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GWOT Shore Party
GWOT Shore Party
"Make your depth twenty meters. Up periscope!"
The captain raised the scope and video monitors displayed an empty beach. The moon was low and the shadows dark. This was by design.
The radiation detector was silent, but it was being watched carefully. This was nuclear war and no one on the crew would forget that even for an instant.
The submarine was close in to the enemy shore. The risk was detection which would be swiftly followed by destruction. This close in, even enemy artillery could damage them and force them to remain on the surface.
The captain had learned great respect for both enemy helicopter aviation and their coastline passive sonar network. Despite enormous handicaps, they continued to fly and to fight. He had almost been mousetrapped trying to interdict an array adjacent to a now-empty yacht harbor, evacuated due to radiation. The only reason they were still alive was because that particular enemy helicopter, while auto stabilization capable, mounted a machine gun and not a torpedo.
Clawing their way back out had required six days and sneaking past over one hundred enemy air dropped sonobuoys. The enemy had dropped at least three torpedoes, fortunately all of them had not acquired tracking.
Meanwhile, the antennas and the sensors in the scope mapped the local EM spectrum, looking for everything from police radios to naval targeting radars. The technicians reported their findings; nothing unexpected, nothing nearby.
The captain turned over the periscope to his XO who took a long look and swept surface and air.
"I concur."
"Surface the ship. Team will disembark."
In the sail, seven thin, wiry men lifted the deadly tools of their trade up the narrow hatches, then down. On the deck below, a hatch opened and two crew wrestled up an black inflatable boat with a tiny electric motor and plastic oars. Millions of dollars of design had gone into the batteries for that motor; it had the radar reflection of a seagull's skull or a floating aluminium can.
The boat was inflated and launched. The seven naval commandos boarded. They were lightly equipped - rifles, submachine guns, pistols, a few bricks of explosive - and had almost no sustainment load. Little ammunition, no food, no water. They would have to live off the land or perish. Any civilians who stumbled across them would have to be eliminated. They would live on unfamiliar foods and clean local water of potential radioactive particles.
Normally they would shelter in a 'safe house,' a prepared location awaiting their arrival. But with the War, all communications had been cut off. They had a list of potential 'safe houses' and of other locations, not under friendly control, that could be taken over covertly. But they would have to check them, individually.
All the commandos spoke at least two local languages, some as many as five. With the right costumes they could pass on demand for night watchmen, police officers, janitors, garbagemen, construction workers, elevator mechanics, electrical or phone repair workers. Their laptops had pictures of the costumes necessary; but in preparation for this type of war, two of the seven had actually visited the enemy country under cover, and seen many things for themselves.
This was the most dangerous moment for them and for the submarine. This was the time when spotlights would lance out from the shore, snipers and machine guns would open fire, or worst of all, a time on target barrage from many enemy artillery pieces would land simultaneously on both the rowboat and her launching submarine.
Nothing happened. The commandos laid on their oars and waited.
"Take her down. Down periscope. Make your depth fifty meters. All ahead slow. Ease her out."
Only after the submarine had disappeared did the commandos slowly start rowing to shore. The motor was for emergencies. This was not an emergency yet.
They had an isolated house along the beach picked out.
The surf spat them out and they dragged the boat above the tide line.
While six worked to conceal the boat and dig in, ready to resist - and now that they were on shore, they could resist up to a platoon of enemy infantry, let alone a lonely beach patrol - one prepared for his mission.
He stripped almost naked - taking advantage of shock value as opposed to being recognized for what he was - and readied himself to approach. He would wear drawers and carry one silenced pistol and a knife, both on lanyards around his neck.
If the house was empty, well and good.
But it was not. There was a bark. There was a dog. That meant people.
The team leader motioned the commando scout forward. This was war.
Twenty minutes later, he was wiping his knife clean of both dog and human blood on the woman's peasant blouse. He didn't like this part of the job, but it was necessary. The commando team needed a place to hide during the day and this couple's home near the ocean was too exposed.
A quick search of the house revealed that the two he had killed were not the original owners. Somehow this made him feel better. He made his way back and reported.
The team moved forward and in.
They would prepare and cook food in the dark, from the propane stove piped to the nearby tank. They would fill their water bottles and canteens. A quick check showed that the house car was working and had fuel; this was a lucky break. They would be able to move out during the next day. Perhaps the disappearance of the couple would be attributed to bandits. A different team member sectioned their bodies for discreet disposal.
Another commando looked carefully at the tire tracks out front. No recent vehicle visitors. There was a coastal highway, but no vehicles tried it until daylight. The commandos knew from intercepts that night travel was prohibited by curfew.
By noon the commando team was ready to move out, dressed in stolen local clothing, vehicle repacked and weapons concealed; food and water supplies ready; and caches both in and outside the house in case they had to come back.
They drove carefully out to the main highway.
Behind them, behind the carefully locked door, only a thin trail of blood under a cabinet the commandos had missed remained to slightly foul the air.
The phone rang. Its display lit up, with no one to read it.
"SMCPSC 650-555-4826"
The answering machine answered.
"This is an ALERT message from the San Mateo County Office of Public Safety Communications and Homeland. A twenty four hour curfew is being put into effect due to a recent sighting of an enemy warship off the coast ..."
