Exit Plan

5. “ABANDON SHIP!”

3 April 2013

1615 Local Time/1315 Zulu

USS Michigan

Jerry and Guthrie emerged from the captain’s stateroom and walked casually to the ladder well that led up to the control room. Jerry had traded in his dark blue coveralls for a set of desert cammies. Other than the pixelated combination of tan, brown, gray, and olive drab colors of the Type II Navy Working Uniform, there were no rank insignia, nametag, warfare patch, or anything else that could identify the wearer as belonging either to Michigan or the U.S. Navy. He was also armed. The SIG Sauer P226 pistol rested in a paddle holster on his right side; while four fifteen-round magazines were on his left. At first, Jerry had protested that this was a bit over the top. After all, he was just piloting the ASDS, nothing more. Ramey and Higgs were adamant that Jerry be armed. But it was Alex Carlson who broke through when he pulled his XO aside and said, “Just wear the damn thing, sir. I would if I were going.”

“Status, Mr. Simmons,” barked Guthrie as he entered control.

“We are on station, hovering, Captain. Depth is one three zero feet with forty-eight feet beneath the keel. We’ve had twelve sonar contacts. Four are classified as tankers and are well to the west and south of us in established shipping lanes. Six are classified as fishing trawlers, heading toward either Bandar Kangan or Dreyyer. They are all past CPA and opening. The last two were probably patrol boats, as they were moving quite fast. One was headed in the direction of Lavan Island. We just lost the other as it headed north into shallow water. No contacts are estimated to be within eight thousand yards, and ASDS launch stations are manned and ready.”

“Well done, Isaac,” Guthrie complimented his navigator. Then, with a touch of sarcasm he added, “See, it wasn’t that hard.”

Simmons laughed wearily. Jerry knew the junior officer had been doing port and starboard watches to ensure that they made the deadline, without being detected or running into something. And with the exception of one rude surprise, the transit to the launch site went off without a hitch.

“Thank you, sir. But I don’t think I need that many gray hairs just yet,” replied Simmons, visibly relieved.

“Nonsense! It suits you. Besides, you need those occasional surprises to add spice to your life.” The captain was clearly in a good mood, although he was just as surprised as everyone else when the loud THUMP, THUMP, THUMP of a ship’s propeller had been heard through the hull.

Two hours ago, a large ship, probably a supertanker, had passed very close to Michigan, and none of the submarine’s sensitive sonar arrays had heard a thing until it was right on top of them. Looking at the ship’s course as it passed by, it became clear that the bow of the tanker had been pointing directly at Michigan. Even a large noisy ship, normally easy to detect, can become a ghost if a sonar array is looking straight at the bow. The phenomenon, called a bow null, occurs when the ship’s structure and cargo absorb the noise from the propulsion plant at the very back. Simmons had turned pale when he estimated that there might have been as little as fifty feet between the tanker and Michigan.

“Sir, surprises like that lead to heart attacks,” Simmons countered heartily.

Guthrie shrugged his shoulders as he reached over to the intercom. “Sonar, Conn. Report all sonar contacts.”

“Conn, Sonar,” responded Lieutenant Junior Grade Andy Buckley, Michigan’s, sonar officer. “We currently hold eleven sonar contacts. Sierra seven eight is classified as a tanker. He bears zero nine eight and has just dropped anchor. Sierra eight zero bears one two two and is heading southeast at high speed. Classified as a patrol boat. Sierra seven nine and eight two are tankers, bearing two one zero and two five six. Both are heading northwest. Sierra eight three, also classified as a tanker, is currently in our baffles. Contact is tracking to the southeast. The remaining six contacts are all fishing trawlers off our port bow, heading home to either Deyyar or Kangan. No close contacts.”

Guthrie took in the report as he quickly glanced at the fire control display’s tracks for the eleven contacts. Satisfied that his people had good situational awareness, he hit the intercom button again. “Sonar, Conn. Woody, we’re coming up for an observation. With us at a dead stop, keep a sharp ear.

“Conn, Sonar, aye.”

“Mr. Simmons, bring her up to eight zero feet,” Guthrie ordered.

“Bring her to eight zero feet, aye, sir.”

