Exit Plan

22. PURSUIT

8 April 2013

0448 Local Time/0148 Zulu

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

The ringing of his cell phone jolted Rahim out of a deep sleep. Not quite awake, he fumbled for the squawking device on the floor by his cot. Finally managing to grab it, he sluggishly opened the flip cover and answered, “Major Rahim.”

“Major!” It was Dahghan, his voice was loud, excited. “A Pasdaran patrol on the Bandar Shenas breakwater has come under attack. An unknown number of assailants fired on the patrol from a boat and the shore.”

“When?” shouted Rahim. He bolted from the cot toward the door, the surge of adrenaline snapping him from his lassitude.

“Within the last few minutes, sir. We’ve lost contact with the patrol leader.”

“Are there any other patrols nearby? Can they confirm the presence of a boat?” Rahim thrust his hand into his pants pocket, searching vigorously for his keys.

“Another patrol is responding, but they are too far away to see anything,” replied Dahghan. Rahim heard the sounds of a man running, breathing hard.

“Where are you, Karim?” he said, as he slammed the accelerator to the floor. The tires spun, spewing gravel behind them.

“I’m en route to the harbor at Bandar Lengeh. Two Pasdaran Navy patrol boats are preparing to depart immediately.”

“Wait for me. I’ll be there in a couple of minutes,” ordered Rahim. His car was speeding through town at almost ninety kilometers per hour.

“Yes, Major. But please hurry!” Dahghan exclaimed, and then hung up. The last thing Rahim heard was the sound of boots pounding on a wooden deck.

Rahim’s heart was racing as he roared through the rotary in the middle of Bandar Lengeh. They were practically on top of us the whole time, he thought. Only fifteen kilometers away! Less than five from the airport, and with all those troops! How could we have missed them?!

It was only four kilometers from the regiment’s headquarters to the harbor, and it was right down Highway 96, which was mercifully clear of traffic at this early hour. He had to slow to make the hard left turn off the highway, but accelerated as he rounded the corner of the perimeter road. Two men jumped out of his way as he tore past the main harbor building. With the horn blaring, he came to a screeching stop at the end of the breakwater. Leaping from the car, Rahim sprinted toward the pier with the Pasdaran patrol boats. He could see Dahghan waving at him from the stern of the larger boat; urging him to run faster. The boats had just pulled away from the pier.

As he ran, Rahim saw a weird flash by the bow of the Boghammar. Sections of the forward part of the boat peeled away and were cast skyward. A second later, he saw another explosion, this time back by the stern. The rear end pitched up violently, throwing people and equipment into the air. He watched as Dahghan was catapulted over the superstructure and onto the now ragged bow. As the Boghammar settled and began sinking, the smaller patrol boat next to it also exploded. Only this time the blast seemed louder as its gasoline fuel ignited and erupted into flames, reducing the boat’s small composite hull into tattered burning shards.

Rahim started slowing down, a stunned look of disbelief on his face. It was all so surreal. He just couldn’t quite wrap his mind around what was happening. Nor would he have the time, for a split-second later he was picked up bodily and thrown to the ground by another, even larger explosion. An intense wave of heat hit his face as the detonating fuel tank on the pier sent a column of flames high into the air. Dazed by the powerful blast, Rahim slowly struggled to his feet. The pier was ablaze, as were the two patrol boats and the water around them. Shaken, he wobbled as he took those first steps toward the destroyed pier. A man rushed up and grabbed Rahim by his left arm, supporting him as his legs buckled. The man’s lips were moving, but Rahim heard nothing. His ears were still ringing from the force of the explosion. Pointing toward the wrecked patrol boats, he could only mutter, “Dahghan?”

8 April 2013

0455 Local Time/0155 Zulu

Five Nautical Miles South of Bandar Shenas

“Get the hell off my leg!” shouted Lapointe through clenched teeth. Jerry and the poor petty officer had been thrown together into a contorted heap at the back of the boat when Phillips opened up the throttle and accelerated away from the breakwater. Ramey and Fazel untangled the two and laid Lapointe down along the gunwale. Jerry plopped down behind Phillips; the boat was up on plane, speeding away from the Iranian coast.

