Exit Plan

3. APRIL FOOLS

1 April 2013

2030 Local Time/1630 Zulu

USS Michigan

“Please tell me this is just another bad joke,” pleaded Jerry Mitchell, as he looked up from the report in his hand.

“Sorry, sir,” replied Lieutenant Jaime Manning, USS Michigan’s medical officer, “but this isn’t part of today’s festivities. Alex has really fractured his left arm, and I have to ground him from any further ASDS operations.”

Jerry winced at the word “ground.” Even after a decade that word still had some bite to it. He rubbed his right forearm, just above the wrist, almost by reflex, feeling the scars from the rough landing after ejecting from his Hornet so many years ago.

Not bothering to hide his frustration, he threw the report onto an already impressive mound in his in-box. As the executive officer of the blue crew on USS Michigan, his world revolved around paperwork. And while overseeing the ship’s administration was only one of his duties, it seemed to take up most of his time. Despite his best efforts, he scrambled just to keep up. Everything was getting done, but the process wasn’t pretty, nor was his stateroom. This little incident would add another report or two to Jerry’s growing to-do list. Turning back toward the doctor, he asked a one-word question. “How?”

“Well, XO, as you recall, last night’s movie was 300.”

“Tell me about it,” replied Jerry sarcastically. “I’ve been listening to the SEALs chanting HAROO! all day long!”

Manning nodded sympathetically. “Yeess, it has been getting a bit tiresome. But anyway, Alex and Holt got into a lively debate over the scene where King Leonidas kicks the Persian messenger into the well. Alex claimed the segment had to be computer animation because there was no way a real human being could kick like that, with any force. Holt, of course, disagreed, claiming he had used a similar kick before and that it was very effective. The discussion got a little animated, and ended up with Alex challenging Holt to prove it. So they went off to missile compartment lower level to conduct a Mythbusters-like experiment and settle the issue.”

Jerry sighed deeply as he rubbed his face; he had no trouble seeing why this story had a bad ending. Lieutenant (jg) Holt Barrineau was the assistant officer-in-charge of the SEAL platoon assigned to Michigan for the exercise with the Pakistani Special Forces. Holt was built like a truck — a very large truck — that made squeezing his powerful six-foot-four frame through the submarine’s constricted passageways and hatches a challenge. The crew called him “Gutzilla,” partly because of his huge size and aggressive demeanor, and partly because of his nearly insatiable appetite. Jerry had personally seen the young officer consume unbelievable quantities of food. Holt didn’t just eat; he refueled.

Lieutenant Alex Carlson was physically a polar opposite. Skinny as a reed, he barely made it to five-foot-ten inches in height and weighed in at 160 pounds when soaking wet. Barrineau easily had 100 pounds on him. But despite the significant differences in size, shape, and Navy training, Carlson and Barrineau were close friends. Carlson, as the Advanced SEAL Delivery System, or ASDS, pilot, worked far more closely with the SEALs than anyone else on Michigan. SEALs also hold a special respect for non-SEALs that take the same risks to bring them in and out of harm’s way. The mutual respect quickly turned into friendship. Jerry was confident that none of the individuals involved thought anyone would get badly hurt. He doubted thought entered into the discussion at all, but the basic physics of the situation were entirely in Barrineau’s favor, and by a wide margin.

“After a few slow trials to get the positioning right,” continued Manning, “Holt attempted the real kick. Unfortunately, as he raised his right leg, his left foot slipped and he rotated the kick instead of making it head on. The kick caught Alex between the fifth and sixth ribs on his left side, spun him about, and threw him into a missile tube where his left ulna took the brunt of the impact. It was a clean fracture, just above the wrist, and was easily set, but Alex will be in a whole arm cast for a couple of months, maybe three.”

Jerry shook his head and looked upward. “Lord, save me from the synergistic stupidity of knuckleheaded young men.”

“I believe the underlying medical condition is called testosterone poisoning, sir,” added Manning wryly.

Jerry didn’t immediately respond to the doctor’s quip. He simply frowned while he groped around on his desk for the clipboard with the exercise master events list. Quietly, he looked it over, then tossed the clipboard back onto his desk.

“I’m assuming that Alex can still stand watches.”

“Yes, sir. Between his arm and a couple of bruised ribs, he’ll be a bit sore, but he is able to stand regular watches on board Michigan. He just can’t pilot the ASDS.”

