man in his mid-thirties jumped from the side and approached Peter with a hand extended to help with his bag. “How are you, sir? My name is Commander Jack Growley. I’m the CO of ST2. Let’s get you aboard.”
“Thanks, Commander. How soon will we lift off?”
“Most of the equipment is aboard. My men and the flight crew are securing everything now, so we should be wheels up in less than ten minutes. I’ll go over the equipment list with you in the air, and my men will show you how to operate everything.”
“Great. Let’s get aboard.”
The C17 Globemaster III was the newest transport aircraft in the Air Force. It seats 102 people, plus the aircrew. Additionally, it can carry 170,000 pounds of cargo, flying at five hundred miles per hour above forty thousand feet. It can fly around the world with in-flight refueling capability.
After stowing his bag, the Commander called one of his men over. “Major Shields, this is Chief Mike Johnson, our platoon noncom. He will review the checklist with you once we reach cruising altitude, and then have you sign for the equipment. After that, his men will lead you through the operation of the mini-sub.”
Peter extended a hand to the Chief, “Good to meet you Chief. We’ll talk once we’re in the air.”
“Roger that, sir. Welcome aboard.”
In minutes, everyone was seated and the plane began to roll. After liftoff, heading south, the airplane banked, turning to the east while continuing to accelerate in its climb. Four forty-thousand-pound thrust jet engines provided immense power aboard the huge transport.
The most impressive piece of equipment lashed to the cargo deck was the Advanced SEAL Delivery System (ASDS), which was a midget submarine used as a covert insertion platform. The ASDS was designed to ride atop an attack submarine until it was launched within fifty miles of the shoreline. From launch, it could travel at about ten miles per hour under battery power with a crew of two people and up to sixteen SEALS aboard.
As the Globemaster leveled in darkness above the Atlantic, Chief Johnson moved next to Peter to review the equipment list. “Sir, we have most of the gear stowed aboard the ASDS. Here’s a list for you to review. We can go through it line by line before you sign for it, or we can start orienting you to the boat controls. Two of my men will drive it for insertion and recovery, but you should also know how it operates. I’ll also send two of my SEALS to help get your gear ashore in country.”
“Thanks, Chief. I don’t need to see all the gear now, but would like to take a general overview, then learn about the sub.”
“Right, sir. If you’ll climb through the diver’s hatch on top, I’ll have one of my petty officers show you how the controls work.”
For the next two hours, Peter received a course in submarine operation and checked the gear. After everything was completed, he went back to his seat for rest. For the next few days, he would get very little sleep, so rest at any time was important. The SEALS also rested.
The flight took eleven hours with a brief fuel stop in the Azores. It was dusk as the C17 landed at Prince Sultan Air Base, eighty kilometers south of Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. As the giant cargo plane taxied up to a darkened hanger, there was an Army flatbed truck waiting. The engines were still winding down as the cargo door opened and the small submarine, draped in camouflage netting, began moving on its motorized carrier toward the truck. A mobile crane system moved along the row of hangers to load the vehicle aboard the truck. This was all accomplished in darkness.
Within twenty minutes of arrival, the convoy, consisting of the equipment truck and two HMMWVs were leaving the base en route to AL Dammam, a Saudi seaport on the Persian Gulf.
The road trip to AL Dammam took eight hours and was uneventful, traveling across the desert highway at night. Once again, the military passengers dozed.
It was pre-dawn when the truck pulled out to the end of a commercial fishing wharf where the USS Connecticut, a Seawolf class attack submarine, was waiting. All Seawolf’s are equipped to carry the ASDS vehicle on its rear deck. Using one of the gigantic cargo cranes on the wharf, it took less than ten minutes to secure the mini-sub to the back of the attack boat. While the transfer was undertaken, Peter and the SEAL team went aboard Connecticut, where they were invited to the wardroom to meet the Captain. CDR Mark David had been in the Navy for nineteen years and was the fourth officer commander of the ship, commissioned in 1997. This mission would be his last in charge of an attack boat before moving to SUBLANT as a full Captain.