While Simmons had the ship’s diving officer and chief of the watch bring Michigan to periscope depth, Guthrie turned to Jerry and said, “We’ll take a quick look around and if all’s clear, we settle back down to a hundred and thirty feet and get you and the SEALs on your way.”

“Sounds good to me, sir. I’d like to get this excursion started,” replied Jerry with a smirk. “The SEALs are beginning to get that trapped animal look, and I was afraid they might start chewing off limbs to escape.”

“Long stays on a boat are agonizing for SEALs,” stated Guthrie. “They tolerate it just as long as there is a meaningful reason for being here. For them, it’s all about being down range and in the thick of it. They think we’re absolutely crazy for staying in a steel sewer pipe for seventy-five days at a crack.”

“Yeah, well, anyone who intentionally leaves a perfectly good submarine isn’t all there in my book, Skipper. And yes, I’m including myself in that category.”

Guthrie chuckled at Jerry’s comment. “Well, just get in and out as fast as you can. I’d like to let the SEALs off before one of them pops a gasket. I think Holt has managed to imprint his forehead on just about every piece of kit above the six-foot mark.”

It was Jerry’s turn to laugh. On more than one occasion he had heard a dull thud, immediately followed by some very salty language, only to see Barrineau roughly massaging his head. The young man needed to learn to duck.

“Passing one hundred feet, sir,” Simmons reported.

“Very well, Nav. Raise the photonics mast.”

“Raise the photonics mast, aye. Chief of the Watch, raise the photonics mast.”

Guthrie stepped down to the BVS-1 control workstation. Jerry followed. Unlike a standard periscope, the BVS-1 photonics mast didn’t have the ocular box and large barrel that penetrated the pressure hull. So instead of dancing with the “gray lady,” one just watched a flat panel display. While Jerry appreciated the multiple camera capability and excellent definition display of the high-tech mast, it was all very sterile. It lacked the dash and romance of a periscope observation characterized so well in the movies.

At first, the display showed a hazy greenish-blue background with shadows streaking across the screen. The operator spun the sensor head around, looking for any large shadows or evidence of a nearby ship. Then suddenly a brighter picture appeared as the camera cleared the water. The speaker for the electronic surveillance system started beeping and chirping as the antenna on the photonics mast detected the emissions of several radars. All were surface search sets and the signal strengths were weak. None were close. A couple of quick circular sweeps showed there were no close contacts. Guthrie grunted his approval and ordered Michigan back down.

“OOD, get us back down to one hundred and thirty feet. I’m going with the XO to missile compartment second level. I’ll be back before we launch the ASDS.”

Simmons acknowledged the order as Guthrie and Jerry headed down the ladder. Both walked quickly along the narrow passageway; several sailors had to flatten themselves against the wall to let the two by. Once through the watertight door, they crossed the compartment to SOF tube one. The large hatch in the tube was open and several SEALs were just coming out. Carlson was also waiting.

“She’s all loaded and ready to go, XO,” he reported as he handed Jerry a clipboard. “Here’s the prelaunch checklist and the compensation calculations.”

“Thanks, Alex. But shouldn’t you be in the BMC right now?” asked Jerry. There was a stern edge to his voice.

“Ah… yes, sir,” the lieutenant replied uncomfortably. “I just wanted to make sure everything was squared away for the mission, sir. That’s all.” Then after a slight pause, “She is my baby.”

“Yeah, I know.” Jerry understood exactly where the winged ASDS pilot was coming from. And while he was sympathetic, it was still his job as the executive officer to train the junior officers assigned to him to think things through and do the right thing. “Vernon will make sure I don’t screw up too much, and I promise I won’t scratch the paint… Dad.” Jerry grinned with the last word. “Now report to your station.”

“Aye, aye, sir. Good luck, XO. Captain.” Carlson’s spirits were clearly buoyed, for as he approached the watertight door he spun about and said, “Remember, XO, mind the big rocks!”

Jerry snapped his fingers and pointed at the watertight door, encouraging the young man to get going.

“Nicely handled, XO,” commented Guthrie. “But shouldn’t you be getting your carcass up into the ASDS? You wouldn’t want to be late for your first mission.”

“No, that wouldn’t look very good. I’ll see you in a few hours, Skipper.”