Lapointe was obviously in great pain, swallowing hard, with tears streaming down his cheeks. Fazel pulled out some ibuprofen caplets and a bottle of water. Lifting up Lapointe’s head, the corpsman helped his teammate down the painkillers. “Sorry about the rough landing, Pointy. But we were in a little bit of a hurry,” he apologized.

“Stow it, Doc,” Lapointe shot back with a slight grin. “You just wanted to body slam your LPO. Admit it.”

Fazel paused, stroking his beard, feigning deep thought. “You know, now that I think about it, I did find it strangely satisfying.” Both men laughed, but Lapointe did so weakly.

The corpsman slapped his friend on the shoulder and said, “I can’t give you anything stronger for the pain right now, Nate. It would make you too loopy. Just hang in there for another hour, then I can give you some of the good stuff. Okay?”

Lapointe nodded and tried to lie still as the boat bounced along.

Fazel took off his jacket, rolled it into a makeshift pillow, and placed it under Lapointe’s head. He then shuffled over to Jerry. “You okay, XO?”

“None the worse for wear, Harry. Just a little tired, that’s all,” answered Jerry unconvincingly. Actually, he was exhausted. The hike from the grove, while short, had been tiring. Supporting Lapointe took a lot more out of him than he thought it would. Combined with the letdown from the adrenaline rush, Jerry felt like he could sleep for the next two days.

“You done good, sir.” Fazel’s compliment was sincere. Jerry acknowledged it with a nod.

Fazel took another quick look at Lapointe; he seemed to be resting as well as he could, given the circumstances. Seeing that everything was more or less in order, he leaned toward Jerry. “Excuse me, XO. I need to check on Dr. Naseri.” A simple weary wave was Jerry’s only response.

Tired as he was though, there was no way he could sleep. The constant jostling of the boat required him to maintain a firm grasp on one of the safety rails with both hands. Besides, they weren’t clear yet. Ramey may have taken care of the patrol boats in the harbor, but there were still others out at sea. At least one had to be in hot pursuit, slowly closing the distance with them. Everything depended on how far away the other boats were when they got the call. If they were lucky, the Pasdaran patrol boats would find only empty water by the time they got here. Jerry snickered at that last thought; their track record with luck during the mission hadn’t been all that great. “Hope for the best, but plan for the worst,” he muttered aloud.

Hearing his voice, Lapointe slowly turned his head toward Jerry. The petty officer smiled and gave him a thumbs-up. “Thanks for coming back for me, XO,” he said, struggling with the words, his voice laden with pain.

“You’re welcome, Pointy. But I was just following my orders from the Boss,” Jerry said, while motioning in Ramey’s direction. “Now try and get some rest.”

“Hooyah, sir,” the weary SEAL replied.

Shirin was sitting in front of the control console, huddled up with one of the thermal blankets wrapped around her. She was too excited to be tired. They had made it. They had escaped from Iran. Soon she would show the world the terrible hoax that someone, whoever it was, was trying to play on Israel and her own people. Soon she would be safe. Soon she would be free. But she realized with guilt and sadness, she would also be alone. She’d lost everyone — her mother, her uncle, and her precious Yousef. She had sacrificed all so that many other innocent lives could be saved from pain and death. At that moment, a soft jab in her abdomen reminded her that she hadn’t lost everything. She still had her child — Yousef’s child. “I’m sorry, little one, I keep forgetting about you,” she whispered softly in Farsi.

“Excuse me, Dr. Naseri,” interrupted Fazel. “I just wanted to see how you were doing.”

She looked up, startled to find Harry standing over her. “I’m fine, Harry. Thank you. How is Mr. Pointy?”

“He’s in a lot pain. His foot got caught in the rocks and he badly twisted his damaged leg. He’ll live, but he’s going to be crankier than usual.” The young Iranian-American smiled broadly.

Shirin suddenly became solemn; she fidgeted nervously as she tried to find the right words. “Harry, what will happen to us?” she finally asked.

Fazel witnessed her abrupt change in expression, and completely understood the emotions behind the question. His parents had gone through the same thing. A feeling of loss and isolation, coupled with uncertainty and some fear. He sat down beside her, and did his best to allay her anxiety.

