Exit Plan

20. HEAD FOR THE WATER

8 April 2013

0000 Local Time/2100 Zulu on 7 April

The Oasis, East of Mollu

Ramey inspected Phillips’s camouflaged face, looking closely at the hairline and neck. The lieutenant frowned and motioned Fazel for the face paint compact. Dipping a finger in the dark hunter green, Ramey touched up a bare spot on the top of Phillips’s forehead. He then checked the diagonal striping on the face and arms. A grunt signified his satisfaction.

Jerry had watched Ramey earlier as he applied his own face paint; it reminded him of an Indian brave putting on war paint, but the analogy ended there. Whereas war paint was more ceremonial, designed to enhance one’s appearance and bring good fortune in combat, modern facial camouflage is all about hiding the face’s features to the maximum extent possible. A base covering removed the inherent shine of the skin, while darker colored diagonal lines broke up the recognizable pattern of the eyes, ears, nose, and mouth. In the dark, the three men would be effectively faceless.

The platoon leader had instructed his men to go light; only mission-essential gear was to be carried. They had a long run and swim ahead of them, and Ramey didn’t want them weighed down with unnecessary equipment. Each man had his SCAR, sidearm, ammunition, ka-bar, radio, and a small pack with distributed common gear such as water, rope, first aid kits, and explosives. Lapointe’s pack was also emptied and then restuffed with the bare minimum, the PRC-117 radio, both laptops, ammunition, rope, and four bottles of water. The UAV remote control terminal was set alongside. Everything else was buried in the ragged wild shrubs that made up much of the grove.

While the other SEALs made their final checks, Shirin sat on a small dune next to Fazel. She was visibly unhappy, and told Harry in Farsi exactly what she thought. “This is a bad plan. How can we help each other if we separate?”

He answered gently, “There is a risk, but we discussed all the alternatives earlier; this gives us our best chance of getting outta here.”

Almost crying, she said, “ I’ve had enough of death. I don’t want to see anyone else killed.”

Turning and kneeling to face her, he softly said, “Every man here is a volunteer who knew what he had signed up for, even the XO. Besides,” he added with a grin, “we don’t plan to get killed.”

Resigned, she scrunched herself up into a fetal position and pulled the thermal blanket around herself, her small body shaking with cold and sobbing.

As Harry reached out to adjust a corner of the blanket, she shook off his hand. “Just go,” she said, weeping, “but please come back.”

Before leaving, Fazel checked in on his patient. He had rendered Lapointe’s damaged right leg immobile with a sturdy splint. It was the best he could do given the available materials, and he wanted to make sure it and the bandages were secure.

“Okay, peg leg, this should get you down to the beach. Just be careful how you transfer your weight and you should be good. But I do have to warn you, it’s going to hurt like a son of a bitch.”

“Well, at least you’re an honest pain technician,” replied Lapointe sarcastically. “Much more precise than the usual ‘you may feel some discomfort’ crap.”

Fazel chuckled at the brave face Lapointe was putting on; he knew how badly the LPO wanted to go on this mission. “I’ll be sure to add an extra honesty fee to my bill,” he teased.

“In that case, belay my last,” said Lapointe jokingly. Then he said more seriously, as he looked at Phillips, “Keep an eye on him, will you? He’s trained, but he’s also inexperienced.”

“You worry too much, mother hen. He’ll do fine. See ya later, dude.”

“Later, Doc.”

Ramey completed his checklist and then signaled Fazel and Phillips it was time to go. Picking up his pack and weapon, he came over to Jerry and Lapointe.

“Time check, Pointy. I have five minutes after midnight in five, four, three, two, one. Mark.”

“Check, Boss,” Lapointe replied firmly. He was still weak from his wound, but he didn’t have to sound that way.

“Right. We’ll rendezvous down at the Bandar Shenas breakwater in four hours. See to it you’re on time.”

“Hooyah, sir.” A halfhearted salute accompanied Lapointe’s response.

Ramey gave his LPO a rough slap on the shoulder, rose, and faced Jerry. His gaze was icy, his voice mechanical. “I’m leaving Petty Officer Lapointe in your care, sir. He’s your responsibility. I expect to see him at the breakwater when we return.”

