Among California’s load-out of Mark-48 torpedoes and Tomahawk cruise missiles, the boat sported another deadly weapon: US Navy SEALs. SEAL stood for Sea, Air, Land Teams. Each team comprised a 13-man platoon, and California had aboard Team 5 out of Coronado, California. The SEALs had been briefed, and now prepared for the coming action in the submarine’s staging berth.
A burly, balding lieutenant was the officer-in-charge. Known as ‘Bullfrog’ to his fellow SEALs, he had eaten lots of dirt, sand, and water on many missions, including with Task Force K-Bar which cleared the cave complex of Afghanistan’s Zhawar Kili; the team that surveyed the Iraqi oil terminals of Al-Basra and Khawr al-Amaya; and, as a participant of the Al-Faw campaign.
The SEALs donned black rubber wetsuits that made them appear their namesake, and they gathered their dive equipment and weapons. A petty officer entered the staging berth. He informed the operators that the submarine was in position and had clear scopes. Grunts of acknowledgment met this news, as the men continued about their routine.
One operator inserted a magazine into his .45 caliber Universal Self-loading Pistol, press-checked for an empty chamber, and holstered the firearm. Bullfrog mounted a tactical light to the Picatinny rail of his Mark-17 Special Forces combat assault rifle. Although some SEALs carried the Mark-16 which fired the standard 5.56-millimeter NATO, he preferred the -17, chambered with the larger 7.62-millimeter round. Bullfrog finished his preparations by attaching a large ammunition drum to his rifle, wiggled it to assure proper seating, and then grabbed for his 9-millimeter sidearm. Slapping a magazine into the handgun, he racked the slide and manipulated the decocker, lowering the hammer for safe carry on a chambered round. Bullfrog then turned his attention to the rest of his teammates.
The assistant officer-in-charge loaded his own weapons and the platoon chief was busy distributing grenades to the others. The platoon’s leading petty officer delivered a brief speech to the SEALs, reiterating their roles in the mission, as well as the ever-present price of failure. Then, one by one, the SEALs looked to their leader. Bullfrog stood, occupying much of the space in the cramped compartment.
“Okay, we are all jocked up,” he said. “There are 1,600 fathoms beneath the keel. We’ve got a two-mile round trip using scooters from the sail. Wally, that’s you,” he pointed at one of his team and got a nod in return. “Ops team is using re-breathers. Okay, ready to get wet and sandy?”
“Hooyah,” was the answer that echoed in the berth. Nine SEALs entered the lockout trunk located just aft of California’s sail. Once inside, Bullfrog clanged the hatch shut and spun its wheel tight, as the SEALs got out their Dräger re-breathers — small self-contained breathing units that filter exhaled air and supplement it with fresh, all without releasing telltale bubbles. With everyone’s fins, tanks, and re-breathers in place, Bullfrog got a thumbs-up from the men.
Bullfrog actuated a lever that jutted from among pipes on the trunk’s wall. There was a trickle from a screen mesh-covered outlet, and then a rush of icy seawater as the chamber began to flood. Clumps of foam spun as the water rose quickly in the confines. Once the trunk was full and equalized — matching the pressure outside California’s hull — Bullfrog looked for a second round of thumbs-up from his SEALs. With everyone’s equipment working properly, he got the confirmation he needed. He unlocked the outer hatch. The SEALs swam up and out of the trunk, and into the blackness of the Atlantic Ocean.
Emerging from the submarine’s steel casing, the SEALs gathered by the hatch, a pod of warrior animals hovering in the deep. California was rock steady as she hovered beneath the undulating silver surface. Fighting a current, the SEALs followed glowing green lights toward the boat’s sail. The first swimmer shone his light there, while another SEAL swam over to the storage lockers dotting its vertical side.
One locker was opened. Several bullet-shaped black scooters were removed and distributed to the team. Although each man was a world-class athlete, the vehicles would cut down on transit time and unnecessary fatigue. Another locker sprang open. A SEAL pulled out two plastic cylinders that contained collapsed inflatable boats. Four more SEALs exited the lockout trunk on California’s spine and swam to assemble with the rest of their team. With the trunk’s outer hatch shut, Bullfrog took a compass reading, and pointed into the distance. They started their scooters, moved along the submarine’s hull, and then passed over California’s extended dive planes and domed bow. Headed for the outer beach of East Falkland Island’s Button Bay, the 13 combat swimmers were quickly swallowed by dark waters. With her special forces away, California nosed down and went deep.
A thick soup of shore fog veiled the rocky sand of Button Bay’s beach, and gentle waves rhythmically lapped it. There was a glint off a diver’s mask. Gaping barrels and silhouettes emerged from the surf. The SEALs slowly and silently came ashore and disappeared into the swaying brush that lined the beach’s crest.
Up the embankment, just beyond the line of seaweed that marked high-tide, among clumps of tall grass, the members of SEAL Team 5 waited. They were plants and rocks to anyone who might have been watching. They allowed Fagan and his SAS troop to walk up on them before standing. Bullfrog looked to the woman and child accompanying the Prince and the SAS troop.
“Who the hell are these people?” Bullfrog demanded, his eyes and teeth standing out bright against the black grease paint on his face. “I have orders to retrieve one royal pain in the ass, no one else,” he said, with the apparent contempt of a colonial.
Albert turned to Fagan, and said: “Major, I am not leaving this island without them.”
“Captain, I will get them to safety, get them to Mount Pleasant air base.”
“Negative. They are coming with me. That’s an order.” His eyes bored into Bulldog.
Annie and Linda looked to Albert and smiled. Major Fagan went to the American. They huddled for a talk.
Annie shuffled over to the other Americans. These were the first she had ever met, and could not resist asking where they were from.
“New York,” one SEAL said.
“Oh, I have seen it in movies,” Annie grew excited. “And you, mister?”
“California.”
“Oh. Ever been to Disneyland?” she asked with a bounce. The SEAL smiled and nodded yes. Annie pointed to the next man.
“Elkhart, Indiana.”
“Never heard of it,” Annie declared, and the SEAL chuckled. She continued, “Mister?”
“Florida.”
“Florida. Sounds nice and warm.” Annie turned to the next shadow that knelt in the grass with his rifle pointed at the dirt.
“Texas, little missy. Austin, Texas.”
“Ever been to the Alamo?” Annie asked, having read all about the famous fort in school.
“All right,” Bullfrog interrupted, “That’s enough chit-chat. Let’s get out of here.”
Annie mumbled, “Sorry,” and retreated to her mother’s arm. She whispered that the Americans spoke English in a funny way.
A few moments later, Albert, Annie, and Linda were aboard inflatable boats and motored with the SEALs out onto Choiseul Sound. The SAS took up position on the beach to cover their escape. Albert waved to Fagan. Fagan waved back. SEALs were prone in the bows, searching for Argentine patrol boats.