“I don’t know exactly what will happen, Dr. Naseri. I know you’ll be taken care of, both of you. Initially, there will be a lot of work to go over all the data you have on that flash drive. But afterward, what you do is up to you. With your credentials, you could teach, work for a nuclear engineering firm, or do something entirely new. Like I said, its up to you. America is a free country.”

“Where would I live? Are there many Iranians living in America?”

Fazel laughed heartily. “Absolutely! There are a great many Iranians living in America! Next to our mother country, no other country in the world has more of our people. And all of them are proud of their Persian heritage, as well as their allegiance to the United States. I can assure you, you will be most welcome in any community. If you wish, I can ask my father to put together some information on the various Iranian communities in America. He has many friends who’d consider it an honor to assist you.”

Harry’s confident response soothed and intrigued Shirin. She had no idea that the United States had so many Iranians living there, or that they would openly welcome someone who was guilty of treason. All she wanted was a quiet place to raise her child, do meaningful work, and new friends to replace the ones she’d lost.

“Do you have any other questions, Dr. Naseri?” Harry asked.

“Yes, Harry, just one more. What is your real first name?”

Fazel was momentarily surprised, but in a way the question did make some sense. He had spent more time with her than any of the other SEALs or Commander Mitchell, and he was a fellow countryman. She wanted some assurance that he meant what he had said. It was a question of trust. She had no choice but to trust him, but did he trust her? It was a small thing, almost trivial, but it was an important gesture for her. While he pondered his response, she sat there quietly. Finally he let out a deep sigh, looked her straight in the eye, and answered her question. “Harry is my real name, but it would be more accurate to say it’s my nickname. My given name, my Persian name is Heydar.”

“Thank you, Heydar,” she said politely.

8 April 2013

0505 Local Time/0205 Zulu

Harbor at Bandar Lengeh

Ten minutes. They seemed like an eternity. Rahim paced back and forth in the harbor master’s office, agitated, seething, while he waited for the flames to be extinguished and for a tanker truck to bring more gasoline for the remaining patrol boat. They were refueling the boat now at another part of the harbor, but the fire was still raging around the damaged pier. The initial report said there were no survivors from the two Pasdaran boats. Dahghan was dead. The chase had just gotten personal.

A young Pasdaran first lieutenant approached him, saluting as he spoke, “Major Rahim, sir, I’m Lieutenant Qorbani. We will be ready to depart as soon as the fire is put out on the pier.”

Rahim’s hearing had partially returned. There was still a maddening ringing in his ears, but he heard the lieutenant well enough, and he wasn’t happy with what he had said. “No! We leave immediately! Every minute lets the enemy slip farther away! I will not allow them to escape!” cried Rahim vigorously.

Qorbani was taken aback by the VEVAK agent’s forcefulness, but wisely gave the only acceptable response, “Very well, Major. My boat is this way.”

They walked quickly through the office space of the harbor administrative building and exited by a side door. Qorbani turned away from the flaming pier and headed to the main berthing area just behind the building. Between two small coastal freighters was a very small boat. Its outboard engines were already idling; Rahim couldn’t hear them, but he could see the exhaust. Two sailors stood at attention by the lines, ready to take them in at a moments notice. The lieutenant motioned for Rahim to board first, and then signaled the sailors to cast off as he jumped aboard.

As they pushed themselves away from the pier, Rahim stood stoically in the cockpit. If the boat blew up like the other two, so be it — Insh’Allah. When nothing happened, he offered a short prayer of thanks. Rahim was now convinced he was blessed, under Allah’s divine protection. If the last explosion had been a mere ten seconds later, he would’ve been killed. Instead, he had been spared with only trivial injuries. Spared to fulfill his destiny, that of hastening the return of the Twelfth Imam.

The patrol boat slowly worked its way past the long arc of nested dhows, keeping as much distance between them and the fire as possible. Rahim ignored the occasional dull thump as the hull collided with something in the water. He’d have time to mourn the dead later. Right now, every fiber of his being was concentrated on finding and killing those accursed devils. They had managed to kill almost three dozen Iranians during the long chase; thirty-four martyrs had paid the ultimate price for defending the Islamic Republic. He vowed that their blood sacrifice would not be in vain. As for the two traitors, they would be severely punished both in this world and the next. Out of pure anger and spite, Rahim had already ordered the execution of both Akbari’s and Naseri’s mothers. A fitting punishment for the two women responsible for bring such heinous criminals into the world.