“Good luck, XO. And do watch out for big rocks.” Guthrie smiled as he slapped Jerry on the shoulder and then stepped back to allow his exec access to the hatch. Once inside the tube, a SEAL closed and dogged the hatch. Jerry quickly climbed up the ladder into the lockout chamber. Barrineau and Higgs were waiting, and as soon as Jerry had pulled himself into the ASDS they secured the two hatches. Hunched over slightly, he worked his way up through the operator’s compartment to the pilot’s seat, sat down, and strapped himself in.

The displays were all up and running, showing the status of the trim system, propulsion, battery charge, navigation, as well as the minisub’s attitude, course, and speed. A quick look at the status board showed mostly green, with only the docking skirt and the docking pylon latches being red. Jerry reached over and grabbed the logbook for ASDS-1 and started to make the proper entry; the paperwork gods must be appeased.

Higgs climbed into his chair and buckled up. As the copilot, he was responsible for life support, sensors, communications, and operating the lockout systems. He also helped to monitor propulsion plant and battery status.

“Pilot, ASDS is ready for launch. Docking skirt and the pylon latches indicate red,” Higgs reported.

“Very well, Copilot.” Jerry flipped on the underwater communications system switch. “Starbase, Gray Fox. Comms check, over.”

“Gray Fox, Starbase. Read you loud and clear, over.”

“Starbase, Gray Fox. Flood docking skirt, over.”

“Gray Fox, Starbase. Flooding docking skirt.”

There was a brief bubbling noise as the air in the space between the docking skirt and Michigan was vented to sea. The indicator on the status panel turned green.

“Pilot, docking skirt indicates flooded,” said Higgs.

“Very well,” replied Jerry, then hitting the transmit button again, he said, “Starbase, Gray Fox. Release docking pylon latches, over.”

“Gray Fox, Starbase. Releasing docking latches.”

A loud KA-CHUNK resonated through the hull as the four docking latches in the pylons bolted to Michigan’s outer hull swung to the unlocked position. The ASDS was now held to the mother submarine by only a few hundred pounds of extra water in her trim tanks.

“Pilot, docking latches indicate unlocked. The ASDS is ready for launch in all respects.”

“Very well, Mr. Higgs. Pumping from trim tanks to sea.” Jerry punched up the ballast control screen and told the computer how much water he wanted pushed overboard.

“XO, remember to apply a little upward thrust once two hundred pounds have been pumped out,” cautioned Higgs. He wanted a clean launch. Bouncing around on the mating ring was the sign of a sloppy takeoff, a sign that would be heard by those in the tube and the BMC, and gleefully noted on their return.

“Understood, Mr. Higgs.” Jerry knew what he needed to do next, but his copilot was just doing his job by reminding him. As the readout passed 190 pounds, Jerry gently pulled back on the joystick. Slowly, the ASDS lifted off of Michigan’s turtleback; a subtle scrapping noise being the only external evidence the two submarines had separated.

“Nice,” murmured Higgs with approval.

“Starbase, Gray Fox. We have separation, over,” declared Jerry.

“Gray Fox, Starbase. We hold you clear of the deck, over.”

“Starbase, Gray Fox. Roger that.”

Jerry waited a few more seconds, then turned toward Higgs. “Copilot, activate the forward looking soar.”

“Activate the forward looking sonar, aye. Pilot, the sonar is on line.”

Normally, a transmitting sonar would be a significant vulnerability. But the collision avoidance sonar on the ASDS operated at very high frequencies and low power, which made it difficult to detect unless you were really close. Still, Jerry would only keep it on as long as it took to ensure they had completely cleared Michigan.

“Pilot, the ASDS is clear and free to maneuver.”

“Very well, Copilot. Secure the forward looking sonar.”

As Higgs turned off the sonar, Jerry brought up the autopilot menu and selected the pre-stored course, speed, and depth for the first leg of the trip. The display looked similar to that on a Garmin or Tom Tom, just without roads. Once the route was confirmed, he pushed the transmit button.

“Starbase, Gray Fox. We are clear of your position and are proceeding to Point X-ray, over.”

“Gray Fox, Starbase. Roger that. Godspeed. Starbase out.”

Jerry reached over to the main propulsion motor panel and selected “all ahead two-thirds.” Once the ASDS had some forward way on, he lightly pulled the joystick to the left. “Coming left to course zero zero zero,” he announced. Higgs acknowledged the report as he monitored the propulsion system display. Within ten minutes, Jerry had the ASDS up to her flank speed, a blazing eight knots. Satisfied that everything was in order, he activated the autopilot and leaned back into his chair.

