Return to Coronado

By Philip Huber

Coronado, California, 1952. The Korean War is in its third year, and with the public demanding an end to the war, Naval intelligence analysts working with the CIA devise a bold commando plan targeting enemy leaders—codenamed Operation Talon—to force North Korea to sign an Armistice.

A Navy special warfare Underwater Demolition Team based in Coronado—the UDT, precursor of the SEALS—is designated to carry out the top-secret nighttime beach landing and raid in wintry North Korea.

Desk-bound senior officers and intelligence staff question the team’s renegade spirit while Desmond Dorsey, who leads the small mission team, fights for his men. Arguments center on the role of the South Korean officer who will accompany them. The mission is mysteriously delayed, and Dorsey’s suspicions of an intelligence leak—which will turn out to be founded—grow.

To relax from intense training in Coronado, the team gathers for parties at the stunning seaside mansion of a British expat come to care for her wealthy uncle. The men mingle with friends, lovers and casual acquaintances, unaware of the enemies in their midst. Dorsey himself becomes entangled in a troubled love affair with a married woman, the aloof and alluringly enigmatic Mika Rossi.

The order to execute the operation comes suddenly, cutting short the affair. The mission does not go as planned—unless it was planned to fail. Not until Dorsey can make his way out of North Korea and back to Coronado, traveling across the US to keep a promise to a team member and follow his heart, does he learn the full truth of Operation Talon.

Return to Coronado is a plot-twisting tale of treachery, courage under extreme duress, and young loves and losses, played out against a backdrop of war.

The author served as a commissioned officer with the Navy’s Underwater Demolition Team 13, based in Coronado, CA, and 22, based in Little Creek, VA. Known as the ‘UDT’, the teams were forerunners to today’s SEAL teams.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Philip Huber
• Release date: Dec 21, 2013
• ISBN: 9781310327285

Philip Huber

The author served as a commissioned officer with the Navy’s Underwater Demolition Team 13, based in Coronado, CA, and 22, based in Little Creek, VA. Known as the ‘UDT’, the teams were forerunners to today’s SEAL teams.

Book preview

And then there was the saddest lesson, to be learned again and again…that war is corrupting, that it corrodes the soul and tarnishes the spirit, that even the excellent and superior can be defiled, and that no heart would remain unstained.

The Day of Battle, Rick Atkinson

Part One

Coronado: The Beginning

1

It was Friday, September 12, 1952. Six thousand miles across the Pacific, the Korean War was in the third month of its third year, the armistice negotiations to end the fighting in a tense stalemate.

The cool mist that had shrouded the small Navy coastal town of Coronado, California had cleared by midday and by 1600 hours the sky above was a cloudless pallid blue. A light breeze stirred the air.

Lieutenant junior grade Desmond Dorsey stood at the edge of the beach on the western side of the Silver Strand, a narrow strip of mostly barren land running like a long tail ten miles south from Coronado toward the Mexican border, dividing the waters of San Diego Bay from the Pacific Ocean. Over six feet and fit, his skin darkened and thick brown hair faded from daily exposure to the southern California sun and wearing only tan swimming trunks, he could have been mistaken for a municipal lifeguard. The long stretches of beach to the left and right of the young Naval officer were empty. Foaming seawater from the breaking waves surged up the beach and swirled around his bare ankles before subsiding.

Dorsey gazed intently at a black inflatable boat moving parallel to the shoreline 150 yards offshore. The crew bent hard into each stroke of their paddles, straining for headway against a strong current. The boat would float high up as a building wave passed underneath, then sink down out of sight in the following trough.

That the third platoon boat out there? Chief Petty Officer Clarence Lambert had come up from behind him.

Both men wore military-issue tan canvas swim trunks, their names stenciled in black on the rear waistband, followed by their military unit—UDT-9, military shorthand for Underwater Demolition Team 9. It was one of three 85-man all-volunteer special warfare teams based in Coronado, and had recently returned from a six-month deployment to the Korean warfront.

Yes, Dorsey answered, not taking his eye off the boat.

Hope they’re not thinking of coming in here.

When Dorsey didn’t reply, Lambert continued. The waves are really bad. They ought to turn back and come in on the jetty same as us. Won’t take long. The current’ll be with them.