"Make your depth twenty meters. Up periscope!"
The captain raised the scope and video monitors displayed an empty beach. The moon was low and the shadows dark. This was by design.
The radiation detector was silent, but it was being watched carefully. This was nuclear war and no one on the crew would forget that even for an instant.
The submarine was close in to the enemy shore. The risk was detection which would be swiftly followed by destruction. This close in, even enemy artillery could damage them and force them to remain on the surface.
The captain had learned great respect for both enemy helicopter aviation and their coastline passive sonar network. Despite enormous handicaps, they continued to fly and to fight. He had almost been mousetrapped trying to interdict an array adjacent to a now-empty yacht harbor, evacuated due to radiation. The only reason they were still alive was because that particular enemy helicopter, while auto stabilization capable, mounted a machine gun and not a torpedo.
Clawing their way back out had required six days and sneaking past over one hundred enemy air dropped sonobuoys. The enemy had dropped at least three torpedoes, fortunately all of them had not acquired tracking.
Meanwhile, the antennas and the sensors in the scope mapped the local EM spectrum, looking for everything from police radios to naval targeting radars. The technicians reported their findings; nothing unexpected, nothing nearby.
The captain turned over the periscope to his XO who took a long look and swept surface and air.
"I concur."
"Surface the ship. Team will disembark."
In the sail, seven thin, wiry men lifted the deadly tools of their trade up the narrow hatches, then down. On the deck below, a hatch opened and two crew wrestled up an black inflatable boat with a tiny electric motor and plastic oars. Millions of dollars of design had gone into the batteries for that motor; it had the radar reflection of a seagull's skull or a floating aluminium can.
The boat was inflated and launched. The seven naval commandos boarded. They were lightly equipped - rifles, submachine guns, pistols, a few bricks of explosive - and had almost no sustainment load. Little ammunition, no food, no water. They would have to live off the land or perish. Any civilians who stumbled across them would have to be eliminated. They would live on unfamiliar foods and clean local water of potential radioactive particles.
Normally they would shelter in a 'safe house,' a prepared location awaiting their arrival. But with the War, all communications had been cut off. They had a list of potential 'safe houses' and of other locations, not under friendly control, that could be taken over covertly. But they would have to check them, individually.
All the commandos spoke at least two local languages, some as many as five. With the right costumes they could pass on demand for night watchmen, police officers, janitors, garbagemen, construction workers, elevator mechanics, electrical or phone repair workers. Their laptops had pictures of the costumes necessary; but in preparation for this type of war, two of the seven had actually visited the enemy country under cover, and seen many things for themselves.
This was the most dangerous moment for them and for the submarine. This was the time when spotlights would lance out from the shore, snipers and machine guns would open fire, or worst of all, a time on target barrage from many enemy artillery pieces would land simultaneously on both the rowboat and her launching submarine.
Nothing happened. The commandos laid on their oars and waited.
"Take her down. Down periscope. Make your depth fifty meters. All ahead slow. Ease her out."
Only after the submarine had disappeared did the commandos slowly start rowing to shore. The motor was for emergencies. This was not an emergency yet.
They had an isolated house along the beach picked out.
The surf spat them out and they dragged the boat above the tide line.
While six worked to conceal the boat and dig in, ready to resist - and now that they were on shore, they could resist up to a platoon of enemy infantry, let alone a lonely beach patrol - one prepared for his mission.
He stripped almost naked - taking advantage of shock value as opposed to being recognized for what he was - and readied himself to approach. He would wear drawers and carry one silenced pistol and a knife, both on lanyards around his neck.
If the house was empty, well and good.
But it was not. There was a bark. There was a dog. That meant people.
The team leader motioned the commando scout forward. This was war.
Twenty minutes later, he was wiping his knife clean of both dog and human blood on the woman's peasant blouse. He didn't like this part of the job, but it was necessary. The commando team needed a place to hide during the day and this couple's home near the ocean was too exposed.
A quick search of the house revealed that the two he had killed were not the original owners. Somehow this made him feel better. He made his way back and reported.
The team moved forward and in.
They would prepare and cook food in the dark, from the propane stove piped to the nearby tank. They would fill their water bottles and canteens. A quick check showed that the house car was working and had fuel; this was a lucky break. They would be able to move out during the next day. Perhaps the disappearance of the couple would be attributed to bandits. A different team member sectioned their bodies for discreet disposal.
Another commando looked carefully at the tire tracks out front. No recent vehicle visitors. There was a coastal highway, but no vehicles tried it until daylight. The commandos knew from intercepts that night travel was prohibited by curfew.
By noon the commando team was ready to move out, dressed in stolen local clothing, vehicle repacked and weapons concealed; food and water supplies ready; and caches both in and outside the house in case they had to come back.
They drove carefully out to the main highway.
Behind them, behind the carefully locked door, only a thin trail of blood under a cabinet the commandos had missed remained to slightly foul the air.
The phone rang. Its display lit up, with no one to read it.
"SMCPSC 650-555-4826"
The answering machine answered.
"This is an ALERT message from the San Mateo County Office of Public Safety Communications and Homeland. A twenty four hour curfew is being put into effect due to a recent sighting of an enemy warship off the coast ..."