Larry Bond - Exit Plan

“They’ll want to see the proof themselves,” warned Kirkpatrick. “Are we ready to release this kind of information?”

“Normally, I’d be very reluctant to provide such sensitive data to anyone but the Brits,” admitted Duvall. “But given the circumstances, I think it’s in our best interest to share this with the Israelis. But that may not be my boss’s position.”

“Very well,” Kirkpatrick replied as he stood up. “I’ll make the recommendation to the president, after I discuss this with the director of national intelligence.”

“Dr. Kirkpatrick, General Duvall, I’d also like to request that you consider bringing my husband in on this.”

“Senator Hardy? Why, Joanna?” Kirkpatrick actually looked surprised by her request.

“Lieutenant Commander Mitchell, the senior officer of the group that is stranded, served under my husband on Memphis. Lowell also knows Captain Guthrie reasonably well, and he is well versed in covert submarine operations. He’s also on the Senate Armed Services Committee, which gives you a knowledgeable point of contact on the Hill.”

Kirkpatrick thought it over for a moment, and then looked at Duvall.

“I have no objections to reading Senator Hardy in,” Duvall remarked.

“Alright, Joanna, I’ll raise this with the president as well. But I make no promises.”

5 April 2013

0330 Local Time/0030 Zulu

Three Kilometers North Northwest of Akhtar

Phillips and Lapointe burst through the door, their weapons at the ready. Ramey followed right behind them. Only after a hasty inspection to ensure the building was abandoned were Jerry and the others allowed to stumble in. Fazel shut the door and anchored it against the howling wind with an empty cabinet.

The shamal had hit them a little under an hour earlier with twenty-five-mile-per-hour sustained winds, driving rain, and a ten-degree drop in temperature. While the shamal was on the mild side, everyone was thoroughly soaked, chilled to the bone, and covered with sand.

Phillips was the first one to get his mouth cleared. “Okay,” he gasped, as he spit some sand out of his mouth. “That officially sucked!”

“I haven’t been this miserable since Hell Week,” agreed Lapointe. His reference to the fifth week of the Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training, or BUDS, is the standard metric by which SEALs compare the relative unpleasantness of a situation. If it’s “like” or “worse” than Hell Week, it’s really, really bad.

“I don’t know, Pointy,” Phillips argued. “I’ve been cold, wet, and sandy before, but never sandblasted! Hey, maybe I should suggest adding a driving wind to Hell Week.”

“You’re a sadistic bastard. You know that, Philly?”

“Can it, you two,” Ramey barked. “Since you’re so full of energy, Phillips, you can take the first watch.”

“Yes, sir,” responded Phillips coolly. Jerry noticed Lapointe’s jaw tighten.

“Doc, report. How’s our favorite spy?”

“She’s really cold, Boss,” replied the corpsman.

“We all are, Harry,” observed Ramey. His voice was cynical, uncaring.

“No, sir, I mean she’s dangerously cold,” Fazel repeated more sternly. “Her body temperature is low, and she’s showing symptoms of mild hypothermia.”

“What can you do about it?” injected Jerry. Ramey’s head snapped around at the sound of his voice.

“We need to get her out of those wet clothes and under some warm blankets. I’ve already asked her husband to strip her down as much as possible.”

“I bet that didn’t go over well,” Jerry noted with a little sarcasm.

Fazel snickered. “No. It didn’t. But I think I got my point across.”

“What else can we do, Doc?” asked Ramey impatiently.

“I’ll start making dinner or breakfast, or whatever, and get her some hot tea, but we need to get her off this concrete slab. Any insulating material that you can scrounge up would be really helpful.”

“I think I can handle that,” Jerry volunteered. “You guys have more important issues to deal with.”

He started walking toward the back of the building, when Lapointe called over, “Hey, XO, I think I saw some cardboard boxes in the back left-hand corner.” Jerry thanked him and started rummaging through the junk. The building looked like it had been used for shipping, and was filled with all kinds of miscellaneous packing material. He found the boxes Lapointe had referred to and started breaking them down. Jerry also found a canvas covering and some twine. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Lapointe and Ramey having a quiet, but animated conversation. Neither looked very happy.

Jerry stacked the flattened boxes, along with something that looked like rough packing paper, into the canvas and tied the corners together with the twine. It wasn’t fancy, but it would keep both Naseri and Akbari off the cold floor. As he tugged it toward the Iranian couple, Fazel came over and helped him carry it. The corpsman was impressed. “Great work, XO. This will do nicely.”

“Well, it isn’t a Sealy Posturepedic mattress. But it should do the job.”

Yousef had picked Shirin up off the floor, partly to make sure she stayed covered, but also because she was still shivering so hard it was questionable that she could even stand. Jerry and Fazel positioned the makeshift bedding in the center of the building, and Yousef gently put her down. Shirin’s face, still darkened by the sand, showed a weak smile. It was all she could offer as a thank-you. Fazel reassured her that she would start feeling warmer soon, then suggested that Yousef should snuggle up close to her and transfer some of his body heat to her.

After their meal, Jerry sat down with Ramey and Lapointe. The two had been poring over a map and taking stock of their situation. Ramey appeared to be calmer, but Jerry detected concern in Lapointe’s voice.

“Boss, we could be stuck here for days if this storm is really bad. And we’re almost out of MREs and water. We’ll have to start foraging soon.”

“I know, Pointy. I know. We really should leave and move on tonight, but I doubt Doc will support it. Dr. Naseri probably can’t handle another night out in the open with that kind of weather.”

“How long does a spring shamal normally last?” asked Jerry. He’d heard about the summer storms that could go on for days, sometimes for an entire week.

Ramey let loose with a deep sigh. “The spring storms aren’t as intense as the summer ones. Typically a spring shamal can be as short as several hours, or as long as a day. Maybe a day and a half.”

“This one is on the weak side, XO. Not that anyone here would likely agree with that after the hour we spent in it.” Lapointe’s wry smile told Jerry that he was back to his old self. “But if I had to guess, twelve hours. Eighteen tops.”

“More worst-case planning then?”

“Exactly,” said Lapointe, as he touched his nose with his index finger and pointed in Jerry’s direction. “And it don’t look too good, if you ask me.”

“What Petty Officer Lapointe is trying to say, XO, is that we are running short of provisions and we’ll need to start looking for food and water as well as trying to evade capture.” Ramey was still a bit snippy, but he had definitely improved.

“This shouldn’t be a problem, gentlemen,” Jerry said nonchalantly. Both SEALs looked confused; convinced that he just didn’t understand the dilemma they were in.

“Once the weather clears, we contact Michigan and have them send in one of the Cormorant UAVs with supplies and any gear you think we might need. Since they’re stealthy, it should have no problem avoiding Iranian early warning radars.” But as Jerry started to describe how this aerial resupply theoretically would go down, he ran into an assumption that he hadn’t thought of initially.