Larry Bond - Exit Plan

8 April 2013

0230 Local Time/2330 Zulu on 7 April

The Oasis, East of Mollu

“They’re back,” reported Jerry. “Four armed soldiers, walking along the beach, toward the east. About five hundred meters due south.”

Lapointe dragged himself over, grunting every now and then when he rubbed his wounded leg up against the ground. Jerry handed him the night-vision goggles and pointed toward the ocean. The petty officer looked through the NVGs and scanned the entire area between them and the small breakwater at Bandar Shenas. “Every hour, on the hour. Punctual fellows, these Pasdaran. Very commendable.”

“Agreed, their consistency is a good thing. But I don’t think an hour will be enough time for us to hobble across two kilometers,” Jerry stated politely.

“Did I ever tell you that I dislike smart-ass officers, sir?” grumbled Lapointe, with a grin on his face. “Under normal circumstances I could kick your ass in a 10K run, XO.”

“I don’t know about that, Pointy. I’m pretty good at running, but the circumstances right now ain’t exactly normal, are they?”

The enlisted man sighed. “No, sir. They most definitely are not. But don’t think I didn’t hear that challenge. After we get back and I’m all patched up, we’re gonna have a race, you and I. And I’m going to enjoy all that beer you’ll be buying me and my buddies after I win.”

“You’re on, Sailor,” replied Jerry confidently, as he extend his right hand. Lapointe grasped it firmly, and shook it.

Jerry raised his SCAR and looked through his infrared sight; Lapointe was still using the handheld NVG. “I think they’re leaving,” Jerry said.

“Concur, sir. We should get going as soon as they clear the area. We’ll cross to the north, over the sand dunes with the scattered scrub and trees. That should keep us well outside of their visual range. Where is Dr. Naseri?”

Jerry tilted his head back into the grove. “She’s still sleeping over by Yousef’s grave. She said it would be her last time to be near him.”

“She’s one tough woman, XO. She lost her uncle and husband in one day, but she’s still fighting. You have to admire intestinal fortitude like that.”

“She’s lost a lot more than that, Pointy. Did you see the piece of green cloth she wrapped one of Yousef’s epaulets in?”

“Yes, sir, I did. What’s that about?”

“That’s a piece of her father’s flight suit. He was an F-14 pilot, imprisoned and tortured by the IRGC right after the Revolution. And yet, he flew to defend Iran during the Iraq war in the eighties. He died in combat. Shirin was just a baby, she never knew her father. You heard what she repeated over and over again after Yousef died?”

The petty officer nodded.

“Well, Harry told me that ‘Baba’ is kind of the Persian equivalent of papa. She was crying for her unborn child, as much as herself. On top of all that, her mother has almost certainly been arrested, and probably killed. She’s lost everyone dear to her. That’s a steep price tag in anybody’s book,” Jerry observed thoughtfully. “We owe it to her to get her out alive.”

“I’m all for that,” agreed Lapointe, as he continued tracking the Pasdaran patrol. “They’re just about far enough away for us to get started. You get Dr. Naseri, I’ll grab my new crutch and my weapon. It’s time for us to catch our ride home.”

8 April 2013

0300 Local Time/0030 Zulu

Harbor at Bandar Lengeh

Fazel emerged from the dark water like a creature out of a horror film, and carefully crept up the embankment. The guard had just walked by, interested more in searching the edge along the outer perimeter of the breakwater than inside toward the harbor itself. Silently and methodically, the corpsman climbed up onto the path, approaching the guard from behind. With one smooth motion, the SEAL covered the guard’s mouth with his hand, pulled back his head, and plunged the knife between the collarbone and trapezius muscle into his heart; the guard didn’t even have time to drop the flashlight he was carrying.

Grabbing the flashlight, and then rolling the body over onto the rocks of the outside wall, Fazel slowly began pacing along the path, pretending to be the Pasdaran soldier. Ramey had been right, there were two guards on that part of the breakwater, but the other one was easily over one hundred meters away and walking in the opposite direction. As long as he stayed that far away, he wouldn’t be a problem.

“All clear, Philly. Check out the boat, but be quiet about it,” Fazel advised over the radio.

“Understood,” Phillips responded. He was already beside a speedboat that had caught his eye. It was about the right length, six or seven meters, and it had a respectable one-hundred-horsepower outboard. There were a couple of boats with larger engines, but they were in the middle of the nest. This one was the last boat in a long string, which meant its absence wouldn’t be as easily noticed. Pulling himself up onto the transom, he was able to get a footing on the outboard and slithered inside. Phillips paused to listen for the guard, then peered over the gunwale to check on his location. The Pasdaran soldier was at the far end of the breakwater, walking away from him.

Crawling toward the open cockpit, Phillips could feel his heart pounding with excitement. This was his first deployment and it was everything he’d dreamed it would be. Being downrange, mucking about in the bad guys’ backyard unseen and unheard, was what kept him going during BUDS. He relished being part of a selective group that was determined to succeed, no matter how tough the job was or how much it hurt.

Phillips pulled out a small red light and held it up high under the steering console. He quickly inspected the wiring. No security measures; they’d be able to hot-wire this boat in no time. Sliding back down to the stern, the young SEAL peered over the gunwale again. The guard was still far away, but had turned around, as the flashlight beam now pointed in Phillips’s direction. He needed to finish up soon. Checking the after storage compartment, he made sure that the marine batteries were in place before looking for a fuel gauge. He found it on the starboard side of the below-deck fuel tank, near the fueling port. The tank looked hefty and the gauge read three-quarters full. “Score!” he whispered.

Slipping off the transom and back into the water, he moved quickly toward the boat’s bow. Tracing the mooring line by hand, he cut it as close to the pier as he could. He didn’t want a long piece of line floating in the water that could attract unwanted attention. Again he paused and listened for the guard. Nothing.

“Harry, I’ve got the boat. Where’s the guard?” radioed Phillips.

“Still a ways away, but walking slowly toward us. I’m on my way back, start towing the boat out.”

Phillips had already slid between “their” boat and the next one in the nest when Fazel gave the order. Slowly, carefully, Phillips pushed away the hull. The beast was heavy, but it soon surrendered to his determined shoving. Inertia did the rest. Once the boat was clear of its neighbor, Phillips returned to the bow, grabbed the line, and began pulling it along the inner edge of the breakwater. With two rows of nested dhows between him and the harbor lights, it would be virtually impossible for anyone, other than the guard that Fazel had taken out, to see him as he struggled to tow the boat out to sea.

It wasn’t long before Fazel was back in the water with Phillips. And after stringing a second towline, he put his back into it as well. “Sweet ride, Philly,” remarked the corpsman approvingly. “She certainly looks fast.”