Exit Plan

6. UNFRIENDLY SHORES

3 April 2013

1700 Local Time/1400 Zulu

Bandar Kangan

She’d forced herself to eat, in spite of her fluttering insides. She had the baby to think about, and had dutifully worked her way though rice and vegetables at dinner, although it was a mechanical exercise. She felt a little light-headed, detached from herself.

It seemed like a fantasy. Normal people didn’t pass nuclear information to a foreign country. They didn’t meet American commandos on a beach. Maybe they’d stopped being normal when the two of them had decided to act on their consciences. She wanted a place to work and live as a family. She wanted them all to be safe and unafraid. Was this the price?

After an early dinner in Bandar Kangan, they’d wandered the town, having explored it thoroughly that afternoon. It had let her walk off some of her nervousness before one final visit to their hotel room.

It was supposed to be a stop to visit the bathroom and pick up a jacket, but they’d never come back here again. She’d packed lightly, with clothes for three nights, but now she would abandon it all. The instructions had said no luggage or belongings, but she took photos of her parents and tucked them into her jacket pocket. She changed her scarf, putting on her favorite, and stuffed another piece of material, a gift from her father, in the other pocket.

Yousef came out of the bathroom. “Are you ready?” She nodded, hesitating at first, then firmly. He’d changed into his uniform, and was wearing his sidearm. They’d discussed it, and had decided it might help if a Basij patrol or the police stopped them. He wore the sidearm because it was part of the uniform, not because he expected to use it. The idea of shooting one’s way out of Iran was ludicrous, not to mention he’d be shooting at other Iranians. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt someone just trying to do their duty.

They had half an hour to go nine kilometers, so they took their time driving around town, which let Yousef take one last look for unusual activity. Nothing had changed since their tour that afternoon, and they headed southeast on Highway 96.

They parked about half a kilometer past the pickup point, and pulled off the road onto a wide, smooth shoulder. The ocean lay a few dozen meters away from the road here, across a gently sloping sandy beach. Low dunes dotted with dark green scrub lay landward. To the southeast, a few low houses and buildings clustered along the highway, but behind them, in the direction of the pickup point, the coast was empty.

Yousef made sure Shirin had her jacket, although the air was still warm. “It will cool off quickly after the sun goes down.” He locked the car, partly out of reflex, but also to discourage casual investigation. He carried a blanket, so she could sit while they waited, and a water bottle.

The sun was still a few minutes above the horizon, which suited them both. “Watch your step,” he admonished needlessly. “There are a lot of uneven spots.” Gravel and sand crunched underfoot as they walked toward the water. Gradually, the area between the water and the highway became wider, until the road was hidden by dunes and scrub.

Half to himself, Yousef muttered, “This beach is so flat, so open. I wish there was more cover.” Then he added, “Is that why they chose it?”

Shirin nodded agreement, but stiffly. “I feel so exposed here.” She sounded tense. “What time is it?”

“Eighteen-fifteen. Almost sunset.”

Shirin pulled the GPS device from her pocket and checked it. “We’re close, less than a hundred meters from the rendezvous.”

“Watch for a big X on the ground.”

She laughed.

They waited. Although they never saw it move, the sun crept toward the horizon, swelled, reddened, and eventually disappeared, taking the daylight with it.

When it was no longer possible to tell a black thread from a white one, she asked, “How much longer?”

“It could be any time,” Yousef remarked.

They kept their vigil, alert for any sound, any movement. She tried counting the seconds in each minute, but lost count in the low two hundreds. After what seemed an eternity, Shirin finally looked at the clock on her GPS. It read 1940 hours. The Americans were late.

She watched toward the south, but the sound of waves and reflected starlight were the only signs of the gulf’s existence. The dark landscape at least held irregular shadows. With no moon, the sea was simply blackness. The Americans could be a few meters away, or more likely, not there at all.

To pass the time, Shirin made a game out of trying to get as close to the latitude and longitude as she could: 27 degrees, 47 minutes, 18 seconds north latitude, 52 degrees 7 minutes, 30 seconds east longitude. At the equator a mile of latitude is 1,854 kilometers, which made one second of arc 31 meters. How many steps would that be?

Yousef complained about the GPS display being too bright, but there was no dimmer control for the screen. She shielded it with her hand, zoomed it in to its tightest scale, and walked back and forth. The seconds display flickered as she moved from east to west, but it didn’t always decrease. After watching it drop from 32 to 31 seconds east, a few more steps brought it back to 32.

“Remember the satellites,” Yousef reminded her. “You don’t know what your error circle is. Maybe one went below the horizon.”

Irritated, Shirin spun around to face him. Whatever she was about to say died on her lips as a voice called out from the dunes to the left. Yousef heard a few words, just a phrase, but he couldn’t make it out.

Without thinking, he shouted, “Down!” and dropped to one knee, turning toward the sound. His pistol was in his hand, and he searched for a target, expecting VEVAK agents or Basij troops. The landscape was empty.