Jerry could tell that the young officer was still struggling with their blowup earlier. But his message was crystal clear, even though he hadn’t said the words — don’t leave anyone else behind. “Understood, Lieutenant, and good luck.”

Ramey didn’t acknowledge Jerry’s well-wishing and started to leave. But after a couple of steps, he stopped and looked over his shoulder. “Remember, if we aren’t back by 0500, XO, grab one of those fishing boats and make a run for it.”

“Hope for the best, but plan for the worst, Mr. Ramey?” questioned Jerry.

“Of course, sir,” he said soberly. “If we aren’t back by five, odds are we aren’t coming back.”

8 April 2013

0030 Local Time/2130 Zulu on 7 April

1st Regiment Headquarters, 47th Salam Brigade, Bandar Lengeh

Rahim pored over all the reports again, comparing each of the times and positions to those displayed on the map, looking for something that would tell him where the enemy had gone. Nothing! He threw the reports on the table with frustration and rubbed his face. It had been over twenty-four hours since the last attack, and they hadn’t come any closer to finding the traitors or the Americans. How could they move so fast with wounded members? Were they still on foot? Or did they manage to commandeer another vehicle? Did they head back to the northwest, breaking their pattern of the last four days? Or did they head into the hills to the north? Finding them in such rugged terrain would be extremely difficult. His questions seemed endless, and all of them were unanswered.

He yawned and stretched, fatigue was grinding his ability to think to a halt. It had been over thirty-six hours since he last slept, and he’d kept going by sheer force of will and an abundant supply of coffee. Most of the additional troops had arrived as promised, and the security at the airport, harbor, and all of the nearby checkpoints had been beefed up significantly. Dedicated search-and-destroy teams would be deployed later in the morning, supported by aviation assets. He’d reviewed the detailed search plan developed by Colonel Yavari’s staff and deemed it acceptable. If the fugitives believed they could simply go to ground and hide until things calmed down, they were sadly mistaken. Rahim took some encouragement from that last thought, for if true, it meant the traitors were unaware of the plan that he and General Moradi had put into play.

Yawning again, Rahim concluded that any further attempts to keep working would be a waste of time; he really did need some rest. He had to be refreshed for the activities later in the day. After writing a short note to remind himself to discuss augmenting the command center staff with Colonel Yavari, Rahim slowly made his way to the cot put up for him at the back of the office. Collapsing onto the stretched fabric, sleep came quickly.

8 April 2013

0230 Local Time/2330 Zulu on 7 April

Port Cargo Storage Area, Bandar Lengeh

Ramey, Fazel, and Phillips leaned up against the stack of loading crates stored near the water’s edge. This was the designated operational readiness position, or ORP they’d selected from imagery, the launching point for the water phase of their mission. The harbor at Bandar Lengeh, like many Iranian ports, was constructed using three breakwaters. The nearest one was a two-hundred-meter-long segment that ran straight out into the gulf. The second breakwater was farther away, and it was the longest of the three. Built in the shape of a crescent, it formed the back and side of the harbor. The last breakwater was an artificial island; offset about two hundred meters from the harbor entrance, it protected the mouth from any waves that came directly from the southwest. The platoon leader carefully surveyed the two breakwaters connected to land with his infrared sight and noted the guards walking their beat. A well-armed fast boat was just exiting the harbor, departing on patrol.

It had taken the SEALs longer than anticipated to complete the land portion of their plan; there had been a lot of patrols along the beach. A typical SEAL could have run the 11.5 kilometers from their layup position to the edge of the storage area in about an hour, but Ramey and company had spent a lot of time on their bellies crawling through the sand, rock, and short scrub. Twice, a Pasdaran patrol walked within meters of where the SEALs lay, oblivious to their presence. Travel got a little easier once they reached the edge of town, where the pathways and unlit streets enabled them to safely pick up the pace.

“Okay, gentlemen,” Ramey whispered. “We hit the water here. I can only see one guard on the curved breakwater. It’s much more likely there are two, possibly more, as that section is a lot longer. If you have to take them out, use your knives only. Clear?”

