Yuri was beat. Meaningful sleep eluded him during the eight hour flight from Joint Base Pearl Harbor-Hickam to Yokota Air Base. The C-17 Globemaster III touched down at the U.S. Air Force and Japan Air Self-Defense Force base near Tokyo at eight o’clock the previous evening.
After deplaning at Yokota, Yuri climbed aboard a bus with two dozen other passengers from the C-17—a mix of sailors, Marines and civilians. After a two hour bus ride, he arrived at the Yokosuka Naval Base. Yuri was assigned a room at the base guest quarters. He managed to sleep six hours but it wasn’t enough.
Yuri was seated in a well-worn chair in the lobby of an unremarkable two story building that could have been located on just about any U.S. military base worldwide. The receptionist—a brawny Marine with a sidearm—offered Yuri coffee, which he happily accepted. He needed the caffeine.
Yuri was on his last sip when a familiar face appeared. “Good morning,” Jeff Chang said.
“Hi Jeff,” Yuri said, addressing the CIA officer.
Jeff was on the same flight as Yuri. Jeff’s boss, Steve Osberg, along with Captain Clark returned to the East Coast. Commander Arnold spent a couple of days with his family in Honolulu before flying back to Guam to oversee the repairs to the Tucson.
“Sleep okay?” Chang asked.
“So so.”
“Jet lag sucks.”
“For sure.”
Chang gestured to a nearby door. “Well, the team’s here and they’re all eager to meet you.”
Here it comes! Yuri thought.
* * * *
The conference room turned out to be a windowless twenty-foot by thirty-foot room with a couple of folding tables pushed together in the center surrounded by a dozen empty chairs. The room’s occupants were clustered in a far corner standing beside another waist high table. They were all dressed in civilian attire, blue jeans and T-shirts and short sleeved Hawaiian shirts.
Yuri and Chang approached the U.S. Navy SEALs.
“Gentlemen,” Jeff Chang said, “I’d like to introduce you to our consultant, John Kirkwood.”
The five man unit with the codename Ghost Riders turned away from the table. Yuri caught a glimpse of the scale model on top of the table.
The closest man approached Yuri. “Brent Andrews,” he said. The officer was about Yuri’s age. Beefy, he was clean shaven and his black hair cut to regulation length.
As Yuri shook Andrews’s offered hand, Jeff Chang chimed in. “Lieutenant Commander Andrews is the team leader.” Andrews graduated in the top ten percent of his class at Annapolis, which allowed him to select his career path—U.S. Navy Special Operations.
“Nice to meet you Commander,” Yuri offered.
“Likewise.”
Yuri exchanged greetings with the other team members, each man only offering his first name or handle. They were a motley crew ranging from a Texan who followed the rodeo circuit before enlisting to a rich kid Malibu surfer who managed to “hang ten” whenever he could. All were at minimum chief petty officers (E-7). As special operators, the Ghost Riders were not subject to normal U.S. Navy grooming standards. Facial hair and extended manes were tolerated. Their age ranged from late twenties to early forties. Each man appeared exceedingly fit; their well muscled shoulders, biceps, thighs and calves reflected a rigorous regime of weight lifting and running.
The group reassembled at the tables. Jeff Chang dimmed the room lights and commenced the briefing, standing beside a slide projector. “Well, gentlemen,” Chang said, “I know you’re all curious about the mission.” Other than Lieutenant Commander Andrews, all the team knew was the mission would take place in Southeast Asia. Chang glanced at those assembled and dropped the nuke. “We’ll be operating in China.”
A rush of suppressed mutterings issued from the SEALs; the men clearly taken aback at the news. None had operated inside Chinese territory.
The first PowerPoint slide appeared on the wall-mounted screen. Yuri instantly recognized the image: a bird’s eye view of the southern shoreline of Hainan Island.
“This is an overview of the area where our objective is located.” Chang used a handheld laser pointer to highlight the slide. “This is the city of Sanya on China’s Hainan Island. It borders the South China Sea.”
Chang clicked a new slide: a blowup view of the southern section of the previous photo, highlighting the shoreline. “This is the objective area. It’s called Shendao.”
“That’s a huge pier! What’s it for?” asked CPO Don Dillon aka Driller. He had the longest hair of the group; mahogany locks secreting his ears. Due to his good looks, toned physique and his youth—just twenty-eight, he could have been a cover model for a bestselling romance novel.
Chang said, “Shendao serves as the designated aircraft carrier homeport for the PLAN’s South Sea Fleet.”
Senior Chief Aaron Baker spoke next. “Isn’t there another naval base nearby?” The thirty-seven-year-old burly African-American with a grizzled beard and a jet-black thatch hailed from Atlanta. Baker secured the moniker of “Runner” from the marathons he ran for fun when off duty.