Taking it all in, Jerry had to admit that the Advanced SEAL Delivery System was a serious improvement over the old Mark 8 Swimmer Delivery Vehicle or SDV. The Mark 8 was considerably smaller, less than a ton in displacement compared to the sixty-ton ASDS, and could only carry four combat swimmers in addition to the pilot and navigator. The ASDS could carry eight fully equipped swimmers along with a pilot and copilot. The SDV also had shorter legs, only about half the range of the ASDS, and was slower when fully loaded. But by far and away the biggest difference was that the Mark 8 was a “wet” platform, meaning the passengers and crew had to use scuba systems to breathe, and they were exposed to the elements. While riding was much better than swimming long distances, cold water saps a swimmer’s strength over time. The ASDS provided the SEALs with a dry environment, which meant they reached the beach at peak performance.

All in all, the ASDS was clearly a superior platform — at least in theory. In reality, it had been dogged by numerous technical problems. Initial testing showed significant design flaws with many of the onboard systems, the original propeller was too noisy, and the rechargeable silver-zinc battery wasn’t providing the required power. The attempts to fix the problems took time and, more importantly, money — lots of money. In the end the program was canceled after huge cost overruns and seemingly unending reliability problems. While the Navy hierarchy reevaluated its plans, they took the lone remaining minisub and continued to work on improving its performance. The well-proven and safer silver-zinc batteries were traded for cutting edge lithium-ion batteries to solve the power issue.

Even after all of these fixes, the ASDS continued to experience equipment failures that made the minisub a maintenance nightmare. Michigan’s techs and the SEALs had to spend several hours maintaining and tweaking the ASDS’s systems for every hour it spent underway.

After twenty minutes, jerry stifled an urge to yawn. Absolutely nothing was happening. The autopilot was faithfully executing its orders and all systems were operating within spec. This was the part of the mission where one person could handle both jobs, largely because there wasn’t all that much to handle.

“Any sonar contacts, Mr. Higgs?” Jerry asked. He knew his copilot would have said something if there were, but he needed some interaction to help stay alert.

“Negative, XO, but then we don’t have the same ‘Dumbo’ ears that Michigan has.” Higgs grinned as he dissed Michigan’s high-tech sonar suite.

“Oh, ho, ho, you might want to consider your words a little more carefully, Mr. Higgs. Woody wouldn’t take it kindly you talking trash about his gear.

“I can handle Buckley, XO,” Higgs replied confidently.

“True. Of that I have no doubt, but it’s not Woody I’d be worried about. All he has to do is mention that you’re doing an under-hull survey and somehow one of his guys will not only forget to red tag the fathometer out, but they’ll forget to turn it off! Not that I would condone such negligence, mind you.” Jerry fought hard to maintain a dispassionate expression.

Higgs winced at the thought of being underneath a fathometer when it transmitted. He’d suffered that unpleasant experience once in his career. A diver has little warning that a fathometer is actively pinging since the beam points directly downward. If you can hear it, you’re too close. Unfortunately, the acoustic pressure wave has an impact similar to that of a fast moving baseball bat, and it hurts, a lot. There were procedures in place to prevent this, but it depended on people doing what they were supposed to.

Undaunted, Higgs returned fire. “Well, I guess I’ll just have to be busy when it comes time to do the next under-hull security sweep. Besides, you wouldn’t rat on me now would you, sir?”

“Absolutely not!” said Jerry with feigned sincerity, but then after a slight pause, he added, “Well, maybe. But my silence can be bought, and at a reasonable price.”

“How magnanimous of you,” grunted Higgs. Both men laughed.

It grew quiet again as Jerry and Higgs went through their monitoring routine, looking at the status of all the systems on board. Nothing was amiss.

After several minutes, Higgs broke the silence with a loud yawn, stretching. “Yea-uh-ahh. This is the part I hate, XO. The destination promises to be exciting and sexy, but the trip there is boring and a pain in the ass. I feel like one of my kids, Are we there yet?’ “

“Please don’t go there,” Jerry groaned, as unpleasant memories of his childhood flashed into his head.