Dorsey raised a hand to shield his eyes from the dazzling sunlight reflecting off the sea. They know the waves are big. They were in fact the biggest either man had seen on the Silver Strand. Some reached twelve feet, and were breaking hard with a deep rumble that sounded like cannon fire.

Yeah, but they’ve really picked up in the last couple hours. They know that too?

But it was already too late. The boat had turned ninety degrees and was pointed at the red beach marker planted in the sand to Dorsey’s right, the crew paddling as fast and hard as they could in their effort to keep pace with a wave that was starting to heave up.

The boat just managed to catch the wave’s foaming crest and was slung violently forward and carried almost straight down atop the massive curl of plunging lead-green water. For an instant, it looked as if the boat would veer broadside into the breaking wave, but the three portside crew members braked with the flats of their paddles and held it on course. An exultant Hooyah! rang out over the roar of the surf.

As they reached the shallow water, the crew jumped out and hoisted the boat overhead in a single smooth motion. The boat held aloft on their outstretched arms, they jogged with a practiced ease toward a wooden storage shed half-hidden by a sand dune inside the small UDT compound at the rear of the beach. Behind the compound, on the opposite shore of the Silver Strand, the Naval Amphibious Base stretched over a massive landfill 1500 yards into San Diego Bay.

The seven-man crew wore the same tan swimming trunks as Dorsey and Lambert, and like them, were strongly built. Each had a 10-inch knife strapped at the waist.

How’d you like our run in? the coxswain, Ensign EJ Moon, said with a laugh as he passed by Dorsey and Lambert.

Your lucky day, Dorsey shot back.

Hey, we made it.

Dorsey and Lambert turned to follow twenty paces behind.

I came down to look for you, Lambert said as they walked along. Mr. Mayo says to make sure you and Mr. Moon stop by the office before leaving.

Dorsey looked at his watch. It was 1610. He say what for?

Only that something’s come up.

Lambert opened his mouth to say more, then, changing his mind, asked Dorsey what he had planned for the weekend.

Like to do some spear fishing, but everywhere’s pretty much fished out. Maybe go after abalone up at La Jolla. Haven’t tried that yet. How about you…what are your plans?

Movie with the kids on Saturday, then on Sunday there’s a barbecue at my brother-in-law’s in Chula Vista. The usual family stuff.

They waited to the side while the crew washed the sand and salt water off the two-hundred pound Neoprene inflatable boat and stored it on a rack in a line of ten others.

After a short debriefing Ensign Moon dismissed the crew. As they dispersed, Dorsey turned to Lambert, who’d been silent for several minutes. Something on your mind?

Lambert hesitated. Maybe another time.

Why not now?

Alright then, I’m wondering what’s going on. Since we got back from Korea, you’ve been giving a thumbs up to some risky training exercises. Letting the third platoon boat come in through those waves today is a case in point.

I didn’t give them a ‘thumbs-up’, or ‘let them come in’. They decided on their own to come in at Red Beach.

Yeah, but from where their boat sat out behind the surf line, they couldn’t see how big the waves had got in the last couple of hours, how hard they’re breaking. Back in November a crew tried to take a wave like that… boat flipping end over end… crew spilling out… two broken legs. You were there.

What’re you’re saying…that I’m getting reckless with the safety of my teammates?

Lambert stared at Dorsey for a moment then shook his head. Shouldn’t have brought it up. It’s late, I need to be getting home.

Okay, if that’s how you want to leave it. Have a good weekend.

Yessir, you too.

Dorsey kept an eye on Lambert as he walked off. At thirty-six, Lambert was the oldest man in the platoon by several years. The sprinkling of grey in his hair, combined with a settled manner, made him seem even older. When he volunteered for UDT no one thought he would last more than a week of basic training, yet he stuck it out even as men much younger and fitter could not. Now he was one of two African-Americans serving in the three Coronado UDT teams and a steadying influence on the younger men.

EJ Moon waited at a distance for Dorsey to catch up. Together they headed to the first in a row of four rusting Quonset huts. As the door closed behind them, the metal sign reading Headquarters, Underwater Demolition Team 9 clanked loudly.

