Larry Bond - Exit Plan

The truck’s downward progress off the road threw everything into the air or against the sides or ends of the space. Even Jerry became airborne when he lost his grip on the bench, landing heavily on Phillips.

Ramey, sitting near the front, had reacted by grabbing the seats on each side with his hands and extending his legs under the benches, bracing them against the supports. Relatively secure, Jerry could still see him strain to hold his position, and Ramey took hard impacts from several flying objects.

It got worse when the truck tipped over. The sudden deceleration threw everything and everyone to the front, with the lieutenant under it all. It spilled to the right as the bed went vertical, then a little past vertical on the downward-sloping ground.

Jerry coughed, tried to move, and realized his legs were entangled with Phillips, while one arm was pinned under Lapointe and several knapsacks, which now seemed to be loaded with rocks.

“Out! We have to get out!” Lapointe shouted. The petty officer was nearest the open end of truck, and struggled out from under a tangle of gear. He snatched the closest rifle and half-staggered to the opening.

Jerry flexed his liberated arm. Once assured it was working, he pulled himself clear of Phillips and helped him to stand on what had been the truck’s side, now the floor. “Look after the boss,” Phillips shouted as he grabbed a rifle and joined Lapointe by the back.

Ramey was unconscious, and Jerry forced himself to carefully check the lieutenant’s pulse and breathing. He was alive, and moaned as Jerry checked for broken bones or other trauma. “Ow. All right, I’m awake. Ahhhh,” he groaned, as he moved his arms then untangled his legs from the bench seats. Pulling himself to a kneeling position, he called, “Pointy, Philly, somebody tell me what’s going on.”

“Lot of fire from both sides of the road, Boss. It’s died off, now.”

“They probably think we’re dead,” Ramey answered. “Let’s see if they send someone to check out the wreck.”

“We’ll keep out of sight.”

“What about Harry and the Iranians?”

“I’m here,” Harry reported. “No casualties. I need my weapon. The precious cargo is under cover, next to the truck. There’s a machine gun fifty plus meters away on this side of the road, and I saw RPG fire. I had to get off the road because they had a mortar zeroed on it.”

They grabbed weapons and packs. Lapointe handed Harry his rifle, and then passed Jerry the night-vision goggles. “Give these to Yousef.”

Ramey ordered, “Harry, Philly, XO, go up front by the cab. Harry, see what you can do about that machine gun. Pointy and I will stay back here and see if we can put some fire down. They could rush us any time. Move.”

The group had been huddled down, half inside the truck and the others behind. Lapointe and Ramey moved first, turning to lay prone on the sloping ground facing toward the enemy. As they moved into position, Jerry heard several single shots, spaced a few seconds apart.

Dirt and pebbles kicked up near Lapointe, and he cried out. “UGH! I’m hit, my leg!” Another shot quickly followed, but Ramey had already backed down the slope and avoided being struck.

Jerry and Phillips moved Lapointe to safety by the simple expedient of grabbing his feet and pulling. Fazel joined them, but as he reached for his first aid kit, the far side of the road erupted with gunfire, tracers converging on the truck. The machine gun to the right of the road also laced the area. A moment later, a pair of explosions ripped the ground a dozen yards away. “Well, they know we’re still alive,” Jerry said.

They all understood what was happening. “Get away from the truck!” Ramey shouted. “Head toward the beach!” he ordered. “Philly, XO, help the Iranians.”

Jerry headed behind the fleeting cover of the truck to find Shirin and Yousef huddled against the canvas top. “We’ve got to get away,” Jerry urged, and pointed down the hill.

The couple stood and hurried down the slope, with Jerry in front and Phillips covering their rear. Tracers flew over their heads. Another pair of mortar shells landed closer to the truck. They could hear fragments ripping through the metal body. Behind him, Jerry could hear Lapointe trying to stay quiet as Ramey and Fazel carried him, his wound still untreated.

Jerry heard a different-sounding explosion, and had just enough time to register the whoosh preceding it when the truck fireballed, briefly highlighting them in orange-red light as they struggled down the slope.

Jerry almost fell into a fold in the ground that appeared as a dark chasm in front of them. It was deep enough to kneel behind, but he found that out by landing badly on the bottom. He helped Shirin down and then called to Ramey and Fazel. Carrying Lapointe, they turned toward Jerry and the others, and sped up as much as they could, given the uneven terrain.

The instant they put Lapointe down, Harry opened his first aid kit and started to work. Jerry quickly crawled over and began taking off Lapointe’s backpack. “Leave it,” the corpsman said tersely. “It’s not in my way.”

“I want the radio,” Jerry insisted. “Gotta make a call.” He fumbled first with the pack, then with the radio. He’d seen Lapointe set it up plenty of times, but it was dark, and the edges kept getting caught on the fabric of the backpack.

Jerry said, “I’ll get us some help. Just keep us alive for ten minutes,” he told Ramey.

The lieutenant set about organizing their defense.

Lieutenant Sistani had taken a position on the rise, next to Private Alizadeh. His night sight was proving vital, both for spotting the enemy and guiding the mortar. The sight had a built-in laser rangefinder, and he’d fed range data to the 60mm mortar Corporal Afshar and Private Kiani were firing.

The second volley of fire had driven the fugitives down the hill, which was good, but where were they now? “What can you see?” Sistani demanded.

“I saw motion down the hill, sir, but nothing now. I think they’ve gone to ground.”

“Give me a range to where you last saw them.”

The private checked his sight. “Three hundred and sixty-five meters.”

Sistani hurried down the hill to the mortar position. “Afshar, get ready to put six rounds down at three seven zero meters, in line with the truck.” As the corporal nodded, Sistani called to the nearest private. “Ostovar, tell Jahveri to put machine gun fire down wherever he sees mortar shells exploding. Stay there and be ready to advance when I give the word. Go.” The lieutenant watched him trot out of sight, counted another thirty seconds, then told Afshar, “Now.”

USS Michigan, Battle Management Center

2033 Local Time/1733 Zulu

Guthrie’s voice boomed out of the intercom. “BMC, Conn. We’ll be ready to launch in a minute or two. Any updates?”

Frederickson answered, “They’re still getting mortar fire. Lapointe is stable.”

A new voice came over the intercom. “Control, Launcher. Missile compartment manned and ready.” Doolan’s voice was almost breathless. “Were making the final checks now.”

“No shortcuts, Mr. Doolan,” Guthrie cautioned.

“We’re good, sir. I double-checked the seals myself.” There was a short pause, and he reported, “Tube two four is ready.”

The SEAL lieutenant keyed the radio. “Launch in two minutes, XO.” He heard two clicks in response.

Fortress of Solitude

2038 Local Time/1738 Zulu

Jerry wasn’t getting a lot of help from Lapointe. The petty officer had refused to take any painkillers so he could stay awake, but he’d lost a lot of blood, and half the time Jerry couldn’t hear his answers, especially in the middle of a firefight.