Larry Bond - Exit Plan

The lieutenant’s description of their sensor limitations troubled Rahim; the pursuit had to be better organized if they were to locate their prey. Surely three patrol boats should be sufficient to do the job.

“Can you make a calculation to estimate an optimal interception point? We need to coordinate the search better. I will not tolerate them escaping again!” shouted Rahim.

“Yes, sir, I can. But without any contact data, it will be a rough estimate,” Qorbani responded cautiously.

“Just do it!” Rahim demanded.

Qorbani nodded and signaled his sergeant to take the wheel. Politely pushing the obsessed VEVAK agent to the side, the lieutenant reached under the counter and pulled out a large laminated sheet of paper with numerous circles, scales, and a nomograph at the bottom. Rahim watched with rapt curiosity as Qorbani placed points on various circles and then traced out several lines with a grease pencil. He measured distances with a pair of dividers and drew more lines across the nomograph. After five minutes working the Maneuvering Board, Qorbani made a small circle around a point where four lines intersected.

“All right, Major. Assuming that they headed due south, with a maximum speed of thirty to thirty-five knots, and with a fifteen-minute head start, this is my best estimate of where we should vector our boats.” Qorbani tapped the circle with his finger.

To Rahim, the circles, lines, and dots looked like gibberish. Frowning, he asked, “Can you provide courses and speeds for the other boats?”

“Yes, sir. Here they are for the Torough and the ten-meter RIB. If I’m correct, we should pick them up in twenty to thirty minutes. If I’m wrong, one of the other boats should get them,” replied Qorbani, trying to sound more confident than he felt.

Rahim looked at the paper again and saw that it would be almost an hour before they would be in range to attack. He had to move fast. “Send the information to the other boats,” he commanded.

8 April 2013

0517 Local Time/0217 Zulu

Twelve Nautical Miles South of Iran

Ramey watched his GPS receiver display as the latitude number ran past 26°17’30” and kept on going. “Okay, people,” he shouted, “we are now in international waters. We are officially out of Iran.”

“Hooyah!” screamed Phillips.

Jerry was stirred from his dozing by Phillips’s howl. He carefully stood up, stretched, and looked behind them. The sun wasn’t up yet, but the twilight glowed on the horizon. The country of Iran was no longer in view.

“Congratulations, Matt. That was some display you put on as we left. Do you think you got all of the patrol boats in Bandar Lengeh?” asked Jerry.

Ramey shrugged. “Don’t know, XO. But that isn’t the question that’s bothering me. What I really want to know is how close were the patrol boats that were at sea when we bolted? Harry and Philly did a fine job picking a good boat for us. She’s doing thirty-five knots, that’s damn respectable. But most of the Iranian boats do forty-five knots or better. If they were close enough, they’ll catch us.”

“And we’re blind,” Jerry add.

“Bingo.”

“Did you try to contact Michigan yet?”

“A couple of minutes ago. Didn’t get a response,” answered Ramey.

“Strange. They must have had to dodge a surface contact. Do you mind if I try?”

“Knock yourself out, XO.”

Jerry put on the headset and made sure his personal radio was set to the right frequency and the power level was cranked up a few ticks. Depressing the transmit button, he phoned home, “Starbase, this is Gray Fox, do you read, over?”

No response. He waited for a few seconds then tried again, “Starbase, this is Gray Fox, do you read, over?”

“Gray Fox, this is Starbase, good to hear from you guys. Over.” Jerry waved for Ramey, and pointed at his headset. The platoon leader put on his headset and dialed in as well.

“Gray Fox” — Jerry recognized Guthrie’s voice—”report status.”

“Sir, we have just crossed into international waters. We are on course south, speed three five knots. No sign of pursuit but we have extremely limited detection capability. Is there a UAV up in our vicinity?” inquired Jerry.

“Affirmative, we are doing a quick search. Wait one.”

“Standing by,” Jerry replied. He then pointed toward the backpack with the laptops. Ramey grabbed it and dragged out a machine. He had it open and firing up when Michigan responded with bad news.

“Gray Fox, you have three inbound patrol craft.” Frederickson was now speaking. “The first contact bears zero six seven, range eight nautical miles, speed four two knots. The second contact bears zero nine eight, range one six miles, speed four six knots. The third contact bears two five two, range one six decimal five miles, speed five three knots. How copy, over?”

While Jerry repeated the data, Ramey brought up the images. Lapointe, awakened by the chatter, rolled over to see the screen. Fazel also joined him; curious to see just how much trouble they were in. Ramey froze the frame on the first contact and took a good look at it.

“It’s the patrol boat I saw pulling into Bandar Lengeh. Intel data says it’s an Ashura II WPB. It’s armed with a 7.62 machine gun and small arms. We could probably fight this guy off if we had to.” Ramey moved on to the second contact. He paged through the freeze-frames until he found a good side view. Zooming in, he let out a sigh.

“The second boat is an Iranian-built Boghammar. It’s armed with a 107-millimeter multiple-rocket launcher and a DShK 12.7-millimeter machine gun. I’m not worried about the rocket launchers, but that.50 caliber is a big problem.” Ramey shook his head as he spoke.

Panning to the third contact, Ramey zoomed in. Immediately, his eyes opened wide and his face took on an exasperated look. Fazel and Lapointe both grimaced.

“What’s the matter?” Jerry asked. Concern grew within him as soon as he saw the SEALs’ expressions.

“The third patrol boat is one of those Fabio Buzzi thirty-three-foot RIB racing boats. It has the same armament as the Boghammar, only faster. We are completely outgunned here.”

Ramey turned the screen so that Jerry could see it. The patrol boat was sleek, sexy, and deadly looking. “Starbase, please advise as to the best evasion course,” asked Jerry

“Gray Fox, you are currently on the best course. Inbound hostiles will intercept in approximately two zero minutes.”

Jerry felt discouraged; the fortunes of war had flipped on them once again. The others, too, looked worried, which aggravated Jerry’s fears.

“We can’t outrun them, and we can’t outfight them,” Ramey said firmly. “We are going to need some help with these guys.”

Jerry agreed. “Starbase, it is the opinion of the platoon leader that we do not have the ability to fight off the incoming hostile boats.”

“Gray Fox, understand your assessment of the tactical situation. Help is on the way. ETA is approximately three zero minutes.”

Jerry looked down toward Ramey. The lieutenant was shaking his head. “Not soon enough. These guys will be here in about twenty minutes.”

“Starbase, be advised that were going to need assistance sooner. Request Cormorant support.”

“Gray Fox, we are already preparing to launch a Cormorant. Please stand by.”

“Standing by,” Jerry responded.

8 April 2013

0528 Local Time/0228 Zulu

Kilo-Class Submarine, Yunes, SS903

Mehr sat patiently in his chair in the central post, waiting. Hunting a submarine was a slow, exacting game, best played by chess aficionados. They had arrived at the coordinates of the missile strike seven hours earlier and immediately began an expanding box search. Just before entering the area, Mehr had recharged his batteries near the inbound shipping lanes, hoping that the noise from nearby merchant traffic would mask his own diesels. The captain had ordered a strict ultraquiet routine; nonessential equipment was either turned off or placed on its lowest setting. All off-duty personnel were confined to their bunks. No videos, no music, no talking. They had to be one with the sea. With a full can, and a reduced electrical load, Yunes moved silently through the shallow water, stalking their whale.