“That’s fine, Doctor. We only have one more event in this exercise, and it doesn’t include the ASDS, so this injury goes into the annoying vice inconvenient category.” Jerry paused momentarily, thinking. “Still, I’m going to have to give it some thought on how to describe this incredibly stupid stunt officially.”

“If it’s of any help, XO, some of the SEALs are calling it the ‘Spartan kick gone wrong.’ “

“Spartan kick gone wrong, eh?” Jerry mulled over the doctor’s suggestion. “It certainly is catchy. It would make a great title for a YouTube vid…”

He froze in midsentence as that dreadful thought finally worked its way into the conscious part of his brain. Leaning forward, a guarded expression on his face, and speaking softly, he asked, “Please tell me no one recorded this foolishness?”

Startled by her XO’s sudden change, Manning stammered, “I… I don’t think so, sir. Why would they do something so dumb as…”

Her response slowly drifted to a stop as Jerry adopted the classic “XO look,” a foundation of stern impatience with a dash of irritation.

“… and I’ll find out and get back to you ASAP,” concluded Manning quickly.

“Correct answer,” replied Jerry with a slight grin. “The last thing I need is for a video of this incident to go viral on the Internet the moment we get back to port. It would complicate my life and I don’t need any help with that. Capiche?”

“Yes, sir. I understand, completely.”

“Good. Now concerning your qual board…”

The sudden antiquated ring of the Dialex internal phone system rudely interrupted their conversation. Holding up his right index finger, signifying “Wait one,” Jerry reached over and unclipped the handset. “Executive officer,” he answered.

“XO, Officer of the deck, sir. The skipper asked me to pass on that we are receiving flash traffic. He is already in the radio room and requests that you get your, quote, carcass up there immediately, unquote, sir.”

“Understand we are receiving flash traffic. Is it related to the exercise?” Confused, Jerry reached again for the events list.

“Negative, sir. This is a real-world message.”

A flash precedence message for Michigan meant something very big was happening in her part of the world, and the powers that be wanted her to do something about it.

“Thank you, Erik. I’ll be right up.”

Jerry rose quickly as he secured the handset in its cradle. Manning had already stepped out of the stateroom, clearing his path.

“Doc, we’ll have to work on your board later,” said Jerry, as he bolted for the ladder well. She made a reply, but Jerry didn’t hear it. His attention was elsewhere.

“Gangway. Make a hole!” he shouted, as his foot hit the first step. The sailors at the top of the ladder well rapidly dispersed. Grabbing the bridge access hatch ladder railing, Jerry propelled himself around the corner and found Lieutenant Erik Nelson, Michigan’s communications officer, already holding the radio room door open. “The skipper’s forward reading the message,” volunteered Nelson.

Jerry only nodded as he entered the room. The solid thump from behind told him Nelson had closed the heavy door. Hunched over a table, motionless, studying the message stood Captain Kyle Guthrie. A seasoned submariner, Guthrie had an outstanding record full of highly successful assignments. Michigan’s blue crew was his second command tour, a rare occurrence in the U.S. submarine force, and everyone on board knew he enjoyed every minute of it.

Jerry considered himself lucky to work for a man like Guthrie, who seemed to know everything about subs and submarine warfare. The guy had been there and done it all: patrols on a ballistic missile submarine, tours at NAVSEA and the Pentagon supporting submarine design and procurement, as well as XO and CO tours on attack submarines. He’d been on boats that had fired virtually every weapon a U.S. submarine could possibly carry including Trident II D-5 ballistic missiles, Tomahawk cruise missiles, and various flavors of Mark 48 torpedoes. Operationally, Guthrie had a lot of experience in land-attack strikes, intelligence-gathering missions, and had even worked with embarked SEALs before. In short, he was the perfect commanding officer for a converted Ohio-class submarine. His reputation as a demanding captain was well founded, but at the same time he was courteous, fair, and totally dedicated to his crew. While he worked them hard, he also made damn sure they had all the tools they needed to get the job done.

“Ahh, XO,” said Guthrie, while waving for Jerry to come beside him. “Glad to see you made it. What took you so long?” The smirk on his face made it clear he was jerking Jerry’s chain, particularly since it hadn’t even been thirty seconds since Jerry had received the phone call.