“Hey, XO, we’ve still got a long way to go. Do you want me to take the conn, while you get up and stretch a bit? Not that you can do a whole lot of that in this overgrown sardine can.”

Jerry immediately took Higgs up on his suggestion. “Yeah, I think I will take a little break. Thanks, Vernon.” He unbuckled himself and vacated the pilot’s position. Higgs was seated before he had a chance to turn around. Arching his back, Jerry stretched while at the same time carefully avoided hitting one of the internal frames with his head. Looking aft, he caught a glimpse of the other SEALs through the windows in the watertight doors. He hadn’t seen them when he’d climbed aboard, and dropping by to say “hi” seemed like a good idea. Besides, he was curious to see how they were going to lug all the equipment that had been talked about during the mission planning.

“Mr. Higgs, I’m going aft to the transport compartment. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“Understood, sir.”

Jerry stepped into the lockout compartment and closed the watertight door behind him. The compartment was a great big ball in the middle of the ASDS and had a hatch in both the overhead and the deck. Separated from the operator and transport compartments by hull-strength watertight doors, it could be flooded to permit the SEALs to leave or return while the ASDS remained fully submerged. Entering into the transport compartment, Jerry saw Ramey, Lapointe, Fazel, and Phillips going over the operation plan yet again.

All were in the same Type II desert camouflage uniform that Jerry was wearing, but there the similarities ended. Each SEAL was completely covered in gear from head to toe. There were literally encased in wires, tubing, electronics, scuba tanks, respirators, ammo magazines, weapons, and numerous bulging pockets on their uniforms and chest harnesses. With their black wet-suit hoods and gloves they looked a lot like Borg drones from Star Trek. Jerry could easily see the SEAL community adopting the Collective’s favorite expression, “Resistance is futile.”

Each member of the team had a variant of the Special Operations Forces Combat Assault Rifle as his primary weapon. Known by its quaint acronym, SCAR, it had replaced the older M16A2 and M4A1 as the weapon of choice for U.S. Navy SEALs and other Special Forces personnel. During the mission-planning stage, Ramey had taken Jerry to the armory in missile tube five and gave him a quick introduction on how a SEAL unit selects its weapons for a particular mission. Ramey also made sure Jerry was familiar enough with the SCAR to use it if he needed to.

Right up front, the platoon leader stated that they were looking to go “light” on this mission. Since they weren’t looking for a fight, the emphasis was on self-protection and not a pitched battle; so heavier weapons with a longer reach weren’t as necessary. And because they had to swim in, weight was a key consideration. Grabbing a SCAR from one of the racks, he handed it to Jerry and explained that he and Phillips would carry a stock standard Mark 16 SCAR-Light, while Lapointe would have the same weapon fitted with a 40mm grenade launcher. Fazel, on the other hand, would be armed with the heavier, but longer ranged, Mark 20 SCAR-Heavy sniper rifle. By the end of their conversation, Jerry was convinced that a properly outfitted four-man SEAL element had the firepower of a small army. He also had to admit that their definition of “light” differed drastically from what he had in mind. In looking again at the four men, and seeing all the equipment they were carrying, he wasn’t certain that they wouldn’t just sink to the bottom after they left the ASDS.

“Hey, XO,” greeted Fazel. “What brings you to the economy section?”

“Just seeing how you guys are doing. We’re near Point X-ray, but you still have an hour and half before we get close to the beach.”

“Understood, sir,” Ramey responded. “We’ll be ready to go when you give the word.” His tone and mannerisms were all business.

You look more than ready to me right now, Jerry thought. He also got the feeling from Ramey’s body language that he was intruding. Paying attention to one’s gut intuition was something Jerry firmly believed in, and his gut told him to get out of the lieutenant’s hair. “I’ll have Vernon give you a thirty-minute warning. If you need anything else, you know where to find me.”

“Yes, sir.” Ramey spoke in an almost mechanical manner, with little or no facial expression. The hair on the back of Jerry’s neck stood straight up as he returned to the operator compartment. There was a stark difference between the man in the transport compartment and the platoon leader he had gotten to know on Michigan. This Ramey, the one he had just left, was far more intense, focused, and eerily menacing. The image of Doctor Jekyll and Mister Hyde popped into his mind. He was still mentally chewing on this when he relieved Higgs at the pilot’s station. Seeing the perplexed look on Jerry’s face, the copilot asked, “Anything wrong, XO?”

