Exit Plan

25. BLESSINGS REMOVED

8 April 2013

0530 Local Time/0230 Zulu

Nineteen Nautical Miles South of Iran

Jerry stared into space, his mouth hanging open, struggling to wrap his tired brain around what he had just heard. Ramey, also listening in on the circuit, was dumbfounded. Michigan was abandoning them.

Lapointe and Fazel had seen the sudden change in their expressions. “What happened, Boss?” asked Lapointe.

“Guthrie’s ditchin’ us! He’s not sending any help!” exclaimed Ramey, furious.

“What!?” Lapointe and Fazel blurted out simultaneously, astounded by their platoon leader’s words.

“Shut up, Ramey!” Jerry bellowed. “He can’t help us because he has problems of his own!”

“What do you mean, XO?” demanded Fazel.

“The last thing I heard before the Skipper signed off was the WLY-1 beeping in the background and a sonar operator warning of active sonars and launch transients.” Jerry sat as he explained, forcing himself to calm down. “I think they were being attacked by an Iranian sub, one of their Kilos.”

“But I thought only the IRGC operated in the gulf now,” said Lapointe, confused.

“That’s what I thought, too, Pointy, but only a Kilo has the sensors I heard being reported, and you wouldn’t hear any launch transients from a surface ship or air-dropped weapon. And if it’s a Kilo class, that means the Iranian Navy.”

Jerry took a deep breath, looked at the three SEALs and continued, his voice laced with worry. “Captain Guthrie has a tough fight on his hands. Staying to launch a Cormorant would have made him a sitting duck. He has over a hundred and fifty people on board Michigan that he’s responsible for, including most of your platoon. It’s not like he wanted to leave us to fend for ourselves.”

The four men sat in silence, their desperate situation weighing heavily upon them. They were outgunned, they couldn’t run, and they couldn’t hide. What else could they do? It was Ramey who finally broke the gloomy stillness. “All right, we need to start figuring out what we’re going to do when those patrol boats get here.”

“The only thing we can do is fight,” observed Fazel. “We certainly can’t outrun these guys.”

“Agreed, but the trick is how do we fight off three boats at the same time, Doc?” questioned Ramey. “We don’t have nearly enough firepower.”

Jerry heard the words, “at the same time,” and it suddenly dawned on him that Ramey was defaulting to a worst-case scenario. “Whoa, wait a minute, Matt. You’re assuming they’ll make a coordinated attack.”

“Yeah, what about it? It’s a reasonable assumption,” responded Ramey defensively.

“No argument there, Matt. And it would be appropriate if we were talking about a highly trained, professional military unit, but we aren’t, are we?” Jerry countered.

“I see where you’re going, XO. You think it’s more likely they’ll attack piecemeal,” Fazel concluded.

“Exactly! Think about it. The Pasdaran are aggressive, impatient, and right now, really pissed off. That means they’ll be even more impulsive than usual. On top of that, these are small patrol boats we’re talking about. They don’t have tactical data links, just voice radio, and they’re coming at us from three different directions. A coordinated attack may be a reasonable worst-case scenario, but I’d argue it’s the least likely scenario in this case,” Jerry explained.

“But they will eventually all get here,” Ramey contended.

“Agreed, Matt. But if they come in one at a time, we at least have a chance to thin out the herd. Not a great one, mind you, but it’s still a lot better than taking all three on at the same time. And, we can improve our odds a little by using our one advantage,” remarked Jerry cryptically.

“Advantage? What advantage?” Phillips didn’t see it.

But the others did. “We have eyes on the targets; we know where they are. But they’re unsure of where we are,” stated Ramey.

“Correct, and that allows us to choose when and whom we fight first,” Jerry declared. Using his hands, he showed the relative positions of the pursuers to their boat. “The RIB is on our right. The Ashura and Boghammar are on our left. If we alter course to the right a bit, we force the engagement with the RIB and put the other two into more of a tail-chase situation. That gives us a little more time to take out the RIB, which is also the fastest of the three bad guys.”

