The jungle river was a tawny brown for its entire length, swollen with muddy run-off from the highlands to the east and south. The little sub made for cramped quarters but it was warm and dry and conserved the team’s full physical strength for the fight at the end of the trip. It was highly classified and the silent branch of the Navy’s version of a stealth fighter. The skipper of the Jackson greeted the team as their gear was being stowed. He introduced his XO who took over as the captain returned to the control deck. “We’re housing you in the senior ratings bunks,” the XO said as he led them forward and down one level. “We don’t really have room for guests so the officers will be hot bunking in the junior berths.” “Don’t mean to put you out,” Heath said. “It’s just for a day,” the XO said. He showed them to their bunks where their bags and cases were already stacked making a tight space even tighter. Re-Pete took a quick inventory. “The galley’s open 24/7 for you guys,” the XO said. “You can eat or sleep but our orders are to restrict the crew’s access to you.” “The less they know the better,” Heath said. “We want to take a look at the Carp as soon as possible,” Manny said. “No problem,” the XO said. “This is your show. We have some gear waiting for you. It’s in sealed trunks and was stowed aboard at Pearl. You get your personal gear squared away and I’ll take you back to your mini.”
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Manny and Heath climbed up a drop-down ladder and up through a hatch in the ceiling of the engine room at the stern of the Jackson. A second hatch awaited them at the top of a turnout chamber curved to follow the shape of the sub’s hull. They undogged the second hatch and clambered up into the Carp’s interior. The sub was dark and Manny used the narrow beam from pencil flash light to find his way to the pilot station where he flipped on the interior lights. The hull was painted white to improve visibility and relieve some of the claustrophobic feel of being inside a steel can getting crushed on all sides by millions of tons of water. The
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pilot station was set at side by side in the bow of the boat. Two rows of two seats each sat bolted to the deck with a flat area for storage and a narrow aisle between the seats. Manny and Heath did a quick but thorough check to make sure the Carp was tight and dry. There’s always some water inside any submersible vehicle but they needed to be sure it was condensation and not sea water coming in from the outside. The next time out was the mission. There was no time for a shakedown. The rest of the team handed up gear and Heath secured it in hatches set in every available inch of the bulkhead. What couldn’t fit in the hatches he secured to the deck with bungees. Manny sat in one of the pilot seats and did a run-through of the mini-craft’s detection gear. He stripped off the plastic inspection bands from levers and handles. Sonar, radar, video, and sat connections were all running to standard as he did a soft check. He couldn’t really activate the sonar and send a ping through their host. He ran diagnostics to check levels on compressed air, energy cells and ballast. Everything was optimal just as it was when it was secured to the Jackson by the boats team at Pearl. They’d load reserve cells aboard before putting off. “This sucker’s unforgiving in the roominess department,” Heath said, stooped over with his head touching the ceiling. “Reminds me of the last time I rode coach on Delta. We’re going to have to figure out a system for stretching so we don’t have problems with cramps and thrombosis.” “Maybe we should have a midget SEAL team,” Manny said while making minor adjustments. “Why don’t you climb up in Tolliver’s lap and suggest that, little man?” Heath said. “Funny. We have everything we need?” “And a bunch of shit we don’t.” “Better to have it and not need it,” Manny said and climbed out of the pilot seat. “We’re at the weight limit,” Heath said. “Might have to dump some of this for the ride back or use up our air reserves for ballast.” “We’ll trade out when the job is done. I’m still not looking forward to the return trip with all eyes looking for us. We’re going to be exposed for a lot of time after tearing up Tombstone. The Malaysian army aren’t pussies.” “But they’re spread thin,” Heath said. “Our option is to blast this tub to bits and helo out. Damn shame to scuttle this many taxpayer dollars on purpose.” “I guess. You worried about this run, Heath?” “I worry when it’s time to worry. That way I don’t have time to worry.” “Yeah. Can’t waste energy trying to think of everything that can go wrong.” “We make things go wrong for the bad guys,” Heath said. “We go in, kill everybody and come home. Greatest job in the world, bro.”