Both Fazel and Phillips nodded in silence.

“Pick a fast-looking boat and tow it behind the dhows. After I set the charges on the IRGC patrol boats, I’ll meet you at the exfiltration ORP by the far breakwater. Any questions?”

Both shook their heads no.

“Alright, then, let’s get ready,” ordered Ramey.

As one SEAL removed his camouflage jacket, rolled it up, and stuffed it into his pack, the other two kept watch. The green t-shirt and darkly camouflaged arms offered less of a contrast against the water than the lighter jacket, and it would make swimming a little easier. One by one they crawled from behind the crates and down the rocks lining the harbor wall, slipping silently into the water.

During the planning session, it became clear from new imagery that the landward approaches to the harbor were just as reinforced as the airport. But unlike the airfield, which could only be approached by land, the harbor had another, more difficult to defend avenue — the sea, and that suited Ramey just fine. Unlike other Special Warfare soldiers that see water as an obstacle, to the SEAL it is a sanctuary. When SEALs find themselves in trouble and have the option, they always head for the water.

The trio swam quietly but steadily toward the closest of the three breakwaters. The water was on the cool side, but definitely warmer than their earlier swim the night the ASDS sank. A light wind was at their backs, from the southwest as expected. The slight waves it generated could be heard breaking on the rocks, helping to mask what little noise the SEALs made. They traversed the open water swiftly, and then hugged the base of the breakwater around into the mouth of the harbor.

Fazel and Phillips broke off at that point, swimming across the harbor entrance, after making sure no one was entering or leaving port. It was only 150 meters to the other side and they used the channel marker light as their guide. Ramey continued to follow the breakwater around, heading toward a small pier that jutted out from the rocky base. The harbor buildings were illuminated and he could make out the silhouetted forms of two IRGC patrol boats berthed at the pier. Following the breakwater, he inched slowly toward the small jetty. He was halfway there when he heard someone walking above him; he froze. A guard was making his rounds. Ramey could see a flashlight being waved about as a Pasdaran soldier made a halfhearted search along the water’s edge. Without a sound, the platoon leader slipped under the surface and swam away from the breakwater, toward the pier and his intended targets.

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.”

“And I made sure she has plenty of gas, Doc,” huffed Phillips. Fazel could only smile and shake his head. Together, the two SEALs manhandled the speedboat toward the mouth of the harbor.

On the other side of the port, Ramey had just finished attaching two of his improvised explosive devices to the undersides of the IRGC patrol boats. The first boat was one of the notorious Swedish Boghammars. Very fast and armed with two heavy machine guns, this bad boy definitely had to be taken out. He tied the Mark 67 hand grenade, wrapped with half a pound of C4 plastic explosive, to the lowest step of the swim ladder using duct tape and rope. He made sure the explosive package was underwater to improve its effectiveness. He then looped line through the eye of the pin, straightened out the pin’s flared end to ensure a smooth extraction, and secured the line to one of the pier’s pylons. When the boat moved away from its mooring, the pin would be pulled from the grenade, followed four or five seconds thereafter by a loud BANG\

The second IED was attached forward, taped on the outboard side of the hull, just below the sharp chine near the waterline. And like the first grenade, he looped a line through the pin, straightened the end, and tied it off on a pylon. The booby trap would almost certainly be spotted in bright daylight, but by then it wouldn’t matter. All Ramey cared about was that these boats didn’t leave port for the next few hours.

The second patrol boat was a smaller Watercraft 800. Ramey didn’t see any armament, but he knew it was fast and fixed two of his IEDs to it as well. He still had some time, so he took the two remaining bombs and rigged them to blow up under the pier’s wooden deck. He took extra care to ensure one was directly under a fuel tank that was bolted to the deck — an insurance policy that hopefully would keep the Pasdaran busy while they made good their escape. With all his special packages in place, Ramey ducked underwater and swam away. When he surfaced he was over thirty meters away from the breakwater. He could see the guard’s flashlight, and while it was unlikely he would be seen, Ramey wasn’t taking any chances and went back under to put more distance between him and the Pasdaran sentry. When he came up the second time, in the middle of the port proper, he spotted the channel marker light and headed for the exfiltration point.

