Larry Bond - Exit Plan

“That’s not a honeymoon!” barked Hardy. “That’s a forced march, in Siberia no less! Please tell me you aren’t planning on doing cold weather camping?”

“No, no, no. Emily has some very strong opinions on that,” stated Jerry firmly. “Her idea of roughing it is confined strictly to the trails. The accommodations have to have a warm bed, a hot tub, a good restaurant, and a well-stocked bar. Tents and dehydrated food are right out.”

“Thank God, for that tattered shred of sanity!” responded Hardy, amazed.

“Now, darling, not everyone wants to be a beach bum,” chided Patterson sternly. “It’s their honeymoon, let them do what they want.”

“Oh, oh, I know that voice. I’d better go get that drink, before I end up sleeping on the couch. We’ll talk more later.” It was Hardy’s turn to chuckle at his wife’s expense. The two walked toward the bar hand in hand.

The dinner was exquisite. Lenny Berg’s toast as the best man was unexpectedly gracious. The first bites of the wedding cake were exchanged without incident, and Jerry launched the garter into a sea of eligible bachelors. When it was Emily’s turn to throw the bouquet, she positioned herself before a throng of unattached young women and lofted the bunch of lavender roses over her head.

Jerry watched as the tidy bunch of flowers slowly flipped end over end, almost in slow motion. Flowers? Flowers!..

He awoke suddenly, his mind racing, triggered by the vision of flowers floating in the air. Did the florist remember to send Emily the card and flowers? As his groggy head started to clear, he remembered getting the familygram from his wife, thanking him for the flowers and the beautiful card. He had left the handwritten card with the florist to accompany the roses. The message was short and simple, “each petal a thought of you.” It was the best he could do since he would be at sea during their first anniversary.

Jerry shivered as he looked around. The wind was still howling; he could hear sand pelting the building’s thin metal walls. Lapointe and Phillips were standing guard, while everyone else appeared to be asleep. He laid his head back down and tried to snuggle deeper into the thermal blanket. Cold and sore, Jerry desperately wanted to go back to sleep. He wanted the dream to continue, he wanted to be back home.

5 April 2013

1730 Local Time/1430 Zulu

Three Kilometers North-Northwest of Akhtar

They’d ridden out the shamal, which had thankfully ended about 1700. It had been a long, uncomfortable wait. Even with rags stuffed in cracks around the doors and windows, the air in the shed had been filled with fine dust. They’d all worn improvised masks, but the grit still found its way onto their teeth. Clothing offered little protection. This made staying bundled against the damp chill more unpleasant as the gritty cloth rubbed up against their skin.

It wasn’t all bad news. Any trace of their passage last night had been obliterated, and with luck, the old Peykan was buried under a new sand dune.

Jerry had slept, but he didn’t feel rested, and he’d kill for a shower. Still, he felt better. There would be no shamal tonight, and just knowing what to expect helped his attitude. He also blessed the day he’d joined the Navy. He liked the outdoors, but this was taking it too far.

After the shamal ended, they managed to push open a door on the lee side of the storage shed. The SEALs secured the area, Lapointe set up the satellite antenna, and Jerry called Michigan.

“We’re ready for resupply. When do you plan on launching the Cormorant?”

Guthrie’s voice was almost cheerful. “We’ll launch at 1900, just before last light, so we can hide the plume of the booster rockets. Everything you’ve requested is being loaded as we speak.”

“Thank you, sir. This drop will help boost morale.” Jerry knew the resupply effort would solve their immediate needs, but it didn’t deal with the larger issue. “How’s the surface picture looking?”

“Worse. The number of surface patrols has increased steadily; you’d think there was a regatta up there. Fortunately, they haven’t wandered too far from Kangan, yet. But you are less than forty kilometers from the IRGC naval base at Asaluyeh, which means we still can’t come in and get you. By the way, we’ve had a request. Our friends back home examined the material you sent and would like one more file. Tell Dr. Naseri it’s a confidence building request.” Guthrie read off a string of letters and numbers.

Shirin was still dozing, so Fazel quickly explained and Yousef roused her while Pointy used his laptop and found the file Guthrie had asked about. Yawning, she typed in the decryption key, then again when it didn’t work the first time. “This is the last one,” she warned.

1815 Local Time/1515 Zulu

USS Michigan, Missile Compartment

Guthrie had tried not to hover, but now it was time for a last check. Simmons could get Michigan to the right location, depth, and heading without the captain looking over his shoulder.

The missile compartment was crowded when he arrived. The two supply capsules had already been loaded and secured inside the Cormorant’s fuselage. Lieutenant Frederickson, Chief Yates, and several enlisted members of the SEAL platoon were watching with interest as the missile techs performed the prelaunch checks while Lieutenant (jg) Pat Doolan, one of the assistant weapons officers, supervised.

The captain had served in Ohios before as a junior officer, when the boats carried twenty-four Trident II missiles. Now, the “Sherwood Forest” of double cylinders was loaded with other things. And while their general appearance hadn’t changed, Guthrie could see the details: the equipment added to recharge the scuba tanks and the added workspace for the SEALs to maintain their gear. And for two tubes, twenty-three and twenty-four, the equipment that supported the Cormorant UAVs inside. The access hatch was open, with Doolan and his chief making the final inspection. The shape of the UAV was hidden, wrapped inside its own folded wings.

Lieutenant Frederickson offered the captain a clipboard. “Here’s the final list, Skipper — four hundred and seventy pounds.”

“Is that all? The Cormorant can carry more than twice that.”

“But our people can’t. If they split the load equally, it’s over sixty pounds per person. And I don’t think the woman’s going to be carrying much at all. My guys have been working on this list since Matt and the others got stuck on the beach.”

Behind him, the missile techs closed the access hatch to the tube and began checking the seals. “Captain, can we watch the launch in the control room?” asked one of the techs. “The Tomahawk weapons control center is going to be packed, and we’d like to see our bird fly.”

“I don’t need a lot of bystanders in control during this evolution. But, I’ll authorize your team to go to the BMC for the launch. That way those of you who are not on duty can watch.”

The young missile technician smiled. “Thank you, sir.”

Half an hour later, Michigan was at UAV launch stations. Sonar reported no nearby contacts, and the diving officer was ready to compensate for the absence of nine thousand pounds of robotic aircraft. The launch procedure was ridiculously simple.

The sound-powered phone talker reported, “TWCC reports Cormorant shows ready.”

Guthrie ordered, “Open the hatch on missile tube twenty-three.”

“Open the hatch on missile tube twenty-three, aye. Launcher, Control. Open the hatch on missile tube twenty-three.” After no more than thirty seconds, the petty officer reported, “Hatch on tube twenty-three indicates fully open and locked.” The chief of the boat, standing watch as the diving officer, could see the indicators on the ballast control panel. He nodded confirmation.