Larry Bond - Exit Plan

The petty officer hit a key. “This image is just five minutes old, infrared only because it’s dark. This is why we called you back. Five new people appear at the water’s edge, while the original two stay put, as if unaware of their presence.”

“Five people?” Guthrie asked, clearly worried, trying to understand. There were supposed to be only four swimmers.

“Okay, now in real time. The five new arrivals are joining the other two at the rendezvous point. Nobody’s running, nobody’s showing any violent motion, so we can assume the meeting is peaceful.”

Guthrie looked up from the display to Frederickson. “This confirms what we suspected. The ASDS is down, and it looks like one man is missing.”

“Probably dead,” Frederickson observed frankly. “If he was wounded, he’d be with the others. They wouldn’t leave him behind. If he’s dead, his body heat won’t show up on the infrared.”

Guthrie frowned at the grim estimate. “That’s harsh, but I can’t disagree. Could he have been separated from them during whatever happened to the minisub?

Frederickson shrugged, but then shook his head. “He’d have to be incapacitated, and why didn’t they stay to look for him? Anything’s possible, but it’s damn unlikely.”

Guthrie turned to go. “I have to report this.”

“Sir, I recommend we wait a few minutes more. Right now, there’s no decision to make. Unless they’ve lost the comm gear, they’ll report in. Then we’ll know more.”

He turned to the operator. “I need to see the UAV’s coverage of everything between the coast and our position.”

On the Coast near Bandar Kangan

Ramey called to Jerry, hidden farther back. “It’s them, XO.” Sighing with relief, Jerry stood and picked his way across the dark ground. After reaching the shore, Ramey had told Jerry to stay well back, and Jerry had readily agreed. The hour-long swim had exhausted him, far more than the SEALs, who were more heavily loaded as well. Jerry tried to control his shivering. The swim had drained the heat from every part of him; he couldn’t remember ever being this cold.

As Jerry came over the dune, he got his first look at their “precious cargo.” Ramey stood next to a uniformed figure and a woman. He couldn’t see much in the darkness, except that both appeared to be about his age, and the woman was much shorter than her husband. Fazel stood to one side, weapon lowered but ready to cover the entire group. Lapointe and Phillips were not in sight, presumably still hidden.

As he approached the group, they turned toward him. Ramey said, “This is Jerry, my executive officer.”

“You are in charge?” The woman spoke quickly and clearly. Her English had only a trace of an accent. Her companion remained silent, and his posture spoke of caution. One hand rested on his pistol holster, and Jerry hoped that was just habit.

“I’m the senior officer, ma’am. Matt, here is the team leader.”

“I am Shirin, and this is my husband, Yousef. We are ready to go with you now. What must we do?”

Jerry looked at Ramey, who simply returned his gaze. No wonder he’d called Jerry over. He was the senior officer. Ramey was going to let him deliver the bad news.

“Our plans have changed,” Jerry started. “There was an accident, a fire aboard our submarine—”

“A fire?” she interrupted him. Your submarine is sunk?”

Jerry tried to explain. “We had a small submarine that brought us to the beach, or was supposed to bring us here and take us back to another, larger, sub. On the way here, we had a battery fire and it sank—”

“Do fires happen often on American submarines?”

Jerry bristled, but simply replied, “Rarely.”

“So you have no way to take us to the other submarine,” she continued. “How far away is it? Can we swim?”

“About fifteen miles — nautical miles,” he corrected himself. Jerry added, “Over twenty-five kilometers.”

The husband, Yousef, broke into the conversation. Jerry could hear the impatience and questions in his tone. Shirin answered, but whatever she said didn’t satisfy him. He looked unbelievingly at Jerry and Ramey, then fired another question at Shirin. As she started to answer he interrupted her, and she angrily countered.

Although they’d only been talking for a few moments, their rising voices reminded Jerry of their exposed position. “Matt, we’ve got to get off this beach.”

Ramey motioned toward the two Iranians. “Concur, sir, but we need these folks to work with us, and they seem to have their own issues. Maybe Harry can help.” He spoke into his chin mike. “Doc, to me. Pointy, maintain your position.”

Seconds later, the second shadow silently trotted up to Ramey, Jerry, and the two Iranians.

Yousef listened to the American commando, if he really was American. He called himself “Harry,” but spoke Farsi with a Tehrani accent. He was dressed in camouflage and armed like the others. He said he was a sailor, and a medic.

“Your wife is correct, sir,” he said in Farsi. “Our minisub was lost, and we are stranded here. One of our team was killed in the accident.”

Shirin asked, “How do you propose we get to your sub, then?”

Ramey replied, “Our backup plan is to launch a Zodiac — a rubber boat with an outboard motor — from the big submarine. It will come in to the beach and pick us up.” As Ramey explained, Fazel translated for Shirin’s husband.

“But we need to get under cover while I communicate with our submarine.” Ramey pointed toward one dune. It was taller than the rest and ran parallel with the beach. “There. Let’s go.”

With the entire team sheltering along the dune, Jerry watched as Lapointe set up the PRC-117. Although they all had headset radios, Pointy carried the long-range gear. The husband, Yousef, saw the petty officer setting up an antenna and spoke quickly, urgently. Fazel translated. “He is warning you that the Pasdaran have radio listening posts all along the coast. If we transmit, he says we will be detected.”

Ramey answered, “Explain to him this is a highly directional satellite communications antenna that uses frequency hopping. It is very hard to detect the transmissions.”

He then turned to Shirin. “What rank is your husband?” Jerry could see the wheels in the lieutenant’s mind turning. The man’s in uniform. Exactly whom am I dealing with?

Shirin answered proudly, “He is a Sarvan Pasdar — a Pasdaran captain.”

The SEALs looked at each other quickly, and Ramey shined a red light on Akbari’s shoulder. The epaulet showed the four open rosettes of a Pasdaran officer.

“He is—” She paused. “He was responsible for part of the air defenses at the uranium facility at Natanz.”

Jerry could feel the tension rise. There was a noticeable change in Ramey’s tone.

“Tell the captain that our sub will launch a rubber boat with an outboard motor, a Zodiac. It’s fast, twenty-plus knots — over forty kilometers an hour, and it’s armed. It will take about forty-five minutes to get here once it’s launched. It can hold us all, but it will be a little slower on the way back, about an hour. We can be off the beach and aboard the sub well before daylight.”

Lapointe had finished setting up the antenna. Ramey took the handset. Comms were good, and Jerry listened as the lieutenant reported their situation.

Finally, he asked, “The beach is secure. We’re ready for the boat as soon as you can send it.”

Jerry already knew what the answer would be. He heard Ramey say, “Understood.” He gave the phone back to Lapointe.

“They’ll get back to us in ten,” Ramey explained.

USS Michigan, Battle Management Center