Dick Couch - Out of the Ashes

Sandee Barron didn’t consider herself especially “religious.” She preferred to call herself spiritual. Yet after she had showered and dressed, and knowing Laurie was on watch in CDC, she had locked the door of their stateroom, gotten on her knees, and prayed like she had never prayed before. She wanted — no, needed — God to help her do the right thing.

Still, what is the right thing? It’s beyond just putting my life and Laurie’s life on the line, to say nothing of my career. I’ll have to lie to my squadron mates, to the ship, and to everyone else for that matter.

In addition to that, what about her husband and their two daughters? What if something happened to her? Would it have been worth it? This would in no way be a victimless crime.

God hadn’t told her what to do. She had to make the decision herself.

Once Sandee decided she needed to help Laurie do what she wanted to do to prove the threatening missiles were in Saudi Arabia, not in Syria, the rest was execution. She told her immediate boss, the helo detachment officer in charge, she had been promising to take Laurie up on a familiarization flight for the longest time and that a parts pickup for Mustin was as simple a mission as there was. He had agreed. Next, she had used the information Laurie’s National Reconnaissance Office contact had sent to plan the fastest ingress/egress route to the suspected missile site. She had also spent some time on the SIPRNET Intel-Link learning all she could about Saudi radar coverage in that area. Finally, she reminded herself of her oath and told herself, firmly, the decision had been made and she wouldn’t look back. OK, Sandee, you fancy yourself the best pilot on the detachment, maybe in the entire squadron. Here’s your chance to prove it.

Ayatollah Seyyed Ali Hosseini Khamenei considered himself a man of infinite patience; it was something Allah expected of him. He had made his decision with due diligence and it was, he reminded himself, in the best interests of the Islamic Republic of Iran. However, his patience had worn thin when advisor after advisor had come to Niavaran Palace to try to convince him to change his mind. Change his mind? Rescind a decision he had come to after earnest prayer and contemplation? Perhaps he ought to reconsider who he had chosen to be his advisors. He would attend to that later. For now, he had a solemn duty to do what he was about to do.

“Swampfox 248, winds are twenty-five to port, fifteen knots, gusting to twenty, you’re cleared for takeoff. Beams open. Green deck. Lift.”

Sandee Barron pulled a bit of collective, kicked the rudder pedals, and pivoted the nose of the MH-60R to the left. Once pointed directly into the wind, she pulled an armload of collective, pushed the helo’s nose over, and flew away from the ship.

“Box Top,” she began, using Normandy ’s daily changing call sign, “Swampfox 248 is away, three plus one-five hours on the fuel, two souls aboard.”

“Swampfox 248, Box Top control, Roger. Your vector to Delta Whiskey is 262 for forty-four miles.”

“Roger vector, Box Top control. Swampfox 248 out.”

Sandee was on her way to Bahrain, identified by the daily changing call sign, Delta Whiskey, to pick up the critical part for Mustin ’s SPY radar. “Here we go,” she said, looking to the aircraft’s left seat.

Here we go, Laurie heard herself thinking.

For Sandee, there was still time to back out. They could just get the part, take it to Mustin, then return immediately to Normandy as she said she would. Sandee’s mind was in overdrive. In the helo’s left seat, Laurie Phillips was also conflicted. Had she asked for too much?

Almost due east of where Sandee Barron piloted Swampfox 248, Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps Navy sailors loaded mines onto dhows in the Iranian ports of Chabahar and Shahib Rajaee. Soon they would head south, bound for the Strait of Hormuz. What they did not know was that American satellites had been watching from the time the mines had been taken out of their underground bunkers and had followed them as they were taken to the mine assembly area buildings in the port areas and then to the loading docks in the ports.

At the Niavaran Palace, Grand Ayatollah Seyyed Ali Hosseini Khamenei had made his decision. The mining operation was under way and he had turned that over completely to Rear Admiral Jamshid Rostami. He had given Rostami explicit instructions to mine the Strait of Hormuz as a show of strength. He wanted to show the Americans and the west what Iran could do if the United States attacked Syria.

Rostami would carry out his instructions and seed just a few mines at strategic points near the Strait of Hormuz. That harassment mining would be enough to panic Western nations and drive the price of oil to unprecedented levels. Also it would be something the Americans could clear in fairly short order. The grand ayatollah knew a mine clearance effort would take months if Iran sowed a larger portion of the more than five thousand sea mines in its inventory. That was not his game. This would be a precision operation and he counted on Rostami to carry it out flawlessly.

His mind cleared of that for the moment, Ali Hosseini Khamenei turned to his next task, ensuring the United States would not retaliate against Iran for any of her actions. What he had decided he wanted to be prepared to do needed be done with care and therefore it needed to be done professionally. He had contacted his man, a Bahrainian national, several days ago. The Bahraini had assured him he could hire just the right person to do exactly what he asked and do it just the way he wanted it done. Now that hired man, an American of Russian extraction, was holed up in his hotel suite in Silver Spring, Maryland, with his supply of sarin gas and a do-not-disturb sign affixed to his door. The man’s orders were to do nothing — yet.

Laurie had ridden in the back of the MH-60R when Sandee had picked her up on Truman and delivered her to Normandy , but riding in the left seat of the MH-60R was a completely different experience. It was all but sensory overload, looking at the multiscreen display in the Seahawk’s all-glass cockpit, peering down on the crowded blue waters of the Arabian Gulf populated with all manner of dhows, coastal freighters, enormous oil tankers, and the like. She watched the broad Saudi coastline, all the while trying to make sense of the chatter over the radio.

The part pickup in Bahrain had been routine, although the Navy logistics people who loaded the part, along with several bags of mail for Mustin, wondered why the MH-60R didn’t have a crewman in the back. There were the same puzzled looks when they had made an uneventful landing on Mustin and then had Mustin ’s flight deck crew unload the part and mail. Mustin ’s landing safety officer had been mildly inquisitive as to why they needed fuel for the short trip back to Normandy; but they had been refueled nonetheless. As they lifted off Mustin ’s deck, Laurie saw Sandee put the sun on the bird’s right side and turn north, not back south toward Normandy . She felt she had to say something.

“Sandee, I know we talked about this. I know you are doing this for all the right reasons, but if you want to head back toward Normandy, I’ll understand completely.”

“We decided, Laurie. We’re going.”

“I appreciate it, Sandee, I—”