“Sorry, Skipper, there was a little congestion on Highway 3,” said Jerry without blinking. He had Guthrie’s dry, and sometimes sarcastic, sense of humor down pat and knew the gibe wasn’t personal. Indeed, his reference to the main road outside of the Bangor Submarine Base earned an appreciative nod from his commanding officer.

Before he could even ask about the message’s contents, Guthrie calmly handed it to him. “These orders come straight from the top, Jerry. Were through with the exercise and are to proceed at best speed to the central Persian Gulf. We’ve been ordered to extract two individuals with critical information on Iran’s nuclear program. Apparently we are a last-minute backup plan and have to get to the rendezvous location in less than forty-five hours.” He emphasized that last point by repeatedly poking at the message paragraph containing that little tidbit.

Guthrie’s rapid-fire summarization made it difficult for Jerry to read the message and listen at the same time. He saw the “Z” prosign in the message header signifying a “FLASH” precedence message. This meant the sender had to process and get this message out as fast as possible, preferably in less than ten minutes. The list of information addresses was impressive, starting with Special Operations Command, Naval Special Warfare Command, Commander, Submarine Forces Pacific, and on down to Michigan’s submarine squadron and SEAL Team Three, the parent unit of Charlie Platoon. He also noticed the message was classified at the Top Secret level with limited distribution. As he hit the meat of the message, Jerry found it contained little more than what Guthrie had already said, along with “more information to follow.”

Guthrie gave his exec twenty seconds before shooting out a string of commands.

“We’ll have to put the spurs to her if we’re to make it, but even so it’s gonna be dang close. Get the OOD to change course to due west, bring the reactor coolant pumps online, and get us up to seventeen knots. Then have all department heads, the COB, and SEAL platoon members muster in the BMC in five minutes.”

“Change course to cardinal west, bring reactor coolant pumps online, and make seventeen knots. Muster all department heads, the COB, and SEAL platoon members in the BMC in five minutes, aye, sir,” Jerry replied; a complete verbatim repeat back of an order was standard Navy operating procedure to ensure that it was properly heard and understood.

“Good, now git to it.”

“If I may, Captain. There is a medical issue that I need to report. Lieutenant—”

“Is it life-threatening?” interrupted Guthrie.

“No, sir.”

“Then it can wait, Jerry It’s more important right now to get us heading toward the rendezvous point.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, I believe this is relevant…”

“I said later, XO.” Guthrie’s firm response signaled the end of the discussion.

“Aye, aye, sir,” responded Jerry, chastened.

Turning to leave, he placed the message on the table and then walked swiftly toward the door. He heard the radio room watch stander say, “Skipper, another message is coming in on the new mission,” as he shut the door.

The control room was barely ten paces aft of the radio room and Jerry marched directly to the periscope stand where Lieutenant Nelson stood with eager anticipation.

“OOD, change course to two seven zero. Have maneuvering bring the reactor coolant pumps online and get us to seventeen knots ASAP. Then announce over the 1MC for all department heads, the COB, and SEAL platoon members to muster in the battle management center.”

Nelson accurately recited the orders. While he began to carry them out, Jerry moved over by the fire control consoles to get out of the way. The XO’s presence could be something of a distraction, since most of the time his presence was the harbinger of yet another drill. But this time it was the real thing, and being out of the direct line of sight of the watch standers helped to reinforce that this wasn’t another training evolution.

USS Michigan was the second of eighteen Ohio-class nuclear-powered ballistic missile submarines, also called SSBNs, built in the 1980s and 1990s. After completing thirty-three strategic deterrent patrols, the Navy decided to convert her and three of her sisters into cruise missile-carrying submarines, or SSGNs, as they came due for their major overhaul. Michigan began the conversion process in January 2005. The systems for the Trident II D-5 ballistic missiles were removed and replaced with equipment that supported large numbers of Tomahawk cruise missiles and berthing for Special Operations troops; in most cases Navy SEALs.

The missile tubes were refitted to hold insertable modules that allowed them to store equipment for the SEALs, carry Tomahawk land-attack cruise missiles, or house unmanned vehicles. Tubes one and two were converted to diver lockout chambers, letting up to five SEALs per chamber leave a submerged submarine. They were also fitted with docking ports that allowed an ASDS minisubmarine, and/or dry deck shelters to ride on Michigan’s back.

