Larry Bond - Exit Plan

The relief gunner fired a long burst just as the grenade exploded, whipping the machine gun across the Ashura’s bow, the bullets spreading out in a long arc.

The Plexiglas windscreen in front of Jerry shattered, startling him. A fraction of a second later, he felt a searing pain in his left shoulder. His left hand went limp, and the boat lurched to starboard as he tried to compensate. He couldn’t recall if he screamed or not.

“XO! What the hell?” Fazel shouted angrily. Looking back he could see the bloodstain growing around Jerry’s shoulder. He couldn’t do anything about it now. “Can you still steer the boat?” he asked.

“I’ll manage, Doc,” Jerry yelled back. He looked behind him. They had a patrol boat on each quarter, closing fast. With three shooters down, and no grenades, things looked bleak. He wanted to think of Emily, but his mind wouldn’t let him. Focus on the fight , Jerry thought. Even if it’s the last thing you do.

Rahim was elated; another American had been hit. And with the Torough patrol boat now attacking from the other side, victory was assured. The chase would be over. Dahghan would be avenged. The traitors would die.

A loud SHWISH distracted him. He could see a faint smoke trail as it streaked toward the Torough patrol boat. Suddenly, it disappeared in a violent explosion. The boat was gone, disintegrated. All that remained was a burning pool of fuel on the ocean’s surface.

“Helicopter gunship!” screamed a panicky Qorbani. He spun the wheel over, taking evasive action.

Rahim stood motionless. “No,” he said softly.

A flash from the dark spot on the horizon testified to the launch of another missile. Rahim couldn’t make out what Qorbani was shrieking. What was happening couldn’t possibly be real.

“No,” he repeated, only louder this time. “I am blessed,” he repeated with conviction. The impacting Hellfire missile ended the debate.

Jerry blinked, not quite sure of what to think. The two Iranian patrol boats simply vanished in twin balls of smoke and flames. He felt woozy, tired. He could hear Fazel talking on his radio. Something about wounded team members. He saw Phillips near him. The young petty officer was grabbing the wheel.

“I’ve got it, XO,” he said.

Slowly, Jerry released the wheel and then fell back into Fazel’s arms. The corpsman lowered him carefully onto the blood-covered deck and started administering first aid.

He saw Phillips talking on his radio to the MH-60R helicopter that was hovering near them. Turning the shot-up speedboat westward, they headed toward the Arleigh Burke destroyer that was closing on their position at flank speed.

8 April 2013

0630 Local Time/0330 Zulu

Uranium Enrichment Facility, Natanz, Iran

General Moradi hung up the phone in total disbelief. Rahim was dead. The three patrol boats he was leading had been wiped out by the Americans. The traitors and all their information were safely in American hands. Soon the world would know of the farce that was the Iranian nuclear program. There would be no denying that they had lied, repeatedly. Their inability to successfully produce a weapon after years and years of effort, even with consistent covert foreign assistance, would make them a laughingstock. The damage to Iran’s global image was unfathomable.

Worse, the Israeli strike had been intercepted by American carrier aircraft and forced to turn back. The Americans had done the unthinkable; they openly challenged the Israelis and defended Iran. Everything he’d planned, all the careful preparations he had put into play, would now be known as the lies that they were.

He was sure VEVAK would be out for revenge. They had lost two of their most senior agents. Someone would have to be held responsible. There would be a reckoning.

22 April 2013

1400 Local Time/1900 Zulu

Washington, D.C.

They had decided to do everything on the same day A lot of people had to travel from other places, and it simplified the security arrangements. Jerry still marveled at the logistics. WTOP, the local Washington news station, had actually issued traffic alerts for the Arlington area.

Jerry thought the weather and the season had helped. The skies were clear, with temperatures in the mid-60s. A lot of trees were flowering, and the drive down the parkway was beautiful, but it was really the publicity that had drawn folks to say good-bye to someone they’d never met.

It was almost five miles from the National Cathedral to Arlington Cemetery, but Massachusetts Avenue and Rock Creek Parkway had been lined with people, some in uniform, but mostly civilians. Jerry saw families, too, the kids waving little American flags. Emily tried to estimate how many there were. His sister Clarice from Minnesota took pictures of the homemade signs they held.

The police escort peeled off after they crossed the Memorial Bridge and entered Arlington proper. From that point on, the Arlington staff would handle the traffic and the crowds. The press was already down by the gravesite, and the onlookers, there by accident or intention, were kept well back.

By the time it was Jerry’s turn to get out of the car, Higgs’s casket was already loaded on the caisson, the American flag neatly draped over the top, with the blue field over his left shoulder. The six caparisoned horses stood immobile as mahogany statues. The military chaplain, the escort, the band, and the rest were taking their places.

Jerry helped Emily and Clarice out of the car first, then Ellen Guthrie, with the skipper emerging last. He had to be careful of his left arm, still healing from the gunshot wound. One car in front of them, Nate Lapointe, now in a full leg cast and with crutches, managed a near-graceful exit with help from Phillips. Neat and well-groomed in their dress blues, Jerry had to work to remember these were the same grimy, camouflaged men he’d seen in the speedboat, or trudging across a dark landscape.

One car behind, he saw Harry, or Special Warfare Operator Second Class Heydar Fazel, get out and lend his arm to Shirin. She’d had a lot of help finding maternity clothes suitable for a funeral. Her hijab beautifully framed her face, while also being solemn.

The last few cars were still unloading when the band started. They led the cortege, playing the “Navy Hymn,” then Higgs’s college fight song, and the “Missouri Waltz,” for his home state. Judy, the kids, and the rest of Higgs’s family were right behind the caisson, along with the senior officers and dignitaries. Lieutenant Matt Ramey, his arm also in a cast, was her official escort. He’d known both Vern and Judy long before they were married, and was a close friend. She’d lean on him when the time came.

Barrineau, Carlson, and the rest of Charlie Platoon followed close behind, then Michigan ‘s wardroom and the members of the crew that had been able to attend. Out of a crew of just over 150, more than half had made the trip from Washington State. Following them were the rest of the SEALs from SEAL Team Three that were not deployed, plus representatives from every other SEAL Team in the Naval Special Warfare community.

It was a lot, but not compared to the service. The National Cathedral had been filled past its thirty-five-hundred-person capacity, and Judy had allowed it, for the sake of giving Vern a proper sendoff. It was clear official Washington and the public wanted to honor Lieutenant Vernon Higgs, and she was grateful. But the graveside service was for “family.”

It wasn’t a long walk, although it was long enough to give Jerry time to remember. This wasn’t his first trip to Arlington. He’d visited it before as a tourist, of course, but then he’d helped say good-bye to Dennis Rountree, a crewman on Seawolf who’d died in their collision with Severodvinsk. Since then, he’d felt differently about the place. He’d make time after the ceremony to go and say hello to his shipmate.