8 April 2013

0345 Local Time/0045 Zulu

Near the Breakwater at Bandar Shenas

Jerry struggled to keep Lapointe upright as they worked their way across the uneven, sandy terrain. They’d left the grove over an hour ago, but even though he was giving it his all, the wounded petty officer could only go so fast. While the crutch and splint enabled Lapointe to move, each step was agonizing. Jerry knew he was in considerable pain as the sweat was pouring off his shaking body, and yet all Jerry heard was his sharp exhale each time the splint hit the ground. Lapointe had insisted they take this route even though it would be tougher for him to navigate. It was not only the shortest path to the breakwater, but it kept them out of range of any passing patrol. It also would provide good cover for them to hide, just in case a Pasdaran patrol deviated from its observed route. The problem was they still had about half a kilometer to go till they reached the breakwater, and their pace was slowing.

It had been a difficult departure. While Lapointe got accustomed to the feel of his walking aids, Jerry went back to Yousef’s grave to get Shirin. He found her there, kneeling, her hand on the freshly turned soil, speaking softly in Farsi. He knelt down next to her, cleared his throat and said, “Shirin, it’s time to go.”

“I know,” she choked. “I was just saying my last good-bye. I won’t be able to… to come back.. ever. It’s so hard, Mr. Jerry.” She began weeping again.

“He wanted you safe, Shirin. He’d be mad if you didn’t leave.” It was a weak argument, but it was the best he had to offer.

“Yes, I know,” she replied quietly. “He often got upset with my stubbornness.” Jerry watched as she bent down and kissed the ground where Yousef’s head lay. He heard her whisper something before straightening up.

“XO,” Lapointe’s hushed voice came from the darkness, “we really need to get going now.”

“We’re coming, Pointy,” Jerry replied. Reaching down, he helped Shirin to her feet and steadied her during those first few parting steps. They emerged from the shrubs to find Lapointe standing, his rifle over his shoulder. Jerry grabbed his weapon, the UAV remote terminal, and his backpack and started putting them on.

“Give me something to carry, Mr. Jerry,” said Shirin. “You need to help Mr. Pointy walk, let me do something, please.”

Jerry was going to argue, but Lapointe was quicker. He removed his backpack and handed it to her. “Would you please carry this for me, Doctor? I think it would be safer for the XO if my weapon didn’t swing around on my pack and bounce by his head every time I took a step.”

Shirin took Lapointe’s heavy pack and slung it over her shoulders; she tottered a little initially then defiantly stood upright, ready to go. Sighing, Jerry slung his rifle upside down across his back and propped Lapointe up on his left side. “Ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be, XO.”

“Forward, march.”

They had paused for a short rest, Lapointe needed a break from the constant pounding on his leg and Jerry needed to use the night-vision goggles to scout ahead of them. Shirin sat down on a rock and carefully took the weight of the pack off her shoulders. She was breathing hard, but didn’t complain.

“How’s it look, XO?” grunted Lapointe.

“I think there’s another Pasdaran patrol approaching from the other side of the breakwater. We couldn’t see them before because of that dune we just crossed back there.”

“I kind of expected that, sir. Help me up.” Jerry helped the LPO stand; his grip trembled with pain as soon as he put weight on the damaged leg. Once up and steadied, Lapointe took a look himself.

“Yup, that’s a different group. I count four soldiers, and they’re heading toward the breakwater.” There was a note of frustration in his voice.

“How much further do we have to go, Pointy?”

“I’d estimate three, maybe four hundred meters, XO.”

“Can we beat them to the breakwater?” Jerry asked.

“Nope, not a good idea,” answered Lapointe.

“Okay, what’s next?”

“We keep moving and go to ground seventy-five meters from that first building. Then we wait for them to move on.”

“We’ll be late,” warned Jerry.

“Sir, we’re already going to be late.”

8 April 2013

0400 Local Time/0100 Zulu

Outer Breakwater at Bandar Lengeh

A ghostly gray shape slowly materialized out of the darkness. Relieved, Ramey swam with renewed vigor toward the boat. It hadn’t been a long swim by SEAL standards, but he’d been in the water for an hour and half and he was cold and tired. Phillips grabbed his platoon leader’s arm and helped him over the gunwale; Ramey tumbled onto the deck. For a moment he simply laid there, catching his breath, then pulled himself up on to the console chair.