Qorbani deftly maneuvered his boat past the harbor’s mouth, and once into the channel, he gunned the engines. The small boat leapt to life as it accelerated, its bow rising above the water. As he rounded the outer breakwater, Qorbani spun the wheel over hard and the boat skidded onto its pursuit course — due south. Rahim glanced at the speedometer. They were traveling at forty-two knots.

A private poked his head into the cockpit, tapped the lieutenant on the shoulder, and gestured for him to pick up the radio. Qorbani nodded and reached over for the bridge handset. Rahim saw that he was talking to someone, but between the ringing in his ears and the din from the outboards, he couldn’t hear what Qorbani was saying. After a minute, Qorbani placed the handset in its cradle and leaned over to Rahim.

“That was headquarters. Two other patrol boats are heading to assist us.” He pointed toward the northwest. “There is a Torough-class boat over there. It’s based on the Swedish Boghammar, so it’s fast and well-armed. Over here, to the northeast, is one of the new ten-meter rigid inflatable boats. It is also well-armed and very fast. Its maximum speed is fifty-three knots.”

Rahim was pleased with the Pasdaran lieutenant’s report, but they still had to find the Americans. “Lieutenant, any reports on the Americans’ position?”

“No, Major. All we know is that two patrols reported them heading in a southerly direction. The lone survivor from the ambushed patrol also said they were in a small speedboat fitted with a single outboard engine,” Qorbani explained.

“How close do we have to be before we can see them on radar?” asked Rahim.

“With two small boats? I’m afraid the range will be quite short, perhaps five to seven nautical miles.”

“That’s all?” Rahim was surprised by how short the range was. He’d seen radar ranges out over twenty miles from a coastal station.

Qorbani nodded his head, affirming his assessment. “Yes, sir, radar range is based not only on target size, but also on how high up the radar is. Small boats don’t have much height of eye.” He slapped the roof of the cabin to emphasize his point. Tire navigation radar was mounted just on the other side. Then shrugging his shoulders he concluded with, “Physics, Major. Not much we can do about it.”

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.

It was warm inside the boat. With many of the recirculating fans and air-conditioning secured, the temperature had risen to an uncomfortable, but tolerable, level. Mehr wiped the sweat from his brow. He was glad that it was still spring. This kind of maneuver would have been impossible during the summer months.

“Captain! Mechanical noise bearing red five zero,” reported the sonar operator from his cubicle behind Mehr. Russian sonar systems display azimuth information based on relative, vice true bearings. Thus, all directions are measured with respect to the ship’s bow from zero to 180 degrees. Bearings to port are red, while bearings to starboard are green.

“Any propulsion plant noise, Sergeant?”

“No, sir. It sounds like a large object is being moved.”

“Deck officer, sound battle stations, but quietly,” Mehr spoke softly as he walked to the sonar cubicle. The operator offered him a headset; donning it he heard a number of creaks and squeaks, followed by a loud sharp thud. Something had just locked into place. Allah be praised. They had found their prey; Mehr knew he needed to act quickly.

“Helmsman, left ten degrees rudder. Steady course three one zero.”

“Coming left to new course three one zero, aye, sir,” repeated the helmsman.

“Sonar, stand by to go active on main and mine-hunting arrays. Fire control, flood tubes one through four. Stand by for rapid salvo.”

8 April 2013

0530 Local Time/0230 Zulu

Nineteen Nautical Miles South of Iran

“Gray Fox, Cormorant launch in three minutes. Please stand by to take con…” Guthrie stopped talking in midsentence. Jerry could hear the WLY-1 acoustic intercept receiver beeping away in the background. What he heard next sent chills up his spine.

“Conn, Sonar, Shark Teeth and Mouse Squeak transmissions bearing one three zero! Contact is close. LAUNCH TRANSIENTS’.”

Jerry heard Guthrie spitting out orders, then abruptly signed off with, “I’m sorry, Jerry, you’re on your own!”