“XO, we can’t sink a RIB, at least not with small arms. I’ve been on boats very similar to the Iranian models. Those things use closed cell foam in their hulls. They’re almost impossible to sink,” observed Lapointe.

“Who said anything about sinking them, Pointy?” Jerry replied with a smile. “Our target is one of the outboard engines. We take out an engine and he’s out of the game.”

“What you’re suggesting makes a lot of sense, XO. But dealing with the DShK heavy machine gun will be crucial. Even on a small boat it has a serious range advantage over our best weapon,” Ramey stated thoughtfully.

Jerry was relieved to see that Ramey had swiftly recovered from the initial shock of Michigan’s abrupt departure. They had all been flabbergasted, overwhelmed when they realized Guthrie couldn’t send help. But the platoon leader had rebounded quickly and was dealing with their problems, not just agonizing over them.

“Yes, Matt. On paper a.50 caliber machine gun has, what?… about twice the range of Harry’s sniper rifle?”

“More or less, usually more, it depends on the specific model. But when mounted on a small boat the effective range drops by about a third,” Ramey replied.

“Well, this isn’t your basic paper drill; we’re at sea and that changes everything,” said Jerry.

“How so?” asked Ramey.

“When I was at postgraduate school, I read a lot about the Navy’s research into the Iranian small boat swarm-attack problem — lots of small boats mobbing one of our own ships, a destroyer or cruiser. The Navy’s been putting.50 caliber machine guns and 25-millimeter cannons on our ships, because they concluded the larger five-inch and three-inch guns were too easily overwhelmed and didn’t handle small boats that were in close. But even with these smaller, fast-firing weapons, accurate engagement ranges was well inside eight hundred yards, and those Iranian patrol boats are a lot smaller than a destroyer.

“We are both in fast-moving, bouncy boats, with unstabilized guns, aimed by a Mark 1 Mod 0 eyeball. And the IRGC trains to attack big lumbering targets, not nimble little speedboats. I’d be surprised if they could hit us at more than two hundred yards under these conditions. They’ll have to get really, really close to score any hits. And at those ranges, I’ll bet on your marksmanship over theirs any day of the week.”

“Well, I’m glad to see we’re good for something,” Phillips quipped.

“Just drive, Phillips,” chastised Ramey, then he said more seriously, “Okay then, here’s the basic plan: XO, you take on the navigation issue and figure out the best course to close the RIB. My guys and I will do what we can to protect Dr. Naseri and prepare for the fight. Any questions?” There weren’t any. “Then back on your heads, people.”

The collective brainstorming session had buoyed their confidence; the situation wasn’t completely hopeless once it was broken down. With renewed assurance that they had a fighting chance, the SEALs began preparing with gusto. While Jerry worked out the best course to take to close on the RIB, Ramey and Lapointe looked at ways to prevent the enemy from doing to them, what they planned to do to him — take out an engine. At the same time, Fazel concentrated on finding a way to give Shirin some protection from at least small-arms fire.

It took Jerry only a couple of minutes to do the math, and he ordered Phillips to change course twenty degrees toward the west. If his mental gymnastics were correct, things would get really interesting in about ten minutes.

8 April 2013

0540 Local Time/0240 Zulu

Twenty Nautical Miles South-Southwest of Bandar Lengeh

Rahim tapped his fingers on the coaming. It had been over thirty minutes since they’d left Bandar Lengeh and there was still nothing on the radar screen. Visibility had improved considerably as soon as the sun broke over the horizon, but the lookouts had spotted nothing. Agitated, impatient, and just a little green from the patrol boat’s choppy motion, the VEVAK agent was in a foul mood. “Lieutenant! You said we should have detected them by now!”

“Yes, Major, I did. However, there were a number of assumptions behind that statement. If even one was incorrect, then the estimate would have been incorrect as well.” Qorbani kept his tone respectful; this wasn’t the first time he had to deal with someone that didn’t understand the maritime patrol problem.

“Could they have gone more to the west?” demanded Rahim.