2

Inside the hut, Lieutenant junior grade Kenny Mayo, clad in the same tan regulation swim trunks, dozed in a chair. He jerked up with a start as Dorsey and Moon entered.

Where the hell have you two been? he demanded.

As if he hadn’t heard the question, Dorsey said, Lambert said you wanted to see us.

Shawcross called. He’s in a meeting on the main base. Wants the three of us to wait here until he calls back. Lieutenant Commander Bill Shawcross was UDT-9’s commanding officer.

What’s the meeting about?

Don’t know, he wouldn’t say. Kenny leaned back in his chair, splaying his bare legs across the scarred wooden desk. Small patches of dried sand clung to the thick black hair covering the hard, well-defined muscles of his chest and forearms.

The hut sat on a raw concrete slab. Its cramped interior held a battered assortment of desks, chairs, and gray metal filing cabinets, a black potbelly stove, and was lit by a row of three overhead fluorescent light fixtures, one buzzing and flickering, giving it the look of a scruffy workshop.

Dorsey flipped through the papers in the incoming tray on his desk.

So answer the question, Kenny persisted. Where have you been? I finished an hour ago.

Waited for EJ’s boat at Red Beach.

Red Beach?—you’re kidding. The waves there are insane. Kenny swiveled in his chair to glare at EJ, who had taken a seat at the rear of the hut with his back to them, bare feet braced against the side wall. When EJ reported for duty to Team 9 on its recent return from Korea, Kenny had sized him up and declared his resemblance to the ventriloquist’s dummy Mortimer Snerd to be ‘amazing’, which it really wasn’t other than for a thatch of straw-colored hair and a kind of unworldliness in his manner, but the name stuck.

You trying for an early grave, Mortimer? When there was no reply, Kenny turned to Dorsey. Can you believe it?—he’s already asleep. How’d his boat do coming in?

They caught a really tough wave—huge—but managed okay. How come you finished so early?

Superior performance, what else?

More like cutting corners.

Hey, we cut one run into the jetty. The first two runs were excellent. Didn’t need another.

Making up your own rules?

What’s the big deal? It’s training, Kenny huffed.

The training program you helped design.

My platoon can hold its own when the chips are down, and you know it.

The telephone rang. Dorsey picked it up, and listened for a minute before he said, Okay, Bill, and hung up.

That was Shawcross, he announced. Wants the three of us to be at a meeting tomorrow at 0900 at Amphibious Group Three headquarters—in uniform and looking sharp. He eyed Kenny. Says the meeting’s important and to make sure that you, Mayo, get the word.

What word is that?

The ‘looking sharp’ word.

Shall I get my nails done? Kenny rolled a ball of paper between his fingers and flicked it into a wastebasket. He say what the meeting’s about?

No, only to keep it under our hats.

Super secret, huh? Give you odds it’s another weekend demo for some visiting politician. Kenny got to his feet and stretched. Anyway, time to get polished up for my big night out. Happy Hour at the North Island Air Station. My new lady will be in tow. You coming?

Maybe.

Don’t overdo your enthusiasm.

And tomorrow’s 0900 meeting?

What’s the problem? It’s a meeting, not a ten-mile run.

Dorsey looked through some more papers. I may turn up for an hour or so.

Kenny yawned and looked at EJ. What about you, Mortimer? When no answer came, he smacked the desk with the flat of his hand. Come on, Mortimer, wake up!

EJ dropped his feet to the floor and turned around. What’s up?

A meeting’s been called for 0700 tomorrow. And I want to know if you’re coming to Happy Hour tonight. At North Island.

Got a date. EJ looked questioningly at Dorsey. A meeting tomorrow at 0700?

Ignore Mayo. There is a meeting tomorrow on the main base that Shawcross wants the three of us to attend, but it’s at 0900.

Kenny studied EJ for a minute. What do all these women see in you, Mortimer? Somebody should sign you up as a case study, except that would mean keeping you awake for a whole hour or two.

Dorsey pushed his chair back and stood up. I’m off to my room. Just make sure you’re both in good shape tomorrow.

Kenny frowned with annoyance and grunted. Anything else, Admiral?

