Authors: Patrick Robinson
The country is entirely linear, geographically, with coastlines hundreds of miles long on both the Atlantic and Pacific coasts. To the south lies Colombia and its crime-ridden borders, featuring guerrilla incursions, cross-border drug villainy, refugees, and asylum seekers.
Panama, now without American help, is militarily useless, and certainly, if one of their creaking, lightly gunned Vosper-type patrol crafts had stumbled accidentally upon the SEALs in action…well, if it had been a boxing match, the referee would have stopped it before it started.
Nothing in all of the Panamanian military could possibly cope with the might of even a small number of America’s Special Forces. The unknown factor was the Chinese; how many and how well armed were their patrols that guarded the locks. Essentially, that’s what the recce group was going in to find out.
The Sea Stallion put down unobserved on the shores of Gatún Lake, one mile west of the Guarapo Islands, a group of many such clusters all through the lake. They throttled back but did not cut the rotors, and disembarked, dragging their equipment out into the hot, damp jungle air.
It was dark now and intermittent clouds covered the face of the moon, for which everone was grateful, as they began to haul the two inflatables out, six men taking the weight of the outboard engine, using specially constructed canvas handles.
They lowered the two boats to the ground, tested the radios, and instantly the big Sikorsky revved its engine to life and lifted off, moving north as fast as possible so as not to betray the position of the eight Americans working below.
With an inspired piece of navigation, the pilot had landed on a clear stretch of shoreline, about thirty yards deep from the edge of the water, running slightly uphill to a line of trees that sheltered the area from attack from the shore. For the moment, they concentrated on inflating the Zodiacs and carrying one of them to the water’s edge.
Lt. Patrick Rougeau detailed two seamen, and a Petty Officer to
man the new base, and again he tested the radios. Then he and CPO O’Riordan, in company with PO/2 Brian Ingram from North Carolina and two other combat SEALs, climbed immediately into the boat, filled the gas tanks, and let the others push them out into the lake, paddling for 100 yards before they started the motor and began the quiet journey through the dark toward the Gatún Lock.
There was not a sound on the lake as they chugged forward, steering northeast toward the point on the west corner of the lock’s superstructure, where the gigantic concrete edifice met the rough shoreline of the lake.
They crossed the face of the silent Gatún Dam, towering steep into the night to their port side, and they kept going, Lieutenant Rougeau watching the compass, watching for the great shadow of the locks to darken the water.
Up ahead, they could see lights, not many, just a bulb every fifty feet, maybe thirty feet above the water level. They could discern no sign of life, which was more or less what they expected, since the Panama Canal was formally closed to all shipping.
Patrick cut the motor and each of the five SEALs took up a paddle and they silently headed for the beach, tipped up the engine, and dragged the little gray craft into the shadows below the massive wall. CPO O’Riordan took one of the seamen and they cut brushwood and covered the Zodiac. It would be unrecognizable unless you knew it was there.
Each man took his personal weapon and binoculars and headed for the steel ladder that led up to the giant concrete jetties that bounded the lock gates. They carried with them two wet suits, flippers, and two Draegers in case of an accident. The place was absolutely deserted, but they found a square gray building, which overlooked the upper chamber and offered a flight of stone steps to a second floor from which they could easily make the roof and observe the entire downward lock system for all of the hours of darkness.
Five minutes later, they were all on the roof, scanning the complex, trying to discern any sign of life. The only disconcerting problem was the fact that the upper chamber was full, ready to receive a ship. And they wanted it empty.
But there were no ships. And there appeared to be no one in sight. And the five SEALs just waited until one o’clock on that Monday morning, scanning the area, looking for a sign of life.
There was an Ops area on their map, and they could make it out, over on the incoming side. But they could see only two lights burning in there, and no people.
At quarter after one, Patrick Rougeau gave the word, and young Brian Ingram assisted both him and CPO Chris O’Riordan into wet suits. They carried the flippers and the Draegers with them, and began the climb down from the flat roof and onto the jetty that bounded the right side of the giant lock gates (looking toward the lake).
Carefully, the three jet black SEALs made their way across the walkway, crouching, but moving fast. Patrick Rougeau handed the end of the steel tape measure to Chris, while Brian fixed his flippers. And with that the veteran combat SEAL placed his fingers over the top of the gate and dropped almost soundlessly the eight feet into the black water on the lakeside.
Pulling the metallic tape with him, he kicked downward, diagonally toward the huge girder that held the hinges, running his hand against it until he felt the top of the cast-iron fitting. He could feel the concrete wall make a sharp recess here and he calculated it three feet deep by four feet wide, presumably to give the hinges some “breathing space” when the great doors were opened, and to allow the doors to settle at ninety degrees, flush against the jetty walls.
He kicked downward until he reached the botton of the hinge that the SEAL Intelligence Division had said was seven feet from the top. Then he came up three and a half feet searching for the center bolt. He found it, checked again that it was the exact middle of the hinge, then hooked the metal end of the tape into the center groove and pulled down on the tape three times sharply.
Back on top of the gate, Lieutenant Rougeau, lying flat, felt the tug, pulled the tape as taut as possible, and using a tiny pinpoint flashlight, read the distance…
. Twelve feet exactly, Brian, that’s the number.
CPO O’Riordan kicked downward again in the now pitch-black
water, breathing steadily, until his fingers brushed against the second hinge, some twenty-five feet deeper. He pushed the tape into the same center groove and tugged three times.
Thirty-seven feet, Brian, that’s the number.
Again, Chief O’Riordan kicked deep, pushing down toward the bottom of the giant chamber, groping in the silent dark for the third hinge. He tried to judge twenty-five feet but in this pitch black it was near impossible and he just kept kicking down, sliding his fingers along the girder until he found what he was looking for.