“Of course they could have, sir. But to escape Iran, they have to move away from our coast, not parallel it. Besides, such a course would send them directly toward one of our secondary bases on Kish Island. A westerly course would be foolish. Since these are not fools we are dealing with, a southerly escape course makes the most sense. There is nothing more we can do but continue on toward the intercept point and wait,” Qorbani answered.

Rahim didn’t like the lieutenant’s answer, but his explanation was logical. Frowning, he peered through his binoculars, straining to catch some sign of his prey. They have to be out here somewhere, he thought. Allah would surely not abandon him at this crucial juncture.

Suddenly, Qorbani shook Rahim’s shoulder. He turned to see the Pasdaran lieutenant on the radio. He repeated the contact report back for accuracy, as well as for Rahim’s benefit. “Understand the ten-meter RIB has contact on a high-speed craft heading south-southwest. Visual contact expected in four minutes.”

8 April 2013

0543 Local Time/0243 Zulu

Twenty-Five Nautical Miles South of Iran

Jerry leaned against the forward part of the control console and scanned the starboard side. “Nothing yet, Matt,” he reported.

“Keep looking, XO. He’s only about three miles away, broad on our starboard beam,” shouted Ramey, as he watched the UAV video feed. “Yeah, they have us on radar. One of the sailors keeps pointing in our general direction.”

Fazel had tucked Shirin as far forward in the small boat as he could. She wore one of the tactical vests and her head was sandwiched between two of the backpacks. It wasn’t much protection. A direct hit from any of the larger Iranian weapons would likely go right through, but it would provide her some shielding from splinters if the boat’s hull was hit.

At the opposite end of the boat, Ramey and Lapointe had wrapped two tactical vests around the head of the outboard engine and stacked the remaining packs along the back end. Again, the protection was minimal. A.50 caliber bullet would have no problem going through, but smaller rounds might be stopped. Ramey also set up firing positions for Fazel and himself, the goal being to limit their exposure while hopefully reducing the effects of the boat’s movement on their own shots.

Lapointe tried to assume a prone position, but the bouncing hull kept slamming into the knee on his wounded leg. And try as he might, the pain made even limited aiming impossible. Both he and Jerry would provide supporting fire from behind the console. Phillips volunteered to stay on as the driver. He and Ramey went over a basic evasive steering plan that would complicate the Iranians’ ability to hit them, but not limit their field of fire. Being the most exposed, Phillips wore the last vest. After a short discussion, it was decided that Jerry would be the backup driver in case Phillips was wounded and incapable of steering the boat.

“Tallyho!” shouted Jerry. “Contact just abaft the starboard beam!” He made repeated motions with his arm, pointing in the general direction of the Iranian patrol boat.

Ramey raised his scope and swiftly confirmed the sighting. “Got it, XO! Okay, everyone, take your positions.”

Shirin was shaking with fear. Never had she felt so exposed, so isolated. She let go of Fazel’s hand with great reluctance, and only after he repeatedly said he had to take his place aft. As he left he motioned for her to get down and stay down. Without Yousef’s reassuring presence, she felt utterly alone huddled up in the bow.

While the corpsman scooted passed Jerry to his defensive position, Lapointe loaded a high-explosive dual-purpose 40mm grenade into the launcher mounted on his SCAR. He only had eight grenades and he planned to use them sparingly.

During the planning, Ramey had instructed Lapointe to wait until the patrol boat steadied itself, an indicator that they were probably going to shoot, and then fire a grenade at their bow. Jerry was uncertain of what Ramey hoped to achieve with this tactic and asked Lapointe, “Pointy, how can you possibly expect to hit a small, high-speed craft with such a low-velocity weapon?”

Lapointe at first looked at Jerry incredulously, then snickered. “Who said anything about hitting them, XO? That would be the golden BB of all time! The boss figures that the Iranians will turn wide enough to avoid the grenade, giving him or Doc a clear shot at an outboard.”

“Oh, yeah. Disregard the silly question,” Jerry replied, feeling more than a little embarrassed. Lapointe laughed.