We meet first at the office of Amphib Group Three’s administrative head. That could be tricky. From what I’ve heard, he’s no fan of UDT.

What’s his name?

Purrington.

Kenny said nothing in reply but his expression was thoughtful.

3

Four miles to the north of the Amphibious Base, where the North Island Naval Air Station spread over the northwest corner of Coronado’s landmass, Mika Rossi passed through the exit door of the PX, a paper bag of groceries balanced in the crook of her arm.

Well-tailored white slacks and a matching long-sleeved cotton blouse accentuated her long limbs and slender build. Her helmet of glossy black hair was cut short and swept back, a style that suited her smooth alabaster complexion, high cheekbones, and hooded, deep-set dark eyes.

She took a moment to adjust the brim of her red straw hat and put on dark glasses before stepping from the shade of the building into the open sunlight. Shoppers entering the PX glanced sidelong at her, wondering who she might be—perhaps someone they’d seen recently in the news, or glimpsed in a magazine photograph.

Halfway to her parked car she stopped and tipped her head back to watch a low formation of four Banshee fighter jets sweep past. Once they were out of sight she resumed walking toward her car, lost in thought. Her step slowed when she spotted Abby Thorpe wearing her customary short-shorts and halter, waving from the far side of the parking lot as she hurried toward Mika.

Didn’t you hear me calling your name? Abby paused to catch her breath as she drew up. I phoned you several times but there was never any answer.

I’ve been at school, Mika gently reminded Abby. Classes began right after Labor Day. I thought you knew that. She adjusted her hold on the grocery bag. My afternoon class was cancelled today so I came by to pick up a few things for the weekend.

No matter, I found you in time. Wanted to make sure we’re still on for Happy Hour at the Officer’s Club tonight. You didn’t forget did you? Abby coaxed.

It was Mika who’d suggested Happy Hour, thinking it might be a way to help Abby begin to reestablish a normal social life, later to wonder if it was appropriate. The event brought together bachelor officers and single young women from around the San Diego area for a boisterous end-of-the-week gathering lampooned as the ‘Friday night meat market’.

Abby’s husband, Don, had been killed six months earlier, during a bombing run on a bridge over the Yalu River on the Manchurian border with North Korea. Their marriage had been a good one, and Abby, who’d always been upbeat and full of fun, sank into a depression for several months, neglecting her two small children, not seeing her friends. A priest at their church urged Mika to help Abby in any way she could, as a good Catholic as well as a friend.

In spite of having always thought of herself as lacking in what she called ‘normal female compassion’, Mika responded well to the entreaty, running household errands, looking after the children, helping in myriad small ways to ease Abby out of her grief.

No, of course I didn’t forget, Mika answered, smiling broadly to mask her ambivalence. She’d wrongly assumed that Abby had either forgotten, or had changed her mind. I was waiting to hear from you. I should have called.

You had me worried there for a second. Thought it might have slipped your mind. Abby flicked a finger at the thick curls of her sun-bleached hair. I’ve made preparations. Had my hair done this morning. Like it?

Lovely…very pretty, Mika replied with a hint of impatience.

The next step is to find something in the closet I can still squeeze into. She looked Mika up and down. You’re the lucky one. On you anything looks good. So what are you wearing?

Haven’t decided yet. Probably a green cotton dress that I bought for a reception before Frank left. It’s cut a bit low, but it’s about all I’ve got. Not much need with Frank gone.

Abby gripped Mika’s arm. I’m so caught up in our plans for tonight that I forgot to ask about Frank. Have you heard from him?

A letter came yesterday. As you know, he can’t say much about what he’s doing, or it gets blacked out. She looked up as if she expected to see something above in the sky. When the Banshees flew past I thought about him. I keep my fingers crossed that he’s okay.

Oh, I’m sure everything is good, Abby said with forced brightness.

Well then, why don’t we go in my car? I’ll come by for you at six forty-five. The evening will just be getting started. Mika started to leave, but held back when Abby’s grip tightened.

Going out tonight won’t be easy, Abby said. I’m feeling guilty just thinking about it—you know, disloyal in some way to Don, to his memory. And what happens if I meet someone? The kids aren’t ready for a new man in their life.