Tubes three through ten were switch-hitters and could hold either stowage canisters for SEAL gear or seven-celled canisters for the Tomahawk cruise missiles. Tubes eleven through twenty-four normally only had missile canisters in them. But on this patrol, tubes twenty-three and twenty-four held two experimental Cormorant unmanned air vehicles. Theoretically, a single SSGN could carry up to 154 Tomahawk cruise missiles, but between the UAVs and a SEAL platoon’s worth of gear, Michigan had only 84 Tomahawks on board.

As substantial as the missile tube modifications were, virtually all of Michigan’s electronics had been ripped out and replaced with more advanced gear. She had an upgraded sonar suite and fire control system that gave her many of the same capabilities as the new Virginia class attack submarines, something Jerry very much appreciated. The Trident missile control center had been gutted and replaced with six new consoles to program and launch the Tomahawk cruise missiles.

When the Tomahawk missile had first been introduced in 1983, each weapon had to be programmed at a shore facility and the disk packs with the programming transported to the launching vessel. It took a lot of time. Now, the Tomahawk Weapons Control Center not only gave Michigan the ability to program the missiles herself, but also gave her access to the reconnaissance photos and the intelligence information needed to pick the targets.

The old navigation center was converted into the Battle Management Center or BMC, a space dedicated for SOF mission planning and ASDS or dry deck shelter operations. The navigation equipment that once took up the entire room was now condensed into two cabinets tucked away in the back. The BMC used the same type of information that the Tomahawk missiles used, but in this case, it was used to plan SEAL operations.

Finally, the radio room had undergone a thorough overhaul, giving Michigan unusually large communication “pipes.” The greater bandwidth effectively made an SSGN a covert command ship, able to receive large amounts of targeting and intelligence information and quickly convert that information into Tomahawk strike missions or SEAL operations. Following the usual sea trials and tests, Michigan returned to service in June 2007.

But the physical alterations to the submarine weren’t the only changes. In 2010, the U.S. Navy lifted its ban of women serving on submarines, and by early 2012 female officers started reporting to the crews of Ohio-class SSBNs and SSGNs. This was a controversial decision that sparked a lot of grumbling within the small and tightly knit submarine community. Women had, on rare occasions, deployed on SSBNs in the past. But these were engineering duty officers or medical doctors, like Lieutenant Manning, going out on a patrol as part of their qualification process; they were riders, not part of the official crew. Michigan’s, blue crew had their first female ensigns show up just before the beginning of the current patrol. And as expected, it caused a bit of a stir, particularly among the older crew-members and their wives, who felt their way of life was being turned upside down by “social engineering politicians.”

Jerry was neutral about assigning women to submarines. He’d seen the integration of the sexes before in the surface and aviation communities, and while there were a lot of problems at first, eventually things worked themselves out. He knew the fraternization problem hadn’t gone away, but the dire predictions of whole-scale collapse of ship cohesiveness and readiness didn’t occur either. His views were also tempered by his first deployment on USS Memphis. They had embarked two women for a special intelligence-gathering mission off the coast of Russia.

Captain Guthrie, on the other hand, was strongly against the policy change. He’d said it was inappropriate to have mixed crews on submarines due to the extremely close quarters and limited habitability space. In his opinion, “to expect young men and women to not act like young men and women was the height of hypocrisy.” To his credit, he treated his two female officers no differently than any other member of his crew. He was just as civil, and pushed them just as hard as his other junior officers, and so far Ensigns Laura Tillman and Sandy Wagner were making satisfactory progress toward completing the lengthy qualifications for their dolphins — the symbol of an accomplished submariner. Of course, Guthrie made it clear to the entire crew that “any transgressions would be dealt with to the maximum extent the Uniform Code of Military Justice allowed. He would not tolerate fraternization on board his boat, and the individuals involved would live to regret it.” So far, no one had tested the waters to see if the “Old Man” was bluffing.

The momentary dimming of the lights told Jerry that the reactor coolant pumps were being started and he could feel the vibration in the deck plates as Michigan accelerated. One aspect of the Ohio-class design that made them so quiet was the S8G reactor plant. The reactor was built to take advantage of the basic principle that hot water rises and cold water sinks. By using these thermal currents, cooling water would naturally circulate without the need for pumps; but only up to a certain point. For greater power, coolant pumps had to be engaged to increase the flow and keep the core at a safe operating temperature. This forced circulation mode was needed whenever Michigan had to move at high speeds.