Although the RIB had been spotted at a range of nearly five thousand yards, this was far beyond the range of any weapon on either side. For seven agonizing minutes, Jerry and the SEALs could only watch as the Iranian patrol boat slowly closed on them. Through his sight, Jerry could see the long, slender wedge bouncing on the waves, throwing water out to either side. He knew they’d have to slow down considerably if they expected to hit anything. With the hull undulating up and down as the Pasdaran boat skipped along, he could see the machine gun barrel wandering all over the place. Sometimes it wasn’t even visible as the boat’s hull pitched upward.

Lapointe had taken over monitoring the UAV feed from Ramey. Both he and Fazel were now in a prone firing position, their weapons resting on the boat’s transom and held firmly against their shoulders. “Shot warning!” Lapointe sang out. “The gunner has just pulled back on the cocking handle.”

“Steady on course, Philly,” Ramey shouted. “Don’t turn until Pointy tells you to.” The junior enlisted gave him a thumbs-up sign, acknowledging the order.

Jerry leaned over and looked at the UAV feed. The unmanned aircraft was bore-sighted on the RIB, keeping a steady eye on the pilot and gunner. It felt bizarre to be watching in real time as someone took shots at you, sort of like looking at a video game in reverse.

“Shot! Right slow!” yelled Lapointe. He could see a flare of infrared energy around the muzzle as the weapon fired. Phillips altered course slightly to starboard. The splashes from the rounds landed well to port.

“He fired too soon,” criticized Ramey, then he said to his men, “Hold your fire. He needs to get a lot closer.”

The Iranian crew didn’t seem to realize this as another three wild volleys were fired before they stopped and concentrated on closing the range. Within another couple of minutes, the range had shortened to less than five hundred yards. This was the point when Phillips would begin using more radical turns to chase the splashes of the previous burst, to throw off the Iranian gunner’s aim.

“Shot! Left hard,” Lapointe called out again. Phillips banked the boat hard left. The splashes were to the right; immediately he shifted his rudder, and headed in their direction. The RIB was starting to get really close.

“Now, Pointy!” Ramey commanded. Lapointe raised his weapon, placed his sights ahead of the RIB’s bow and pulled the trigger. A dull pop and a little smoke was the only sign the grenade launcher had been fired. Seconds later a small white plume of water marked the explosion. As anticipated, the Iranian turned hard right and Ramey and Fazel took a couple of aimed shots. Both missed.

“He’s got to get closer, Boss,” Fazel observed. Ramey nodded his agreement.

The RIB crew recovered quickly from their rude surprise and brought their racing boat back on to a pursuit course. The two boats weaved back and forth, the range dropping with each turn. During their maneuvers, Lapointe fired off another three grenades, each shot a little closer to the Iranian boat than the one before. Each time they swerved hard, with Ramey and Fazel taking aimed shots. Suddenly, Fazel saw something fly off one of the outboards. “I got a hit!” he yelled.

Jerry and the three SEALs all watched for some indication that the RIB’s speed had been reduced, but it seemed unaffected as it continued to close. Another burst of.50 caliber fire came perilously close to the boat’s stern — off by a mere foot. Water from the splashes sprayed on Ramey.

Phillips instantly zigged to the right, but the Iranian gunner had finally caught on to the American’s strategy and immediately let loose another volley. Several rounds hit the gunwale between Jerry and the corpsman, tearing away chunks of the hull as they passed through.

“Son of a bitch!” yelped Fazel, as the bullets zipped over his head. Unfazed, he took several more shots. He scored some hits, but they were on the hull and thus totally ineffective. The RIB was only a couple of hundred yards away.

Lapointe shifted his body as best he could to put more weight on his good leg. This allowed him to lean a little to the left and brace himself up against the control console. He lined up his sights, well in front of the RIB, and placed his finger on the trigger. He then patiently waited for Phillips to finish executing a weave turn, checked his aim point, and fired.