“Report,” he commanded wearily.

“No problems getting the boat, Boss,” replied Fazel. “One guard had to be taken out, but no one saw us leave.”

Ramey nodded his approval and praised his men. “Well done, Gents! I’ve rigged the two patrol boats to blow should they pull away from the pier. And I left an extra special surprise, just in case.”

“Sounds like you had all the fun, Boss,” complained Phillips. “My shoulders are killing me from tugging this beast.”

“Rank does sometimes have its privileges, Petty Officer Phillips,” teased Ramey. Picking up his rifle, he took a quick look through his nightscope to get a better feel for their location. The island breakwater was less than ten meters away. Surprised, he exclaimed, “Damn! I didn’t think we were that close. We’d better move away from those rocks. Philly, grab the other oar.”

“Hold on,” Fazel interrupted abruptly. “We’ve got company. A boat’s coming in.”

Ramey reached for his weapon again. “Where, Doc?”

“Off the port beam.”

It took him a few seconds to sweep through the bearings, but Ramey soon had the boat in his sights. “Damn it! It’s a patrol boat! And he’s coming right at us! He’s probably going to use the southeast channel. We need to get on the other side of this breakwater, but keep us as close as possible.”

“Closer than we are now?” asked Phillips, as he dug his oar into the water.

“Yes, move us in so that we are just off the rocks.”

“Is that a good idea, sir?” Fazel was uneasy with Ramey’s chosen course of action.

“Think about it, Harry. Were at least a good hundred meters from the center of the channel. It’s so dark out, they won’t be able to see us. But if they have radar, which is highly likely, then our butts will be hanging in the air unless we can hide this bucket in the ground clutter of the breakwater.”

“Got it,” exclaimed the corpsman as he seized the other oar, and together with Phillips, began rowing the boat closer to the breakwater.

While Ramey kept track of the incoming patrol boat, the two enlisted SEALs pulled the boat to within an oar’s length of the breakwater’s base.

“It’s got an enclosed cabin, a standard nav radar, two outboard engines, and what looks like a 7.62-millimeter machine gun on a pintle mount forward,” Ramey whispered. “This guy could definitely be trouble. Let’s hope he berths at the same pier as the others.”

As the patrol boat entered the channel, it passed behind the breakwater and the SEALs lost sight of it. Ramey hustled over to Phillips and grabbed his oar. “Philly, get this puppy hot-wired ASAP. That boat’s engine noises will mask our startup, then steer southwest at slow speed.”

“Hooyah, Boss,” barked Phillips.

In less than a minute, the outboard whined as the starter motor cranked the dead engine to life. Suddenly, it caught and a low grumbling noise broke the silence. Ramey and Fazel then pushed the boat away from the rocks, and after making sure they were clear, Phillips advanced the throttle slightly. Slowly, the boat pulled away from Bandar Lengeh.

While Fazel stored the oars, Ramey shuffled up to the console. “Okay, Philly, keep us close to the coast, but not too close. And keep our speed down, but not too slow.”

With a look of irritation, Phillips replied, “Can you be a little more specific, Goldilocks?”

“Just drive the damn boat, will you?” countered Ramey. “We need to get back and pick up the others as fast as we can, but without getting spotted either from a patrol on land or a boat at sea. Capiche?”

“Yes, sir. I capichee.”

Ramey looked at his watch and grimaced. It was already twenty after four, and it would take close to another half hour to get back to the breakwater at Bandar Shenas. They were going to be very late, but hopefully, not too late.

8 April 2013

0430 Local Time/0130 Zulu

Breakwater at Bandar Shenas

The four Pasdaran soldiers walked in a loose formation toward the breakwater, and even though they were still sixty or seventy meters away, Jerry found himself holding his breath. The three of them had crawled to the very edge of the broken scrub; the Persian Gulf was less than a hundred meters to their right. The breakwater lay directly in front of them, not even two hundred meters away, across a nice soft, but very open, sandy beach. So close, yet so far.