The noise and traffic in the control room soon increased as the SEALs, Master Chief Eichmann, Michigan’s chief of the boat, and the ship’s department heads began filing into the BMC. While taking a mental muster, Lieutenant Isaac Simmons, the navigation and operations officer, looked at Jerry and gestured “what the hell is going on?” Silently, Jerry pointed toward the door of the BMC. Simmons responded with a sloppy half-salute. Immediately after him came Barrineau and Carlson. Dumb and dumber, thought Jerry as he saw the cast on Carlson’s left arm from just below the shoulder all the way to the wrist. “The skipper isn’t going to be happy when he sees that,” he muttered to himself.

A quick glance at his watch showed that the five minutes were nearly up. Moving forward to the front of the periscope stand, Jerry took up a vantage point from where he could see the radio room door. He was never very good at waiting, but with a high priority mission before them, Jerry was more impatient than usual. He just couldn’t let it show.

“XO, we are on course two seven zero, and our speed is thirteen knots coming to seventeen.” Nelson’s report yanked him back from his temporary vigil.

“Very well, OOD,” Jerry replied flatly.

“So what’s going on, XO? This can’t be part of the exercise. We’re going in the wrong direction. The last event is closer to the Pakistani coast,” prodded Nelson.

“You’re right. It’s not. But I don’t know a whole lot more than we’re to make for the Persian Gulf toot-de-sweetie,” answered Jerry. “The captain is getting the specifics on our new mission as we speak and should be out any second now to brief us.”

As if waiting for his cue, Guthrie abruptly emerged from the radio room, clipboard in hand. By his general body language one would be hard-pressed to say that anything unusual was happening, but Jerry had spotted the glimmer of excitement in his captain’s eyes.

“Mr. Nelson, report,” demanded Guthrie, as he hopped up onto the stand.

“Sir, we are on course two seven zero. Our speed is currently fourteen knots, accelerating to seventeen.”

“Very well.” Then turning toward Jerry he asked, “XO, is the congregation assembled?”

“Yes, sir. All interested parties are in the BMC awaiting your presence. Bursting with curiosity, I might add.”

Feigning sincerity Guthrie exclaimed, “Well, we can’t have that now, can we!?” Then with a subtle sweep of his hand, he motioned toward the BMC and added, “After you, XO.”

“Yes, sir,” responded Jerry, as he turned and headed for the door. He had just cracked it open when a loud voice shouted, “Feet!”

Inside, Jerry saw Lieutenant Travis Frederickson, SEAL Team Three’s targeting and operations officer, and the detachment officer-in-charge, standing by the access to the planning cell spaces. Stepping aside, Jerry let Guthrie enter first. Frederickson brought up the rear.

“As you were,” Guthrie said, as he positioned himself in front of the two-dozen people crowded in to the planning cell.

“Moments ago we received a flash-precedence message giving Michigan and the embarked SEAL platoon a new mission. I’m going to read the message and then I’ll give you your instructions. Save any questions till the end,” instructed Guthrie.

The captain took his reading glasses out of his poopie suit pocket, put them on, and opened the clipboard.

FROM: Commander, United States Central Command

TO: Commanding Officer, USS Michigan’s SGN 727.

SUBJECT: Fragmentary Order 05–13.

Terminate participation in Exercise Display Unity and proceed at best possible speed to coordinates latitude 27° 35’ 49” N, longitude 051° 55’ 29” E in the central Persian Gulf. Once in position, elements of Charlie Platoon, SEAL Team Three will rendezvous with and extract two Iranian nationals who have detailed information on the Iranian government’s WMD program. The rendezvous has been scheduled for 1630Z hours on 03 April. This time cannot be altered due to a lack of communications with the Iranian individuals. Presidential approval to violate Iranian territorial waters is in process.

Commanding Officer, USS Michigan, has operational control of the mission, while SEAL Team Three Detachment OIC has tactical control. More information to follow.

A low murmur arose as soon as Guthrie finished reading. Jerry snapped his fingers twice, calling for silence.