The grenade hit the water several yards in front of the boat and exploded directly under the RIB’s hull. The plume from the blast lifted the bow higher into the air, causing the racing boat to plane at an unsafe angle. The aerodynamic forces on the hull at such high speed pulled the bow even higher, and in the wink of an eye, the RIB went airborne, rotating end over end as it flew through the air. Pieces of the boat were ripped away and thrown skyward as it hit the surface, cartwheeling to a stop.

Jerry’s jaw dropped as he watched the RIB sail into the air. Dumbfounded, he looked at Lapointe; and he wasn’t alone. Ramey, Fazel, and Phillips were equally astounded. No one was quite ready to believe what they had just seen. Lapointe, too, was awestruck. Everyone repeatedly looked back and forth between Lapointe’s grenade launcher and the capsized Pasdaran RIB.

It was Jerry who broke the silence as he patted Lapointe on the back. “Bravo Zulu, Pointy! That was one hell of a golden BB!”

“Awesome shot, Nate!” congratulated Fazel.

Ramey just shook his head, a big grin on his face. “No one back at the SEAL team will ever believe this,” he lamented.

Lapointe acknowledged the accolades from the XO and his teammates with a simple, “Thanks.” Then looking toward Jerry he added with a wink, “That was a bit sloppy, but I’ll take it.”

Jerry and the others laughed, relieved that the most dangerous threat had been eliminated. But it wasn’t the only threat they faced, a fact Ramey reminded them of when he pointed toward a new contact on the port quarter. “Enough celebrating, everyone, the second boat is inbound and the third isn’t far behind.”

Rahim and Qorbani were both watching through binoculars as the ten-meter RIB appeared to be closing in for the kill. The VEVAK agent was silently urging the RIB’s crew on, encouraging them to quickly finish the threat to his and Moradi’s plan. Moments later, they stared in horror as the Pasdaran boat flew into the air and tumbled back down on to the sea. It didn’t take a genius to realize that the chances of surviving such a violent crash were nil. Anger filled Rahim. The Americans had once again outmaneuvered him. It was incomprehensible how they always somehow found a way to snatch victory from his grasp. He swore that the long chase would end here and now.

“Lieutenant! I want you to fire on that boat at the earliest opportunity!” he ranted.

“Yes, Major,” responded Qorbani, shaken, but angry now as well. “We will be in range in a few minutes.”

Ramey and Lapointe watched the UAV feed as the Ashura patrol boat slowly closed the distance between them. They either missed the destruction of the RIB, which was very unlikely as they were well within visual range, or they were pressing on despite the dramatic loss of one of their more powerful patrol boats. Although the Boghammar was faster, it would take several minutes more before it would appear on the scene. For the moment, the odds were more even.

“Everybody back to their positions,” shouted Ramey. “Ammo check.”

Fazel had gone forward to check on Shirin. Physically she was unharmed; no bullets had come near her. Psychologically, it was a different story. Without Yousef, she had no one from which to draw strength and she was clearly running on empty. The corpsman stayed as long as he could, reassuring her that their situation would soon improve. She had to hang in there for just a little bit longer.

“Sorry for the delay, Boss,” he said. “Dr. Naseri is more or less okay. She hasn’t been hit, but if this doesn’t give her post-traumatic stress disorder, I’ll be surprised.”

“How are you set for ammo, Doc?” Ramey asked patiently.

“I’m good, sir. I have three full mags plus a partial in my weapon,” replied Fazel, still looking toward the bow into Shirin’s terrified eyes.

“Doc.” Ramey grabbed him by the shoulder and gave it a good shake. “I need you here. Focus on the fight, okay?”

“Yes, sir,” said Fazel, as he turned away and prepared for another battle.

A quick check of the rest of the team showed they had sufficient rifle ammunition, which included Jerry who only managed to get off a few shots. However, they were down to only three grenades for Lapointe’s launcher. Repositioned and ready, they waited silently for the next patrol boat to get in range.

The rate of their closure was maddeningly slow, and Rahim thought he would lose his mind as they clawed their way closer to their prey, one meter at a time. Qorbani explained that with only a seven-knot speed advantage, it would take them nearly eight minutes before they would be in effective range for their forward machine gun.

