from Pensacola. There was always a heightened feeling of anticipation when a SEAL team was landing, and every one of the 6,000 crew knew that tonight the recce group was going into unknown jungle territory, perhaps to face a foreign enemy. Tomorrow, before dark, the rest. God help them.
The second flight came in with all the professionalism of the first. The SEALs were taken below to a special mess that had been organized for them, and the carrier now turned due south into lonely seas for the five-hour run inshore to a point fifty miles north of Colon, from where the operation would begin.
Lieutenant Commander Peavey, with Lieutenants Green and Slocum, supervised the unloading and the loading of the big CH-53D Sikorsky 47 Navy helicopters, the Sea Stallions that would take the SEALs in, across the Panamanian coastline, and then onward to the lake, down the course of the Chagres River. They would fly over uninhabited rain forest, to a mainland point on the northwest shore of the lake, one mile southwest of the great dam that caused the lake to form in the first place, and almost two miles from the beginning of their target, the downward Gatiin Locks.
The SEALs were all served an excellent breakfast of omelettes, ham, and hash browns, with whole-wheat toast— as much as anyone could eat — before they were led to separate sleeping quarters, all of them having been traveling all night from California.
The recce party would eat again at five thirty in the afternoon, before embarking the Sea Stallion on the first step of the mission at half past eight, just after dark. They would take with them two inflatables, Zodiacs with Yamaha 175 outboards, and compressed air cylinders, six plastic cans of gasoline; paddles; personal weapons; the big machine gun; two radio transmitters; food and water for thirty-six hours; two 100-foot-long steel tape measures; two wet suits; two Draegers, the SEALs' underwater breathing apparatus; a few hand grenades; night goggles; and a half dozen cans of bug spray.
Those remaining on board the Eisenhower until the following evening would attend briefings with the Command Team, and then wait for the early recce report from the lake before turning in for the rest of the night.
The second group would fly off the carrier in two waves, using both Sea Stallions, departing at half past seven. Same route. Same procedures. Objective: unchanged. Hopefully.
That Sunday passed swiftly. The eight-man recce team left the mess hall, having eaten salad, steak, and eggs, followed by fruit salad, then black coffee. They returned to their departure area as the sun was setting, they blackened then-faces, pulled on their 'drive on' caps and bandannas, picked up their heavy bags, light machine guns, and headed for the flight deck led by Patrick Rougeau and Chris O'Riordan.
They boarded the Sea Stallion, which took off immediately, powering into the sky beneath its huge rotors, tipped south, and thundered into the gathering night, straight at the north shore of Panama, now only fifty miles distant.
Twenty minutes later, the helicopter's young navigator picked up the coastline through night goggles, checked the GPS, and located the estuary of the Chagres River. It was only five miles to the lake.
A bright moon lit the way as they came clattering over the gleaming silver path of the river three miles west of the high locks. They could see the lake now, way out in front, a vast expanse of bright water. The pilot kept at least a mile distance between the Sea Stallion and the Gatun Dam, which may have had an armed guardhouse, although the SEAL planners back in Coronado said not.
In fact, the planners back in Coronado considered this to be one of the slackest Third World countries on earth. The National Maritime Service — the Panamanian Coast Guard — has only six hundred personnel and maybe twenty patrol boats to police the entire country, half of them laid up in need of decent servicing.
The country is entirely linear, geographically, with coastlines hundreds of miles long on both the Atlantic and Pacific coasts. To the south lies Colombia and its crime-ridden borders, featuring guerrilla incursions, cross-border drug villainy, refugees, and asylum seekers.
Panama, now without American help, is militarily useless, and certainly, if one of their creaking, lightly gunned Vosper-type patrol crafts had stumbled accidentally upon the SEALs in action… well, if it had been a boxing match, the referee would have stopped it before it started.
Nothing in all of the Panamanian military could possibly cope with the might of even a small number of America's Special Forces. The unknown factor was the Chinese; how many and how well armed were their patrols that guarded the locks. Essentially, that's what the recce group was going in to find out.
The Sea Stallion put down unobserved on the shores of Gatun Lake, one mile west of the Guarapo Islands, a group of many such clusters all through the lake. They throttled back but did not cut the rotors, and disembarked, dragging their equipment out into the hot, damp jungle air.
It was dark now and intermittent clouds covered the face of the moon, for which everyone was grateful, as they began to haul the two inflatables out, six men taking the weight of the outboard engine, using specially constructed canvas handles.
They lowered the two boats to the ground, tested the radios, and instantly the big Sikorsky revved its engine to life and lifted off, moving north as fast as possible so as not to betray the position of the eight Americans working below.
With an inspired piece of navigation, the pilot had landed on a clear stretch of shoreline, about thirty yards deep from the edge of the water, running slightly uphill to a line of trees that sheltered the area from attack from the shore. For the moment, they concentrated on inflating the Zodiacs and carrying one of them to the water's edge.
Lt. Patrick Rougeau detailed two seamen, and a Petty Officer to man the new base, and again he tested the radios. Then he and CPO O'Riordan, in company with PO/2 Brian Ingram from North Carolina and two other combat SEALs, climbed immediately into the boat, filled the gas tanks, and let the others push them out into the lake, paddling for 100 yards before they started the motor and began the quiet journey through the dark toward the Gatun Lock.
There was not a sound on the lake as they chugged forward, steering northeast toward the point on the west corner of the lock's superstructure, where the gigantic concrete edifice met the rough shoreline of the lake.
They crossed the face of the silent Gatun Dam, towering steep into the night to their port side, and they kept going, Lieutenant Rougeau watching the compass, watching for the great shadow of the locks to darken the water.
Up ahead, they could see lights, not many, just a bulb every fifty feet, maybe thirty feet above the water level. They could discern no sign of life, which was more or less what they expected, since the Panama Canal was formally closed to all shipping.
Patrick cut the motor and each of the five SEALs took up a paddle and they silently headed for the beach, tipped up the engine, and dragged the little gray craft into the shadows below the massive wall. CPO O'Riordan took one of the seamen and they cut brushwood and covered the Zodiac. It would be unrecognizable unless you knew it was there.
Each man took his personal weapon and binoculars and headed for the steel ladder that led up to the giant concrete jetties that bounded the lock gates. They carried with them two wet suits, flippers, and two Draegers in case of an accident. The place was absolutely deserted, but they found a square gray building, which overlooked the upper chamber and offered a flight of stone steps to a second floor from which they could easily make the roof and observe the entire downward lock system for all of the hours of darkness.
Five minutes later, they were all on the roof, scanning the complex, trying to discern any sign of life. The only disconcerting problem was the fact that the upper chamber was full, ready to receive a ship. And they wanted it empty.
But there were no ships. And there appeared to be no one in sight. And the five SEALs just waited until one o'clock on that Monday morning, scanning the area, looking for a sign of life.
There was an Ops area on their map, and they could make it out, over on the incoming side. But they could see only two lights burning in there, and no people.
At quarter after one, Patrick Rougeau gave the word, and young Brian Ingram assisted both him and CPO Chris O'Riordan into wet suits. They carried the flippers and the Draegers with them, and began the climb down from the flat roof and onto the jetty that bounded the right side of the giant lock gates (looking toward the lake).
Carefully, the three jet black SEALs made their way across the walkway, crouching, but moving fast. Patrick Rougeau handed the end of the steel tape measure to Chris, while Brian fixed his flippers. And with that the veteran