Abby, surely this is what Don would want for you. You’re young, pretty—he wouldn’t want you to shut yourself off from life because of what you had with him. The kids will be more accepting than you might think. It’s been some time already. The reply was pat but Abby’s relieved expression showed Mika that her words had struck the right chord.

You always know the right thing to say. What would I do without you?

Mika looked down and shifted her feet, before looking up again with a light smile. Thank you, Abby. She pointedly checked her watch. I really must be running. Much to do.

Abby peered at the grocery bag’s meager contents. One final thing, Mika, you are definitely coming for Sunday lunch, right after Mass. No excuses. I won’t take no for an answer.

Mika nodded politely, said goodbye, and continued on to her car.

Abby watched after her for a minute before going to her car, wondering why Mika had seemed so distracted.

During the drive to her apartment, Mika reflected on her friendship with Abby. Would they ever have become more than acquaintances, she wondered, if it hadn’t been for their husbands, who’d gone through flight school together and served in the same squadron until Don was killed. When Frank and Don were back in Coronado after long deployments, the four of them gathered for weekend cookouts and picnics at the beach. Mika secretly wished for less socializing with Don and Abby, but gamely joined in, seeing how much Frank enjoyed their company.

Mika liked Abby well enough, but would have preferred her only as a casual friend. The social link that is standard among young wives with small children was missing—Mika remained childless after eight years of marriage—and there wasn’t enough in the way of other mutual interests to sustain a close friendship. The result was that having done her compassionate duty in helping to draw Abby out of a depression, she had begun increasingly to resent the impositions on her time, whereas Abby saw Mika’s unflagging support as the mark of a burgeoning friendship.

Perhaps Abby would meet someone that evening, which might cut back on Abby’s need to lean on her so much.

With that thought in mind Mika busied herself sorting out the clothes she would need for the evening. Despite her doubts about the suitability of the green dress, she decided to wear it and got out the ironing board.

4

His Friday afternoon shift at the Communications Center finished, Ensign Stanley Luton was driving toward the Naval Amphibious Base main gate exit when he spotted the civilian employee with the platinum blonde hair he’d seen that morning in the stairwell at Amphibious Group Three’s headquarters hurrying along the sidewalk in the direction of the bus stop. He pulled over and leaned across the passenger seat to roll down the window and offer her a lift into town.

With barely a glance his way and without breaking stride, she replied that she didn’t accept rides with strangers.

He kept the car rolling forward to match her brisk pace.

My name is Luton and I’m not a total stranger. We passed each other this morning outside Admiral Hackett’s office at Amphibious Group Three headquarters. Your arms were full of papers. You gave me a big smile.

She slowed her step for a closer look at him, squinting as though trying to place him while he grinned encouragingly and did his best to appear harmless, which was not hard given his bland middle-America looks and guileless brown eyes.

After glancing around anxiously for any sign of an approaching bus, her brow furrowed with indecision, she turned back to him with a cautious smile. You do look sort of familiar. I have an appointment in town that I mustn’t be late for. If it’s not too much trouble, I think I should accept your offer, adding to make sure he didn’t get the wrong idea, just this once.

He stopped the car and swung open the passenger door. As she slid onto the seat the hem of her skirt caught on something and was drawn way up, revealing a glimpse of bare flesh above black nylons.

She hastily tugged the skirt down. Oh, my, that wasn’t very ladylike, was it?

Luton pretended not to notice.

This is such a help, she went on, smoothing her skirt, and settling back. I don’t normally accept rides with anyone I don’t know, but then, like you say, we’re not total strangers. And the bus can be so slow and isn’t always on time. Last week it was late three times.

Luton passed through the main gate and headed north along the Silver Strand Highway toward the center of town, engaging her in small talk as he drove: where they were from, what they thought of Coronado, what they did at the Amphibious Base. She gave her name as Beth Phillips and said she worked in the public relations office, and had an apartment in downtown San Diego. She described how she took the ferry each workday from the landing at the bottom of Market Street to the Coronado landing, then by bus to the Base. She especially liked the ferry ride—the tang of clean salt air over the Bay helped to clear her head in the morning.