“Major, the Torough-class patrol boat is just coming into visual range.” Qorbani pointed off toward his left. “They will join us in the fight in approximately six minutes.”

“Are we in range yet?” growled Rahim.

“Just barely, sir.”

“Then what are you waiting for? Fire!”

“Shot warning!” Lapointe yelled. Phillips began his evasive maneuvering, while Ramey and Fazel tried to get a good setup to return fire. The first rounds from the Ashura’s 7.62mm machine gun were wide right. The gunner really didn’t try to correct for his fall of shot, but just punched out one short burst after another. None came near.

“You imbecile! What are you shooting at?!” a furious Rahim screamed. Pointing at the gunner he added, “Relieve that moron before I shoot him!”

Greatly embarrassed, Qorbani sent his sergeant out to take the gunner’s position. “Aim for the engine, Sergeant!” he instructed. Spinning the wheel, the lieutenant lined the boat up for another pass, a closer one.

“Here they come!” warned Lapointe. “They’re making a straight dash in.”

“Stand by!” Ramey ordered.

“Shot! Left hard.” Lapointe shouted. Phillips pulled a hard left turn causing the Ashura to pass quickly to their right. The machine gun bursts missed again, but they were much closer this time.

“Open fire! You, too, Pointy!” Ramey, Fazel, and Jerry started firing at the exposed machine gunner with their SCARs, while Lapointe placed one of his last grenades just to the right of the patrol boat. The explosion showered the enclosed bridge with water. The Ashura immediately peeled away.

“What are you doing?” seethed Rahim. “Close the enemy!”

“Major, they have a grenade launcher! I am taking evasive action!”

Rahim would hear nothing of it. His face red with rage, he unholstered his pistol and pointed it directly at the Pasdaran lieutenant. “Close the enemy now, Lieutenant Qorbani, or I will shoot you where you stand!”

Tight-lipped, Qorbani spun the wheel and pointed his bow back toward the small speedboat. He was sure the VEVAK agent would order him to ram if they didn’t start getting some hits.

“He’s starting another pass,” observed Fazel. “And he’s coming straight in.”

“Evasive maneuvering, Philly,” Ramey instructed. “Open fire!”

Lapointe fired another grenade. It also exploded near the patrol boat, but this time it roared right on through the plume. Phillips jinked left and then put the helm over into a hard right turn. The Ashura failed to follow in time, but for a split second the Pasdaran gunner had a clear shot at their outboard.

He didn’t waste the opportunity, and let loose with a long burst. He missed the outboard, but not Ramey and Lapointe. The platoon leader was hit twice in his left arm, while Lapointe took a second hit to his injured leg. Both men cried out in pain. Fazel also took advantage of the momentarily stable target and let go with several two-round bursts. The corpsman watched with satisfaction as the gunner on the Ashura patrol boat collapsed and several of the windows on the bridge shattered.

With rapt fascination, Rahim watched as the gunner clearly hit one of the men in the back of the boat — one less American devil to worry about now. He had only a second to gloat before three windows on the bridge exploded inward. A bullet whizzed by his head, so close he could feel the air as the projectile passed. He laughed aloud and bellowed toward the fleeing Americans, “I am blessed! You cannot win! Allah has judged you!”

Qorbani shattered Rahim’s reveling when he shouted, “Replacement gunner!” Looking down, Rahim saw the sergeant slumped over at his station.

“Sir,” yelled a corporal. “The Torough patrol boat is setting up to make an attack run.”

“It will be over soon,” mumbled Rahim.

Fazel watched as the Ashura backed off, probably to replace the gunner he had hit. Taking advantage of the temporary respite, he turned toward Ramey. The lieutenant’s arm had been badly hit. The bone was obviously broken. The corpsman quickly put on a tourniquet, cinching it tightly. There was no way Ramey could hold a weapon.

“Philly!” cried Fazel. “The Boss is down. I need your gun in the fight. Have the XO take over.”

Jerry jumped up and grabbed the wheel. “I have it!”