Greeting the SEAL team, he shook hands with Commander Growley, who introduced Major Shields, U.S. Army, who was still in civilian clothes and needed a shower when he shook hands with the Captain. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”
In jest, Commander David said, “Major, you appear to be out of uniform.”
“Yes, sir. I’m on vacation.”
They all chuckled. The boat Captain was curious about the mission, but was only given partial information. His need to know began and ended with the deposition and recovery of the mini-submarine. From the coordinates, he knew the operation was inside Iran, but that was all he knew.
David said, “Gents, I want you to make yourselves at home. The Chief of the boat will show you to the SEAL team quarters. Let me or any of my crew know if you need anything. I need to get up topside as we set the Sea Detail. We will be getting underway shortly and will be submerged for about fifteen hours before reaching the drop off point.
Submarines are cramped vessels with no windows. Peter disliked being encased in a metal coffin below the surface of the ocean. He followed the team to the birthing area set up for SEALS and their special equipment. Once in the space, all were assigned bunks for at least eight hours sleep. After traveling for almost twenty-four hours, he had a raging headache. He stowed his bag and lay on the bunk, feeling the ship rock as it began to depart. Moving on the surface leaving port, swells lifted and lowered the boat in rhythmic fashion. Then, following a series of signals and announcements, the sub slid beneath the waves where the ride smoothed out. To his amazement, he was able to sleep. His dreams had been the same since climbing aboard the Globemaster at Andrews. Rachael was at the top of her stairs inviting him up.
Danger Zone
After five hours of rest, Peter went to his duffle bag for a change of clothing and his shaving kit. He also took his own bright green towel and walked forward toward the men’s shower. Like everything aboard a submarine, the shower stall was a compact stainless steel space with a sign on the entry, limiting all showers to five minutes or less. The water controls were confusing and he wasted the first minute trying to understand the plumbing. To his delight, the hot water was instantaneous, so with quick actions, he was able to wash during the remaining four minutes.
After returning to the team’s compartment, the floor was covered with scuba tanks, regulators and wet suits. Gear was being checked before being stored aboard the ASDS. Jack Growley asked him if he had any questions before the team loaded aboard the mini-sub. Peter responded, “I don’t think so, Commander. This is all pretty familiar. It’s a simple op once I’m on the ground. Just keep listening for my phone call. I can’t judge precisely, but it should be forty-eight to seventy-two hours before I need to be picked up.”
“Okay, Peter. Look, I’m wishing you the best possible luck.”
“Thanks, Jack. Maybe I’ll bring you guys a souvenir.”
“From the equipment list, I’m expecting your souvenir to be walking and talking.”
“Let’s hope so.”
With that exchange, four members of the team and Peter began organizing and checking equipment. Before departing, he sat on his bunk and opened the package from the CIA driver at Andrews. Inside was a passport with appropriate visas and immigration stamps from various Arab states. All were familiar to him. Most recently, it was stamped at the Tehran International Airport. There was also a stack of Iranian rials and U.S. dollars. There were also tourist maps and a brochure to the Fadjr International Theatre Festival in Tehran. He was trav
eling officially as an American producer exploring Asian cultural dances. He didn’t know anything about dance, nor speak Farsi. It was common for Americans to be in Tehran, defying U.S. travel restrictions, but they were certainly a minority. There was no information linking him to the foreign minister. It had all been memorized before departing Langley.
There was no way to judge time aboard the submarine. The SEALS were more accustomed to checking their watches than Peter, who preferred using the sky for reference.
About fourteen and a half hours after departing Al Dammam, the ship began slowing for a gentle desent to the seafloor. When it settled on the bottom, there was no sensation of movement or equipment vibration on the ship, but the deck was canted slightly upward toward the bow. It was eerily quiet, except for the people moving the diving equipment using low voices.
Twenty minutes later, dressed in wet suits and scuba gear, the team moved upward and aft to the water-tight hatch under the mini-sub. One of the SEALS climbed a ladder to open the passage into the ASDS. Once the four-man crew was inside, gear was handed up by other team members. Then the hatch was sealed.
Inside the mini-sub there was no room to stand erect. Everyone slumped against the side of the cold pressure hull as two of the SEALS opened valves, pumping compressed air into