“Are you serious?” hissed Lapointe.

“What’s wrong, Pointy?”

“They’re going out on to the breakwater, XO.”

Jerry quickly took a look through his scope. Lapointe was correct, the Pasdaran patrol had continued down the road and was now heading out onto the breakwater. “Oh crap! Now what do we do?”

“We follow them out,” Lapointe stated frankly.

“Come again?” Jerry was sure he didn’t hear him right.

“I said, we will follow them out onto the breakwater. It’s not like we have a lot of choices, sir.”

“Why can’t we just wait here for them to finish their job and leave?” “Because the other patrol, you know the one we’ve been watching all night, will come over that rise to the south soon. We don’t know exactly how far down the beach they’ll come. My guess from what we’ve seen is they’ll get close to the breakwater, if not right up to it. If we stayed we would be stuck here for far too long,” explained Lapointe. “It’s only about an hour till sunrise. We need to be on a boat and out to sea before then, preferably long before.”

Jerry felt like smacking himself, he’d forgotten about the other patrol. Finding themselves stuck between two groups of Pasdaran soldiers was an unpleasant thought, but he wasn’t thrilled with Lapointe’s idea either. “Can’t you radio Lieutenant Ramey and just have him swing by and pick us up here?”

“I don’t know where Mr. Ramey and the others are, XO. I’d have to crank up the power on the radio to ensure I reached him, and the odds of the transmission getting picked up by the Iranians is pretty damn good. By going out onto the breakwater, Matt will be able to see them, and us. He can initiate contact when he thinks it’s best to do so. Besides, I’d rather have those IRGC soldiers in a cross fire, than the other way around.”

Jerry hesitated. He tried weighing all the variables of the tactical situation, but none of the options looked any less risky or more likely to succeed than the other. He didn’t know what to do. This just wasn’t what he was trained for.

“XO, we don’t have a lot of time. You’re just going to have to trust me on this.” While respectful, Lapointe’s tone was firm. And it was the confidence in Lapointe’s voice that broke Jerry’s mental gridlock. SEALs are trained to handle these kinds of situations, and they train hard.

“Alright, Pointy, we do it your way. But getting over to the breakwater quickly isn’t going to be easy.”

A wiseass smirk flashed onto Lapointe’s face. “Well, you know, XO, the only easy day—”

“Yes, yes, I know,” interrupted Jerry, annoyed. “The only easy day was yesterday. I got it. I got it.”

“Then let’s do this. Just get me moving as fast as you can, XO. Don’t worry about my leg.” The LPO then turned to Shirin and said, “Dr. Naseri, we’re going for the breakwater. Just keep up.”

“I understand, Mr. Pointy.”

“Let’s move, people,” Lapointe commanded.

8 April 2013

0445 Local Time/0145 Zulu

At Sea, Near the Breakwater at Bandar Shenas

“You’re right, Doc. Those are not our guys,” remarked Ramey. They’d seen several flashlights earlier, but they couldn’t tell how many people were standing at the end of the breakwater until they got closer.

“My bet is they’re IRGC,” Fazel commented. “But where are Pointy and the others?”

“If I know Nate Lapointe, he’s nearby. Keep looking.”

“Ahh, Boss, there’s another group, right off the port bow, on the beach.” Fazel pointed in the general direction of the new contact.

Ramey shifted his scope to the left and took a long look at the new contact. A frustrated sigh escaped from his lips. “Oh, bite me! It’s another IRGC patrol. Four men in a single column.”

“Where are you, Nate?” growled the corpsman through clenched teeth. The tactical situation was deteriorating rapidly. They had to find the others soon; otherwise it was going to get real messy, real fast.

Ramey continued scanning the length of the breakwater. All he could see were the four IRGC soldiers. Suddenly, a new contact emerged from around the curve in the outer breakwater wall. This contact was not on the road, but farther down on the wall. The platoon leader held his breath as he watched two more individuals round the bend. The lead person was moving stiffly — it was Lapointe.

“I have ‘em, Doc! They’re coming around the bend in the breakwater. Right off our bow,” announced Ramey. He toggled his radio. “Pointy, it’s Matt. I think I see you. Wave your right arm.”

