Larry Bond - Exit Plan

“I can do it, sir,” implored Carlson. “Just give me a shorter cast for this run so I can still handle the controls.”

“Absolutely not!” Manning stated firmly. “Your strength in that arm is compromised. Trying to manhandle watertight hatches and other equipment will result in more damage.”

“Alex,” injected Jerry “You’re not going to win this one. Been there, done that, bought the wardrobe.” He bared the scars on his right wrist to emphasize the point.

“I can pilot the ASDS,” said Lieutenant Vernon Higgs. “I’m qualified and can still perform my other duties once the minisub is in position.”

“That’s too risky, Vern,” Carlson countered. “You can’t work the lockout chamber controls and support the diver egress and just let the boat sit there, even anchored, that close to the shore. And we have very little information on the bottom topography and the currents along the Central Iranian coast. Operating that boat with one of your squads going in and out is definitely a two-man job.”

“What other option do we have, Alex?” Higgs argued. “I don’t think we can get another qualified pilot out here in time.”

“Even if the Navy could find one and get him out here quickly, you’re still talking twenty-four hours at a minimum. By that time we’ll be in the Persian Gulf, probably close to the Iranian coast; how do we get him on board without drawing attention to our position? If we divert to a safer location, we’ll lose a lot of time,” Simmons added with growing frustration.

Guthrie listened intently to the brainstorming, remaining silent to allow his junior officers room to freely voice their ideas and concerns. By their expressions and comments, the SEALs all believed that the risk was acceptable for Lieutenant Higgs to perform both jobs. The submariners strongly disagreed.

Guthrie did as well. “I can’t allow Higgs to do the job alone. Too many bad things could happen. But to be honest, I’m not keen on telling my boss that I can’t do my job without help, and I don’t want to do this unless there is absolutely no other choice available to us.”

The assembly grew quiet as two-dozen brains chewed on the problem. After about fifteen seconds of awkward silence, Jerry finally spoke up. “I can pilot the ASDS, Captain.”

Every head in the room snapped in his direction. Guthrie looked quizzical, and intrigued. “Okay, XO, explain yourself.”

“Yes, sir. You know I attended some of the training sessions before this patrol, to get a better appreciation of ASDS operations, and I’ve spent some time on the simulator. I went out with Alex during both the workups and on one of the exercise events. I even managed to get some stick time. I believe I have a good feel for how the ASDS handles, and Vernon can assist with the launching and landing evolutions. I’m also a qualified Navy diver, all of which makes me the closest thing to a spare pilot.”

Guthrie took stock of his peoples’ reactions as Jerry explained his plan; both Higgs and Carlson were nodding their agreement, a good sign.

“Alex can provide some additional training while we’re en route, and Vernon and the others can make sure I understand the SEAL aspect of this mission. This should reduce the risk to an acceptable level,” concluded Jerry.

“Comments on the XO’s idea. Alex?” Guthrie asked.

“The XO’s legit, sir,” responded Carlson favorably. “He has an intuitive feel for the minisub; he can do it.”

“Vern?”

“Concur with Alex, sir.”

“Travis?”

“Concur, Captain.”

A visibly relieved Guthrie turned to Jerry and said, “Okay, XO, you got the job.”

Facing the assembly, Guthrie offered a final opportunity for comment. “Anything else?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Frederickson. “Captain, I’d like to request restricted access to the BMC and missile compartment lower level to enable my guys to properly prepare for this mission.”

Guthrie had seen SEALs go into a similar isolation mode in the past. It helped the SEALs mentally prepare for a mission. He thought it was a little strange, but it was their way and it did seem to bear fruit. “Granted, Travis. Only the navigator, Mr. Carlson, the XO, and myself will have access. Everyone else has to get your permission. Jerry, make sure you pass the word.”

“Aye, aye, sir,”

“Thank you, Captain,” responded Frederickson.

“Alright, people, we have a job to do, so get hot,” ordered Guthrie.

Everyone in control clearly heard the SEALs. “HOOYAH, Skipper!”

2 April 2013

1005 Local Time/1505 Zulu

The White House

Joanna Patterson concentrated on staying two steps behind the national security advisor. Ray Kirkpatrick was shorter than her by a good six inches, but he walked fast, and she worked to keep up. They were a little late, and that only added to her adrenaline level.

She knew the West Wing very well, and had been in the Oval Office dozens of times, but this was a new job, with a new administration, and of course, a new boss — two new bosses if you counted Dr. Kirkpatrick. A close friend of President Myles, he’d been a deputy undersecretary of defense in the Huber administration. It was a big jump from deputy of whatever to national security advisor, but Kirkpatrick had made a name for himself. Energetic, almost to a fault, with good communications skills and ambition, he’d transformed his little acre in the Pentagon from a disaster to “a model of efficiency,” according to the cover of Pentagon Weekly. Kirkpatrick also understood the value of good press.

Getting the briefing perfect had taken a few minutes too long. They arrived almost breathless, five minutes late, but the president’s secretary waved them inside. “You’re not the last. We’re still waiting for Admiral Hughes.”

“Thank you, Mrs. McDowell.” Kirkpatrick headed inside and Patterson followed. A memory, of going to the dean’s office with a professor to ask for a grant, flashed in her mind.

She’d only met President Kenneth Myles a few times, and then only briefly, without getting a real chance to talk with him. She’d enjoyed a long relationship with President Huber, based on their common advocacy of environmental issues. Her relationship with the new president was based on a glowing recommendation from Huber and a vetting by the Myles transition team.

The room was crowded, in her opinion much more than necessary. The secretaries of state and defense waited near the president. It seemed like half the U.S. Intelligence apparatus was in the room: General Duvall, Chairman of the National Intelligence Council was here, as well as his boss, Gregory Alexander, the Director of National Intelligence, and Dr. Randall Foster, Director of the CIA. The military side included the secretary of defense, chairman of the joint chiefs, and General Ramsdale, head of Special Operations Command. Too many people drew too much attention and too much talk.

The president was speaking to the Secretary of State, Andrew Lloyd. Lloyd was an old-school diplomat, with over thirty years of experience in the state department. Myles’s vice president had been picked to balance the ticket, but Lloyd was Myles’s closest political ally. He’d helped shape the president’s foreign policy platform before the election, as well as taking state after the inauguration. They’d been friends for decades, sharing interests in Asian history and Italian cooking.

President Myles had taught in Asian studies and written extensively before becoming involved in foreign policy, and then politics. He had the gravitas of a scholar, with a shock of snow-white hair that the political cartoonists loved, over an angular face with a strong jaw. Politically, he was more pro-business than many Democrats would like, but Patterson approved of his environmental record, and he’d said all the right things about national security. This would be his first real test.