“Huh? Ah, no, Vernon. It’s just that Mr. Ramey is acting rather… well…”

“Strange?”

“I was going to say different,” Jerry replied defensively.

Higgs chuckled. “Matt’s got his game head on now. From the moment he boarded the ASDS until after the debrief, it’s nothing but the mission for him.”

As far as explanations go, this one wasn’t very helpful and Jerry’s confused expression showed it. “I don’t get it, Vernon. We’ve been working on mission preps for almost two days and he’s never been like this.”

“Planning a mission is one thing, XO, executing a mission is another. Matt is one of those guys who mentally has to throw a switch between going downrange and normal living. Others, like Lapointe or Fazel, can go back and forth without thinking about it. It’s not a deficiency on Matt’s part; we all have personality quirks of one kind or another. His methods are just different and more discernable than some of the other guys, that’s all. But in the end, he gets results. He has an excellent reputation among the SEAL teams for his tours in Afghanistan. I’m surprised you didn’t see this during the exercise?”

“I never went out with Ramey during the exercise. If you recall, I only went out with you and Alex once, and that was when Barrineau and the chief led the squad. I had to back out from the other event, remember?”

“Oh, yeah. That’s right, I’d forgotten that you ditched us for some paperwork,” said Higgs with a grin. “So, XO, now you know what Matt is like in his über SEAL mode.”

“I don’t think I’d like to meet him in a dark ally when he’s like that,” commented Jerry, more as a joke than a factual statement.

“No, sir, you would not,” responded Higgs soberly. Jerry felt a chill when Higgs spoke those words. And for the first time, he wondered how many men the mild-mannered Ramey had killed in his career.

“Well, if Matt’s reputation is that good, then this mission should be relatively easy in comparison with Afghanistan,” Jerry concluded.

Higgs’s demeanor didn’t change, and his voice remained stern. “The only easy day was yesterday, sir.”

Jerry had heard the SEAL motto several times during the last couple of weeks, and every time it was spoken as if it were holy writ. The reason why yesterday was easy, he had been told, was because it was over and you couldn’t do anything about it. By definition the present was always harder. From his admittedly limited perspective, this philosophy sounded overly negative to Jerry and he said as much. “You SEALs really are a pessimistic bunch, aren’t you?”

A brief look of surprise flashed across Higgs’s face, or perhaps it was annoyance, but whatever it was, he recovered quickly and respectfully countered Jerry’s accusation.

“Absolutely not, XO. We are not a herd of Eeyores; nor are we blind optimists. We are realists. We do hope for the best, we truly hope everything goes according to plan, but we always train for the worst. Because usually something does go wrong, and we have to quickly adapt to the new situation if we are to win. And a SEAL has it ingrained in him from the very beginning that it pays to be a winner.”

As Higgs turned back toward his console, Jerry looked on in silence. The short, but cogent rebuttal shined new light on a number of misconceptions that Jerry had about this unique community within the U.S. Navy. He considered asking some more questions, when his concentration was broken by an annoying beeping sound.

“One thousand yards to the turn, Pilot,” reported Higgs.

“Very well, stand by to come right to zero three zero in three minutes forty-five seconds.” The navigation computer could have told him the time remaining, but Jerry preferred doing a little mental gym himself; it helped him to refocus on the job at hand. The discussion had definitely piqued his curiosity and he wanted to understand the SEAL mentality better, but he also had a feeling that now probably wasn’t the best time. There would be ample opportunities on the way back to hit Higgs and the others up with his questions. But one thing was certain, he had learned more about SEALs in the last ten minutes than he had during the last two weeks.

The next hour went by faster than Jerry expected: Partly because they were well inside Iranian territorial waters, and getting closer to the coast with each minute, and partly because Higgs had picked up two high-speed contacts on the ASDS’s passive sonar. One was heading northwest, the other southeast at thirty plus knots. Both had passed close by. “My guess is that they are IRGC Navy patrol boats on the prowl,” said Higgs.

“A safe bet,” Jerry observed. “It’s very unlikely they are fishing dhows.” The ubiquitous, boxy, wooden fishing vessels common to the Persian Gulf would be hard pressed to make ten knots.