The lead person of the new group started waving his right arm.

“Confirmed your identity. Okay, Pointy, head for the water. We’re coming in.”

“XO, move toward the water,” whispered Lapointe. Jerry reached out blindly with his foot for the next rock, found it, and slowly scooted down onto it. Planting his feet firmly between two large boulders, he reached back and guided Shirin down, supporting her weight. He then checked on Lapointe who seemed to be doing all right on his own. Turning about, Jerry repeated the process, inching closer and closer to the sea.

“They’re almost down, Boss,” reported Fazel. The boat was less than fifty meters from the breakwater, but as Ramey evaluated the situation, he was convinced it was going south fast; they wouldn’t get away without a fight.

“Doc, the IRGC soldiers are heading back toward our people. We’re probably going to have to engage. Pick your target, but don’t shoot unless I give the order.”

“Understood,” replied Fazel, who sat down on the deck steadying himself.

Ramey raised his own weapon and set his sights on the lead soldier. He toggled his radio. “Pointy, you have four IRGC closing on your position. We’ll engage and draw their fire. Don’t shoot until after we do, and only if you have a clean shot. How copy, over?”

Lapointe whispered back his orders, confirming he had heard them correctly. He could see through his scope that the speedboat was tantalizingly close, but what he couldn’t see were the IRGC soldiers — the breakwater blocked his view.

“XO, hold my weapon while I get into a reasonable prone position. Dr. Naseri, get behind the XO. Mr. Ramey thinks it’s going to get a little crazy here in a few seconds. XO, don’t shoot unless I say so.” Jerry handed Lapointe his weapon after he had slithered onto a large flat boulder. Jerry nestled down behind him. Once again he was to remain passive, the SEALs would do the shooting. Shirin moved behind Jerry and curled up into a ball.

Ramey and Fazel stayed fixed on their targets as they moved. If they so much as deviated one inch from their present path, the SEALs would drop them. Just keep going, pay no attention to that man behind the curtain, Ramey thought to himself.

The soldiers were very near. Lapointe could see three of them clearly as they got closer and closer. They seemed oblivious to the presence of the boat. That is, until one man abruptly panned his flashlight out to sea.

The flashlight beam momentarily blinded him, but Ramey could still make out his target. “Fire!” he commanded. Both he and Fazel squeezed off two rounds each and dropped their respective targets. Lapointe waited, then fired and hit the soldier with the flashlight that was illuminating the speedboat. The last remaining man, confused and terrified, hit the deck and began firing wildly out toward the sea.

“Move it, XO!” yelled the LPO. Jerry turned about and grabbed Shirin off the rocks. He could see the shadow of the boat and he moved as fast as he could toward it.

“Over here, XO,” Fazel shouted, his hands outstretched. Seeing the corpsman, Jerry moved closer and literally tossed Shirin into his open arms.

“Get in!” yelled Ramey.

Jerry spun, ignoring Ramey’s command. “Pointy!” he shouted. He heard a bullet whiz by his head.

“Keep your shirt on, I’m coming,” Lapointe yelled back. He was sliding down a rock, when his wounded leg got caught in a crevice. “Arrgh!” he screamed as he fell.

“Boss, there’s reinforcements coming!” Phillips exclaimed, pointing toward the rapidly undulating flashlights on the beach.

“XO! Move your ass, now!” shouted Ramey, still shooting.

Jerry staggered over to Lapointe, yanked him to his feet, and dragged him to the boat. Fazel reached out, grabbed his teammate, and unceremoniously dumped him on the deck while Jerry jumped into the boat.

“Punch it, Philly!” Ramey ordered.

Phillips wasted no time in slamming the throttle all the way forward and the small boat leapt away from the rocks.

As the coast began to fall away, they heard explosions over the din of the engine. Ramey looked over toward Bandar Lengeh and saw a huge fireball climbing into the dark night sky.

“Way to go, Boss!” shouted Phillips.

Ramey didn’t smile. He had bought them time, but would it be enough? “Keep the pedal to the metal, Philly! We aren’t out of the woods yet.”