The ‘island’, as the locals called Coronado, lay in the upper half of San Diego Bay. Its land mass flat, just short of three miles across at its widest point, its municipal beach among the best in California, and in spite of being home to two major Naval installations—the North Island Naval Air Station and the Amphibious Base, both on a wartime footing for the past two years—Coronado in those days had the laid-back ambiance of a beach village.

Then there were only two ways to get to Coronado from the city: the 15-minute ferry run from San Diego’s downtown over the mouth of the Bay, or circle the Bay and come up from Imperial Beach to the south along the Silver Strand Highway—a twenty five mile journey.

Perhaps I should move to an apartment in Coronado. That way I can be closer to work…and, you know…other things, Beth mused, giving Luton a sultry look which suggested to him that one day he might be added to her list of ‘other things’. She thought his communications work sounded very interesting.

You’re the first person, other than my parents, who’s ever said that what I do in the Navy sounds interesting. The truth is it’s really dull. I asked to be assigned to destroyers. I want to be out at sea, where the action is, not sitting at a desk stateside.

Well, you weren’t at a desk this morning when you say you saw me outside Admiral Hackett’s office.

One of my duties is to decode messages and hand-deliver them to the high ranking officers around the Base.

Good heavens, not every message I hope.

No, just the highly-classified ones, he answered, trying but not fully succeeding to keep any note of self-importance out of his voice.

Widening her eyes and lowering her voice conspiratorially, she said, You mean like ‘secret’ and ‘top secret’?

Well, yes, Luton replied uncomfortably, as though he may have revealed too much.

Well that sounds like important work to me.

But not like sea duty. That’s what being in the Navy is supposed to be about—you know, ships.

A moment later, she leaned close to him, drew her upper lip tight against her teeth, and mimicking Humphrey Bogart, said, So you want to be at sea, hey? Well, here’s what I’m gonna do for you: call the President, tell him to put you on a ship—or else. She laughed playfully.

Hey, that’s good. You should try acting. Speaking of which, have you heard of an actress called Marilyn Monroe? I saw her the other day in a movie called ‘The Asphalt Jungle’, he said, glancing over at her as he had done every few seconds since she entered the car. You look just like her. Or maybe I should say she looks just like you.

Her eyebrows went up and she gave another little laugh, this time of disbelief. No…never. You’re pulling my leg. What’s her name again? Marilyn Monroe? I hope she’s pretty. She didn’t tell him that she’d been screen tested for the same part before giving up on a Hollywood career, and had seen the movie three times.

Definitely not joking. And she’s more than pretty—she’s beautiful. Like you.

Really? Their eyes met, hers gazing warmly into his from under thick, dark eyelashes, her brightly painted lips moist and parted.

Watch the road! she suddenly cried out, and Luton faced forward just in time to turn the wheel and stop the car from drifting into the path of oncoming traffic.

Luton grinned sheepishly. Sorry about that. You had me distracted.

Well, you shouldn’t get distracted so easily, should you? They had reached Orange Avenue, the town’s main commercial thoroughfare. Well-tended residential neighborhoods could be glimpsed behind the small shops that fronted the roadway.

Beth pointed to a plain two-story brick office building ahead on the right. I’d like to be dropped in front, Mr. Luton.

Stanley, please.

When the car came to a stop Luton told her he really wanted to see her again.

Perhaps, Stanley, we’ll run into each other again outside the Admiral’s office, she said, surprising him with a coquettish peck on his cheek, and opened the car door and stepped out before he could answer.

Checking in the rear view mirror as he drove off he was puzzled to observe her pass by the office building and disappear from sight up the concrete walkway to the side entrance to the building next door, Rudy’s Cocktail Lounge.

5

At 1730 Dorsey was in his room on the Amphibious Base at the Bachelor Officer’s Quarters—the BOQ—writing a letter to his mother when EJ knocked on the door and stuck his head in.

You busy?

Dorsey waved him in.

EJ sat down on the bed, stretching out his long legs, and gazed idly around the room as though seeing it for the first time. Designed to accommodate two junior officers—though Dorsey had been the sole occupant for the last month—the room was sparsely furnished: two single metal-frame beds, a pair of plain wooden wardrobes, a small desk