“They could be smugglers,” Higgs suggested. Jerry detected a note of playful cynicism in the copilot’s voice. The earlier transgression, if there had been one, was forgotten.

With a look of feigned astonishment, and dripping with sarcasm Jerry replied, “Seriously!?! Smugglers? At sunset, silhouetted by the sun, whizzing by within range of numerous coastal radar sites? What are you thinking?”

“Okay. Maybe they’re dumb smugglers.”

“Mr. Higgs, let’s just stick with your initial call and move on.” Then motioning aft he said, “Please inform Mr. Ramey that we are thirty minutes out. I told him we’d give him a warning.”

“Aye, sir.”

While Higgs notified Ramey of their current position, Jerry noticed that the water depth was starting to decrease. At a depth of one hundred feet, they only had fifty feet beneath them now, and that was slowly being nibbled away. He’d have to start coming up to a shallower depth soon, as the navigation chart showed the water depth at Point Zulu was only about forty feet. They were getting very close to the Iranian coast; they were deep inside Indian country.

Exactly twenty minutes later, a heavily laden Ramey opened the watertight door and strode up to Jerry and Higgs. “Status, Pilot,” he demanded.

Normally, Jerry would have been a little irritated by the lieutenant’s lack of military etiquette, but thanks to Higgs’s counsel, he had a better understanding of the platoon leader’s mind-set.

“We are fifteen hundred yards from Point Yankee, Mr. Ramey. Current depth is thirty feet, with thirty-four feet beneath the keel. We’ll be coming to periscope depth soon to take the initial observation,” he answered.

“Understood, XO.”

“If you wish, you can look over Mr. Higgs’s shoulder during the observation and see the lay of the land for yourself,” offered Jerry.

“Thank you, sir. I intend to,” was Ramey’s response.

For the next ten minutes, Ramey stood rigidly over by the copilot’s console. Jerry snuck an occasional look at the determined young man; the only time he could recall experiencing such intensity was during air combat maneuvering training at Fallon. Ramey was mentally pulling nine Gs.

Jerry had just started maneuvering the ASDS to periscope depth when an alarm suddenly sounded. Looking down, he saw a flashing red light on the aft battery status display

“High temperature alarm,” shouted Higgs. “Battery pack number two, aft battery.”

“Reducing speed to three knots. Report temperature,” Jerry yelled back.

“Two hundred seventy degrees and rising.”

Without hesitation, Jerry turned to Ramey. “Lieutenant, get your men and all your gear out of the transport compartment ASAP.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” replied the SEAL as he bolted for the watertight door.

Jerry worked to stay calm. “Mr. Higgs, report temperature.”

“Two hundred eighty-five degrees, and rising. Battery packs one and three also show elevated temperatures.”

Not good, Jerry thought. He needed to get this under control quickly; if the temperature exceeded three hundred degrees the affected cells would become unstable and almost certainly start a fire. Worse yet, nearby battery packs could also be driven into thermal runaway. The resulting chain reaction would likely end in an explosion.

“Mr. Higgs, isolate the after battery,” he ordered. Isolating batteries would reduce their power reserve by half, but this battery wasn’t going to give them any more power today.

“Isolating the after battery.” The copilot reached over to the electrical control panel and rotated the selector switch on the after battery breaker to open. Nothing happened. He tried again. No response.

“XO, remote breaker control failed. Battery temperature at two hundred ninety-eight degrees.”

“Open the breaker manually,” Jerry commanded.

Higgs launched himself from his chair and reached the breaker panel within a couple of seconds. He threw open the panel door, grabbed the breaker, and shoved it upward.

Jerry caught a bright flash out of the corner of his eye, followed immediately by a thundering noise. Momentarily stunned by the sound, Jerry tried to focus his eyes. The compartment was filled with gray smoke. The acrid smell assaulted his nose and lungs, forcing him to instinctively reach for his emergency breathing mask.

A flashlight beam pierced the smoky atmosphere as Ramey and the other SEALs crowded into the compartment. Ramey went over to Jerry. Fazel went to Higgs, who lay prone on the deck. He’d been thrown across the compartment by the blast.

The corpsman checked Higgs for a pulse, but it was a mere formality. The copilot was obviously dead. His face and hands were badly burned, his neck was canted at an odd angle, and there were ragged holes torn in his uniform. The larger ones had bloodstains growing around the periphery.