“Alright, gentlemen, and lady,” added Guthrie, nodding in Manning’s direction. “We have a no-shit hi-pri mission on our hands, and not a lot of time to get in position or prepare. We are already on course for the Persian Gulf, moving as fast as we can, given the stress limits imposed by the ASDS and the dry deck shelter docked on the turtleback. If you factor in the time for ASDS launch and transit, we have a tad over forty-three hours to get where we are supposed to be. So everyone will have to be at the top of their game.”

Flipping through the paper on the clipboard, Guthrie quickly read from a list of orders.

“Mr. Hogan and COB. Please coordinate with the XO on additional damage control drills.” Lieutenant Daniel Hogan, the damage control assistant, acknowledged the orders, as did Master Chief Eichmann with a terse “Aye, aye, sir.”

“Mr. Zelinski,” Guthrie continued, “I want an updated status report on all ship’s weapons and the UAVs. I don’t expect a fight, but the Iranians don’t always act rationally and I want to be ready just in case they make it necessary for us to defend ourselves.”

“Yes, sir,” replied the weapons officer. “I’ll have it to the XO in a couple of hours.”

“Good. Also work with the XO to schedule some additional battle stations torpedo and strike drills.” Checking off two more items, Guthrie turned toward his navigator.

“Mr. Simmons, I need you to figure out our best avenue of approach once we enter the gulf. I want an optimized plan that gets us to the desired coordinates as fast as possible, while keeping us in the deepest water possible.”

The young African American frowned. He was not happy with this assignment. “Skipper, we are talking two hundred feet of water at the very best, probably a lot less. It’s going to be frickin’ hard to maintain a decent speed without generating a visible wake on the surface. It’s hard to hide a hippo in a swimming pool!”

Jerry had to grin at Simmons’s metaphor, for while it was a little crass to compare Michigan to a hippopotamus with her skipper present, it was an apt analogy. Submarine skippers, especially nuclear submarine skippers, weren’t comfortable in less than three hundred or four hundred feet of water, and preferred six hundred feet — a hundred fathoms.

“You don’t see me smiling about this either, Isaac,” Guthrie replied sympathetically. “Just do the best you can, and while you’re at it please avoid shipping lanes if at all possible. I really don’t want to be in a sequel of Hartford’s collision.”

The frown on Simmons’s face quickly mutated into a grimace at the mention of the collision between the Los Angeles-class attack submarine USS Hartford, and USS New Orleans, a San Antonio-class amphibious assault ship in March 2009. Hartford was submerged, crossing the main shipping lanes just inside the Strait of Hormuz, when her sail was struck by the amphib, causing significant damage to the submarine.

Still uneasy, Simmons nodded and said, “We’ll get right on it, Captain.”

“Mr. Frederickson” — Guthrie shifted his attention to the SEAL detachment OIC—”begin your formal mission-planning process. I want the brief back on the platoon leader order in thirty hours.”

“Understood, sir. Mr. Ramey has that for action.” Frederickson pointed toward Lieutenant Matthew Ramey, Charlie platoon’s leader, as he spoke.

“Very well,” said Guthrie as he checked his list. “One more thing for you and your SEALs to keep in mind when you start putting together your intelligence requirements for reachback support. Every time you want to transmit requirements or receive data, we have to slow down. The masts can’t handle speeds in excess of ten knots. We are operating under a very tight time line for this mission, and we can’t afford losing time for repeated periscope depth evolutions so you can phone home. So as you put together your essential elements of information needs for NAVSPECWARCOM or ONI to fill, please do so efficiently.”

“Understood,” responded Frederickson and Ramey simultaneously.

“Mr. Carlson, I want a complete check of the ASDS systems, particularly the batteries…” Guthrie’s speech came to an abrupt stop as he looked up from his clipboard and saw his ASDS pilot clearly for the first time.

Jerry saw his captain do a double take. He then removed his reading glasses and took yet another look, followed by, “Alex! What the hell happened to you!?”

Carlson just stood there silent, embarrassed.

“Uhh, I did, sir,” replied Barrineau sheepishly.

Guthrie turned toward Jerry, a look of total confusion written all over his face.

“The, uh, medical issue I mentioned earlier, Skipper,” remarked Jerry as gracefully as possible. It’s almost always a bad thing for an XO to let his boss be surprised in public, as this violates one of the primary duties of an executive officer to not let his captain look bad.