When he did so, he pulled the now heavy tape, more than sixty feet of it, through the water until he could push the end into the groove. Three more tugs and the starboard hinges were well and truly located.
Sixty-two feet, Brian, that’s the number.
The next part was trickier, because while they were nearly sure the opposite hinges would be identically placed, SEALs do not actually do
nearly sure.
They had agreed upon procedures. Chris O’Riordan did not wish to surface from more than sixty feet down and then have to kick down again. Instead, he hung on to the tape measure and set off across the bottom of the lock, kicking hard, and brushing the gates with the fingers of his right hand. Up above, Patrick Rougeau walked the tape across the top of the gates, back to the nearside, as if he was taking a willful pet seal for a walk, which, of course, in a sense, he was.
They both reached the jetty at the same time, and now they reversed the procedure. Chris slowly climbed the 60-odd feet toward the surface, in the dark, jerking the tape measure to confirm the hinge positions. They were identical, 62, 37, and 12 feet.
Then, still well below the surface, he turned his back on the gates, and kicked out into the lake, rounded the jetty, and swam quietly back to the beach where the others were waiting. He took off the wet suit, Draeger, and flippers, drank some water, and took his turn resting in the boat, while the two junior seamen took up their MP5s and made their way up to the roof above the jetty where the Lieutenant and Brian Ingram awaited them.
It was exactly 2:38 and nothing happened until shortly before
four o’clock, when a four-man patrol, obviously soldiers, shouldering weapons, strolled across the walkway of the upper gates and passed directly beneath them.
They were Chinese, chuckling and smoking, paying little attention to anything. The SEALs watched them through the glasses, saw them reach the end of the chamber, and then turn around and stroll back the way they had come. It would have been the work of moments to remove all four of them from the face of the earth. But the SEALs wanted no sound.
They waited until five o’clock, when dawn began to break and returned to the Zodiac under the bushes, climbed in, completed their notes, and radioed their findings back to their little beachhead. They would take turns on watch until dark, calling in any movement whatsoever in the lock complex.
It was already plain the Chinese had no intention of opening the Canal at least until later on Monday, presumably while they put last-minute concealment touches to the disappearing submarine over on Trinidad Bay.
Lieutenant Commander Peavey watched the young SEALs man-handle six big reels of three-quarter-inch-thick, unbreakable, black parachute cord. He was running mathematical calculations in his head, working on the theory that each bomb was three feet long, and he thus wanted eighteen inches above and below center-hinge. Therefore, it would be twelve feet less eighteen inches from meat hook to the top of the gate—ten feet six inches, then thirty-five feet six inches, then sixty feet six inches.
“We need six lengths, two of thirteen feet six inches, two of thirty-eight feet six inches, and two of sixty-three feet six inches—mark them all with tape exactly three feet from the end of each line…. That’s for lashing…. Splice the meat hooks at
the other end…. Take six inches for the splice…. Same length as those hooks…that way we’ll be accurate…. Tape the splice point hard.”
His instructions were precise, and Mich Stetter, from Indiana, the NCO in charge of this area of the operation, the SEAL who would lower the bombs into place from the lock gates, watched every movement of his team as they prepared to destroy the Panama Canal. Normal SEAL procedures—slow, careful, no mistakes, a lot of checking, and even more double-checking.
The bomb satchels each had a metallic ring, top and bottom, and Mich wanted a trial run with regular parachute cord, black but thinner than the meat-hook lines, giving the men a chance to lash the satchels together in groups of six. Each group must include one of the six satchels with the thick, bright red band around it, the ones containing the arming devices.
This deadly package would total 180 kilograms of high explosives—that’s more than four hundred pounds, but they always measure explosives in kilograms. It would then be further wrapped tight in detcord, the stuff that burns at five miles a second, before being placed in a waterproof black bag, attached to the meat hook and lowered from the top of the gate, coming to rest right in the middle of the giant hinge.
When it blew, it would certainly be the most spectacular use of detcord since Major Ray Kerman liberated Islam’s political prisoners on the other side of the world three years ago, almost to the day. It was hard to believe the two incidents would be so closely interconnected. And thus far, only Arnold Morgan, George Morris, and Jimmy Ramshawe knew precisely how and why.
Meanwhile, the SEALs aboard the aircraft carrier practiced and practiced heaving the heavy satchels across the room and placing them in groups. Every one them realized the next time they tried this it would be pitch dark in a confined space, and they would then have to haul each completed sack up to the lock using straps and handles. Bill Peavey considered it far too dangerous to assemble the bomb on top of the lock gate.
“It’s always gonna be easier to assemble the sacks somewhere secluded, where we have time to get it right, then carry them to
the walkway, hook ’em up and drop ’em straight in. Anyone gets in our way, they die.”
All morning they practiced lashing, dragging and heaving, getting the satchels in the waterproof sacks, working by feel, trying to do it with their eyes shut, just in case there was no moon tonight. The youngest seamen would lift the satchels off the ground while the explosives men steered them into place. One seaman in each group would lash them together.
Lt. Patrick Rougeau would personally take charge of the detcord and detonating. Right now, Mich Stetter was cutting thin, black electrical cord into approximate lengths of 64 feet, 39 feet, and 14 feet. It was not possible to be accurate, but it couldn’t be too short, Mich was allowing a couple of feet to connect to the arming device inside the red-banded satchels, and to the tiny float and whip-thin aerial that would bob silently on the surface, waiting for the electronic impulse that would detonate all six bombs simultaneously, with stupendous force against the gates to the Gatún Lake.
They had a late breakfast at one o’clock in the afternoon, slept until half past five, and had their last food before departure at six—roast chicken, salad, and baked potatoes.