“XO, XO, can you hear me! Are you all right?” shouted Ramey.

Jerry looked at Ramey. The SEAL’s image came into focus and Jerry could see that they were using their scuba gear to breathe. Ramey pulled the demand valve from his mouth and repeated himself, “XO, are you okay?”

“Temp… Temperature?” Jerry struggled to speak as he stood, shaking his head.

Ramey quickly looked over at the copilot console, it was dark.

“The displays are down, sir.”

Jerry turned and saw that two of his displays were still working. He called up the battery-monitoring menu. The temperature was at three hundred fourteen degrees. They had very little time left. He reached over and pulled the emergency surface chicken switches, and turned toward Ramey. From such a shallow depth, the ASDS rose quickly to the surface.

“Matt, the after battery is probably going to explode. We are abandoning ship. Get your men out, now!”

Ramey hesitated for just a moment, then pushed his guys toward the escape hatch, instructing them to grab whatever they could on the way out. Fazel grabbed an additional first aid kit. Phillips nabbed a small inflatable raft. Ramey went to the lockout compartment and started opening the hatch.

While the SEALs prepared to abandon ship, Jerry programmed the ASDS to head back out to sea as fast as it could. He set the delay for one minute. Jerry briefly considered sending a “Mayday” but the Iranians would almost certainly pick it up and know they were there. Bad idea. In the end it didn’t matter, as the communication system had been fried when the breaker shorted out. Jerry mentally ran down the emergency destruct bill; there was one last thing to do.

Outboard of the pilot’s seat was a cabinet that held two demolition charges. Jerry couldn’t be one hundred percent sure the after battery would explode, although it was very likely, so he grabbed the charges, removed the backing, and plastered one on the hull above his chair. He set the timer for seven minutes. Popping his connection for the emergency breathing system he headed toward the escape hatch. Along the way he saw the after-battery breaker panel, or what was left of it. A one-foot-diameter circle was just plain missing, vaporized by the sheer amount of electrical power. He paused for just a moment to say “good-bye” to Higgs, then popped his connection again and went into the lockout chamber. He secured the watertight door and set the second charge, this time for six minutes.

Just as he had placed the second demolition charge, Ramey climbed down the short ladder and started opening the watertight door to the operator compartment. Jerry immediately grabbed him and shook his head “no.” Ramey spit out his demand valve and shouted, “I have to get Vern.” Dumbfounded, Jerry pushed him back and said, “He’s dead. There is nothing you can do.”

The platoon leader acted like he didn’t even hear Jerry. “I can’t leave him behind!”

Ramey was a powerful man and Jerry physically couldn’t hold him back, so he grabbed Ramey’s harness and swung the SEAL around to face him. “I said abandon ship, Mister! The demo charges are set and that battery could go any second.”

Ramey stood there confused; he looked at Jerry and then the watertight door. Jerry could see his mind racing, but had no idea what dilemma was causing his wheels to spin. Jerry in turn was getting frustrated and angry, he’d given this junior officer a direct order and he seemed unwilling to follow it. But before he could say anything else, the ASDS shook violently and Jerry saw flames in the transport compartment. Ramey saw it, too. They were running out of time.

With every ounce of strength, Jerry pushed Ramey against the ladder, grabbed his face, and yelled, “We are done here. Get your ass off my boat NOW!”

Reluctantly, Ramey climbed out and dove into the water. Jerry followed and closed the upper hatch just as water started pouring down into the lockout compartment. Another explosion threw Jerry off of the ASDS and into the cool waters of the Persian Gulf. Treading water, he watched as the minisub dove beneath the surface for the last time.

3 April 2013

1844 Local Time/1544 Zulu

USS Michigan

“Conn, Sonar,” Buckley’s voice boomed from the intercom, “Loud explosions bearing zero two two.”

“Sonar, Conn. Repeat your last,” Simmons replied anxiously.

“Conn, Sonar. Multiple explosions bearing zero two two.”

“Sonar, Conn, aye.” Simmons didn’t even have to look at the chart. He knew exactly what was supposed to be on that bearing. He picked up the mike for the 1MC, the ship’s general announcing circuit, keyed the mike, and said, “Captain to control!”