A deep calming sigh came from Guthrie. “My bad, XO, not yours. Now what do we do about this unexpected complication?” Facing Manning he asked, “I don’t suppose Alex is medically cleared to pilot the ASDS?”

“No, sir,” the doctor answered. “The fracture is in a very bad spot, just about the wrist, and I had to severely restrict that arm’s range of motion if it’s to heal properly”

“I can do it, sir,” implored Carlson. “Just give me a shorter cast for this run so I can still handle the controls.”

“Absolutely not!” Manning stated firmly. “Your strength in that arm is compromised. Trying to manhandle watertight hatches and other equipment will result in more damage.”

“Alex,” injected Jerry “You’re not going to win this one. Been there, done that, bought the wardrobe.” He bared the scars on his right wrist to emphasize the point.

“I can pilot the ASDS,” said Lieutenant Vernon Higgs. “I’m qualified and can still perform my other duties once the minisub is in position.”

“That’s too risky, Vern,” Carlson countered. “You can’t work the lockout chamber controls and support the diver egress and just let the boat sit there, even anchored, that close to the shore. And we have very little information on the bottom topography and the currents along the Central Iranian coast. Operating that boat with one of your squads going in and out is definitely a two-man job.”

“What other option do we have, Alex?” Higgs argued. “I don’t think we can get another qualified pilot out here in time.”

“Even if the Navy could find one and get him out here quickly, you’re still talking twenty-four hours at a minimum. By that time we’ll be in the Persian Gulf, probably close to the Iranian coast; how do we get him on board without drawing attention to our position? If we divert to a safer location, we’ll lose a lot of time,” Simmons added with growing frustration.

Guthrie listened intently to the brainstorming, remaining silent to allow his junior officers room to freely voice their ideas and concerns. By their expressions and comments, the SEALs all believed that the risk was acceptable for Lieutenant Higgs to perform both jobs. The submariners strongly disagreed.

Guthrie did as well. “I can’t allow Higgs to do the job alone. Too many bad things could happen. But to be honest, I’m not keen on telling my boss that I can’t do my job without help, and I don’t want to do this unless there is absolutely no other choice available to us.”

The assembly grew quiet as two-dozen brains chewed on the problem. After about fifteen seconds of awkward silence, Jerry finally spoke up. “I can pilot the ASDS, Captain.”

Every head in the room snapped in his direction. Guthrie looked quizzical, and intrigued. “Okay, XO, explain yourself.”

“Yes, sir. You know I attended some of the training sessions before this patrol, to get a better appreciation of ASDS operations, and I’ve spent some time on the simulator. I went out with Alex during both the workups and on one of the exercise events. I even managed to get some stick time. I believe I have a good feel for how the ASDS handles, and Vernon can assist with the launching and landing evolutions. I’m also a qualified Navy diver, all of which makes me the closest thing to a spare pilot.”

Guthrie took stock of his peoples’ reactions as Jerry explained his plan; both Higgs and Carlson were nodding their agreement, a good sign.

“Alex can provide some additional training while we’re en route, and Vernon and the others can make sure I understand the SEAL aspect of this mission. This should reduce the risk to an acceptable level,” concluded Jerry.

“Comments on the XO’s idea. Alex?” Guthrie asked.

“The XO’s legit, sir,” responded Carlson favorably. “He has an intuitive feel for the minisub; he can do it.”

“Vern?”

“Concur with Alex, sir.”

“Travis?”

“Concur, Captain.”

A visibly relieved Guthrie turned to Jerry and said, “Okay, XO, you got the job.”

Facing the assembly, Guthrie offered a final opportunity for comment. “Anything else?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Frederickson. “Captain, I’d like to request restricted access to the BMC and missile compartment lower level to enable my guys to properly prepare for this mission.”

Guthrie had seen SEALs go into a similar isolation mode in the past. It helped the SEALs mentally prepare for a mission. He thought it was a little strange, but it was their way and it did seem to bear fruit. “Granted, Travis. Only the navigator, Mr. Carlson, the XO, and myself will have access. Everyone else has to get your permission. Jerry, make sure you pass the word.”

“Aye, aye, sir,”

“Thank you, Captain,” responded Frederickson.

“Alright, people, we have a job to do, so get hot,” ordered Guthrie.

Everyone in control clearly heard the SEALs. “HOOYAH, Skipper!”