“Correct,” Chang said. He returned to the first slide. Using the remote he lased the right side of the photo. “This area is where the Yulin Naval Base is located. A huge facility that moors both surface combatants and subs.”
Chang returned to the Shendao photo. He highlighted an area of the uplands near where the aircraft carrier pier connected with the shore, circling the pointer’s laser dot around the south end of a large building. “The entrance to the objective is located in this section of the building. It runs underground in a tunnel that leads to a cavern carved out of rock inside the hillside. The cavern functions as the operations center for a new ASW system the Chinese are in the process of deploying in the South China Sea. Your job, gentlemen, is to get me inside that center so I can get access to the computer system.”
“How big is this op center?” asked Master Chief William “Wild Bill” Halgren. The most senior member of the team, the Texan was also the largest at six-foot four and 240 pounds. Cleanshaven with an old school crew cut, Halgren could have easily fit in during the nineteen fifties and early sixties. He earned his handle from his pre-Navy cowboy stint, competing as a saddle bronc rider and a bull rider. Hardened from wrestling half-ton beasts determined to maim him, Halgren aced BUDS—Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training at Coronado, California, launching his esteemed military career.
“Sorry Master Chief,” Chang said, “we don’t have intelligence on what’s inside. We’ll have to play it by ear.”
That comment generated another collective groan from the assembled.
“Well excuse me, sir,” Halgren said, “that means we won’t have a clue as to what we’re up against. That’s not acceptable.”
Lieutenant Commander Andrews joined in. “Master Chief, both Command and I understand your concern. We don’t like it either but given the circumstances, we have no choice but to go in blind.”
Halgren folded his arms across his chest. “What circumstances, sir?”
Andrews took a couple of seconds to compose his response. “This will be a tough mission. And you all deserve to know what’s at stake.” He scanned the others sitting around the table. “The Chinese have developed a radical new weapon that is designed to takeout our subs. One of our Los Angeles class boats was attacked a couple of weeks ago in the South China Sea. It came within a whisker of sinking.”
Several expletives were muttered. Andrews resumed, “Gentlemen, our goal is to obtain as much intel as we can on how the system works so that our people can come up with countermeasures. Right now, we have nothing, which means our entire game plan for dealing with the PLA Navy in Southeast Asia is in jeopardy.”
Jeff Chang continued the briefing. A blowup of a spy satellite photograph of Shendao filled the screen. It depicted the offshore waters of the Chinese naval facility. “As you can see, the offshore breakwater system protecting the carrier pier has two openings. The gaps allow vessel ingress and egress to the harbor area.”
“What’s the water depth at those entrance channels?” asked Halgren.
Chang said, “Around fifteen meters, which should allow covert access for an SDV, especially when running at night.”
The muscular blond with a bushy beard piped up next. “What kind of bottom sensors can we expect?” CPO Ryan Murphy, aka Malibu Murph, was the team’s tech-head. One of his specialties was defeating underwater intruder detection systems. Having spent much of his early privileged life surfing, skin diving and lifeguarding, Murphy was also right at home with in-water SEAL operations. He was adept at operating the U.S. Navy underwater craft used to transport the Ghost Riders—the SDV aka SEAL Delivery Vehicle. Also comfortable underwater, Runner and Driller shared Murphy’s skillsets. Wild Bill, on the other hand, a true landlubber, stomached wet ops, leaving driving of the SDV to the other team members.
Chang responded to Murphy’s inquiry. “We don’t have any specifics on bottom sensors but suspect sonar based anti-diver systems are in place.” The CIA officer looked Yuri’s way. “John, perhaps you’d like to jump in here.” Chang addressed the team. “Our guest has actual knowledge of the Sanya area.”
Yuri cleared his throat. He gazed at the team members sitting around the table. “Gentlemen, you can expect that this facility will have the best underwater detection system that money can buy. Your submersible vehicles are well designed and stealthy but I do not recommend trying to penetrate this harbor through the channel openings in the seawall system. Your vehicle will likely be detected and attacked by a swarm of unmanned patrol boats—drones. It’s highly doubtful that your minisub would survive such an attack. And your mission, of course, would fail before it started.”
“With all due respect, sir,” Halgren said, “what do you know about our equipment and capabilities? And just how do you know what the Chicoms have at this place?”
Yuri turned toward Chang for direction. Jeff nodded. Yuri looked back at Halgren. “About a month ago, I ran an op at the Yulin Naval Base, just down the coast from Shendao. We came in underwater in a mini, deployed from an attack sub…a Russian boat named the Novosibirsk out of Vladivostok.”
“Holy shit,” muttered Master Chief Halgren. “Who the hell are you?”