“This message says that Admiral O’Flanagan is the subject of a Congressional investigation for recruiting irregularities while he commanded CRUITCOM. The most serious infractions were apparently in South LA. Now we find out that Chief Richey was a recruiter there and he recruited Seaman Martinez. SUBPAC Chief of Staff thinks they falsified the enlistment contract and has directed us to investigate.”
Bill Fagan rose from his desk, stepped into the CO’s stateroom and looked over Hunter's shoulder to read the offending message. Finally he flopped into a seat at the small table against the outboard bulkhead.
“This is great! Just great! Our best chief petty officer and a young kid that we are just beginning to turn into a good sailor caught up in a Congressional witch-hunt. As if we didn’t have enough to worry about, they add this BS,” Fagan ranted.
“XO, conduct a formal Article 15 investigation and give me the results,” Jon Hunter ordered, handing over the message.
“Yes, sir. I’ll appoint the Navigator as the investigating officer. Neither one works for him and he has the experience to do a good job,” the XO replied as he returned to his desk.
16 Jun 2000, 2200LT (1500Z)
The specially configured black MC-130 Combat Talon II flew over the dark empty ocean, just above the wave tops. After hours of tense, low altitude flight, the pilot heard faintly over the low probability of intercept (LPI) radio, “Night Train, this is Black Shark. I hold your IR light bearing one three zero from me. Range twelve. Come left ten degrees. Standby to mark on top.”
After a brief pause “Standby, mark, mark, MARK! Night Train you passed one hundred yards to the Southeast. Ready to receive.”
“Roger, Black Shark. Climbing to angels five to send,” The pilot replied as the big bird climbed and banked through a 180-degree turn.
The huge aft door rumbled down as ten of the twenty black clad figures silently rose and sauntered toward the gaping opening. The faint red light high up on the right side of the door went out and the green one just below it illuminated. The ten casually walked off the end of the ramp and dropped into the blackness.
No sooner than the last figure had dropped, the plane again banked around in a 180-degree turn to repeat the procedure for the other ten passengers. As the last figure dropped, the ramp rumbled shut. The pilot dove the bird back down to wave-top height and sent, “Black Shark, delivered twenty.”
The immediate reply came back, “Night Train, acknowledge receipt twenty. Thanks, good trip home.”
“Black Shark, good hunting. Night Train out.”
“XO, who thinks up these corny call signs? Sounds like something out of a cheap spy novel,” Hunter commented as he stepped back from the scope.
“I don’t know,” Fagan replied as he replaced the red radio handset in its cradle. “My guess is that there is some over-paid, under-worked GS-15 in a closet at the Pentagon whose only job is to come up with these. Hadn’t we better pick up our guests before they think that we are neglecting them? I have the Chief of the Boat with his party standing by in the forward escape trunk.”
“Right. Let’s get this show on the road. Officer of the Deck, All Stop. Prepare to surface,” Hunter ordered and returned to staring through the scope eyepiece. “I can see their IR Chem-lites about a hundred yards off the port bow.”
“Answering All Stop. Ready to surface,” the OOD replied.
The huge submarine glided to a halt a scant few yards from the cluster of men in the water.
“Surface! Surface! Surface!” blared over the 1MC, followed shortly by the blast of high-pressure air forcing the water out of the ballast tanks.
Twenty men huddled closely, clustered together, alone in the black water of the vast empty ocean.
Suddenly they weren’t alone. A massive black shape appeared a few yards away, blocking out the starlit sky.
“Wow, I never get over how they just suddenly appear out of nowhere,” one of the swimmers commented.
“It’s a damn good thing they do. Otherwise, it’s an awful long swim home,” another replied dryly.
“Knock it off and start swimming,” ordered a third.
16 Jun 2000, 2215LT (1515Z)
“On the surface and holding. One inch pressure in the boat,” the Chief of the Watch reported.
“Very well, equalize the ship,” Jeff Miller directed.
The crew realigned the ventilation system so that air came in through the snorkel mast to equalize the air pressure internal to the ship with the outside air pressure. Otherwise, the one-inch pressure differential, which equated to about 250 pounds of force across the escape trunk hatch, was enough to launch anyone trying to open it forcefully out of the ship.
“Zero pressure,” reported the Chief of the Watch shortly.
“Send the party topside,” Hunter ordered.
The coverall-clad figures scurried out the hatch into the moonlight. One threw a short rope ladder down the slick curved rubber coated side of the sub to the swimmers waiting in the water.
Master Chief Hancock reached out to help the first black-clad SEAL up the ladder. “Welcome aboard the cruise ship SAN FRANCISCO. Cocktails are being served on the promenade deck. The shuffleboard tournament will commence on the fantail in twenty minutes.”
“Thanks, COB,” chuckled one of the hulking figure as he scrambled up the ladder, “but where’s the chow and did the Skipper beat my record on the Life Rower?”
“Welcome back aboard, Lieutenant Roland. Hot chow is waiting for you below decks. Saw the Skipper coming forward the other day from using the Life Rower grumbling something about “Damn young upstart SEALs” and “Teaching them respect” so I would venture that your record is gone. Sure wish I could eat like you guys do,” he chortled as he pointed out the slight paunch over