Phillips rolled out of the seat and picked up his weapon. He pushed Ramey to the side as gently as he could and took up his firing position. Lapointe waved Fazel off. The round had gone through his foot, and while incredibly painful, it was not life-threatening.

Fazel, being the next senior SEAL team member, assumed tactical control. Taking a quick look around, he saw the third patrol boat closing in from off the port quarter. They were being boxed in. “XO, patrol boat to port!”

Jerry nodded vigorously and drove the boat as well as he could away from both Iranian pursuers.

“Harry! The Ashura is making another run!” screamed Phillips. Grabbing Lapointe’s weapon, Fazel loaded the last grenade and fired it at the rapidly approaching boat. It missed, exploding to port, but the blast caused the patrol boat to swing to starboard.

The relief gunner fired a long burst just as the grenade exploded, whipping the machine gun across the Ashura’s bow, the bullets spreading out in a long arc.

The Plexiglas windscreen in front of Jerry shattered, startling him. A fraction of a second later, he felt a searing pain in his left shoulder. His left hand went limp, and the boat lurched to starboard as he tried to compensate. He couldn’t recall if he screamed or not.

“XO! What the hell?” Fazel shouted angrily. Looking back he could see the bloodstain growing around Jerry’s shoulder. He couldn’t do anything about it now. “Can you still steer the boat?” he asked.

“I’ll manage, Doc,” Jerry yelled back. He looked behind him. They had a patrol boat on each quarter, closing fast. With three shooters down, and no grenades, things looked bleak. He wanted to think of Emily, but his mind wouldn’t let him. Focus on the fight, Jerry thought. Even if it’s the last thing you do.

Rahim was elated; another American had been hit. And with the Torough patrol boat now attacking from the other side, victory was assured. The chase would be over. Dahghan would be avenged. The traitors would die.

A loud SHWISH distracted him. He could see a faint smoke trail as it streaked toward the Torough patrol boat. Suddenly, it disappeared in a violent explosion. The boat was gone, disintegrated. All that remained was a burning pool of fuel on the ocean’s surface.

“Helicopter gunship!” screamed a panicky Qorbani. He spun the wheel over, taking evasive action.

Rahim stood motionless. “No,” he said softly.

A flash from the dark spot on the horizon testified to the launch of another missile. Rahim couldn’t make out what Qorbani was shrieking. What was happening couldn’t possibly be real.

“No,” he repeated, only louder this time. “I am blessed,” he repeated with conviction. The impacting Hellfire missile ended the debate.

Jerry blinked, not quite sure of what to think. The two Iranian patrol boats simply vanished in twin balls of smoke and flames. He felt woozy, tired. He could hear Fazel talking on his radio. Something about wounded team members. He saw Phillips near him. The young petty officer was grabbing the wheel.

“I’ve got it, XO,” he said.

Slowly, Jerry released the wheel and then fell back into Fazel’s arms. The corpsman lowered him carefully onto the blood-covered deck and started administering first aid.

He saw Phillips talking on his radio to the MH-60R helicopter that was hovering near them. Turning the shot-up speedboat westward, they headed toward the Arleigh Burke destroyer that was closing on their position at flank speed.

8 April 2013

0630 Local Time/0330 Zulu

Uranium Enrichment Facility, Natanz, Iran

General Moradi hung up the phone in total disbelief. Rahim was dead. The three patrol boats he was leading had been wiped out by the Americans. The traitors and all their information were safely in American hands. Soon the world would know of the farce that was the Iranian nuclear program. There would be no denying that they had lied, repeatedly. Their inability to successfully produce a weapon after years and years of effort, even with consistent covert foreign assistance, would make them a laughingstock. The damage to Iran’s global image was unfathomable.

Worse, the Israeli strike had been intercepted by American carrier aircraft and forced to turn back. The Americans had done the unthinkable; they openly challenged the Israelis and defended Iran. Everything he’d planned, all the careful preparations he had put into play, would now be known as the lies that they were.

He was sure VEVAK would be out for revenge. They had lost two of their most senior agents. Someone would have to be held responsible. There would be a reckoning.