The phrase was repeated, and Yousef realized it was in Farsi. But it was just a nonsense phrase about starlight.

Shirin was still standing, far too large a target, even in the dark. She stood a few paces away, and turned to face the voice. He started to tell her again to get down, but she looked back at him for a second, then responded, but in English.

Her reply was answered with another phrase in Farsi, telling them to stand. By this time, Yousef realized that they were being watched, and that the watchers were certainly armed, and well hidden. He carefully lowered his pistol and holstered it.

Whether it was her latest reply or him putting away the pistol, a new shadow appeared in the dunes. It might be holding a rifle, but he couldn’t be sure. The stranger definitely held the advantage, but didn’t seem hostile. If he’d wanted to shoot, he and Shirin would already be dead.

Yousef slowly stood, keeping his hands open and visible. The shadow stood as well.

“It’s all right, Yousef, it’s them,” Shirin called, and he felt the tension drain out of him, almost taking his strength with it. Then a thrill of fear replaced it as another shadow appeared to his right. He also had a weapon, and had remained perfectly concealed, covering his comrade. Yousef offered a short prayer of thanks for his restraint.

USS Michigan, Battle Management Center

Captain Guthrie watched as a petty officer typed in commands, calling up a sequence of images. Lieutenant Frederickson explained each image as it appeared.

“These are all from the CENTCOM UAV. Its coverage includes the rendezvous point. Here’s the first image. At 1815, two people appear on the beach. They’re almost certainly the two Iranians we’re supposed to pick up. They stay in the same spot for over an hour, hardly moving at all. Okay, Lawrence, second image.”

The petty officer hit a key. “This image is just five minutes old, infrared only because it’s dark. This is why we called you back. Five new people appear at the water’s edge, while the original two stay put, as if unaware of their presence.”

“Five people?” Guthrie asked, clearly worried, trying to understand. There were supposed to be only four swimmers.

“Okay, now in real time. The five new arrivals are joining the other two at the rendezvous point. Nobody’s running, nobody’s showing any violent motion, so we can assume the meeting is peaceful.”

Guthrie looked up from the display to Frederickson. “This confirms what we suspected. The ASDS is down, and it looks like one man is missing.”

“Probably dead,” Frederickson observed frankly. “If he was wounded, he’d be with the others. They wouldn’t leave him behind. If he’s dead, his body heat won’t show up on the infrared.”

Guthrie frowned at the grim estimate. “That’s harsh, but I can’t disagree. Could he have been separated from them during whatever happened to the minisub?

Frederickson shrugged, but then shook his head. “He’d have to be incapacitated, and why didn’t they stay to look for him? Anything’s possible, but it’s damn unlikely.”

Guthrie turned to go. “I have to report this.”

“Sir, I recommend we wait a few minutes more. Right now, there’s no decision to make. Unless they’ve lost the comm gear, they’ll report in. Then we’ll know more.”

He turned to the operator. “I need to see the UAV’s coverage of everything between the coast and our position.”

On the Coast near Bandar Kangan

Ramey called to Jerry, hidden farther back. “It’s them, XO.” Sighing with relief, Jerry stood and picked his way across the dark ground. After reaching the shore, Ramey had told Jerry to stay well back, and Jerry had readily agreed. The hour-long swim had exhausted him, far more than the SEALs, who were more heavily loaded as well. Jerry tried to control his shivering. The swim had drained the heat from every part of him; he couldn’t remember ever being this cold.

As Jerry came over the dune, he got his first look at their “precious cargo.” Ramey stood next to a uniformed figure and a woman. He couldn’t see much in the darkness, except that both appeared to be about his age, and the woman was much shorter than her husband. Fazel stood to one side, weapon lowered but ready to cover the entire group. Lapointe and Phillips were not in sight, presumably still hidden.

As he approached the group, they turned toward him. Ramey said, “This is Jerry, my executive officer.”

“You are in charge?” The woman spoke quickly and clearly. Her English had only a trace of an accent. Her companion remained silent, and his posture spoke of caution. One hand rested on his pistol holster, and Jerry hoped that was just habit.

“I’m the senior officer, ma’am. Matt, here is the team leader.”

“I am Shirin, and this is my husband, Yousef. We are ready to go with you now. What must we do?”

Jerry looked at Ramey, who simply returned his gaze. No wonder he’d called Jerry over. He was the senior officer. Ramey was going to let him deliver the bad news.

“Our plans have changed,” Jerry started. “There was an accident, a fire aboard our submarine—”

“A fire?” she interrupted him. Your submarine is sunk?”

Jerry tried to explain. “We had a small submarine that brought us to the beach, or was supposed to bring us here and take us back to another, larger, sub. On the way here, we had a battery fire and it sank—”

“Do fires happen often on American submarines?”

Jerry bristled, but simply replied, “Rarely.”

“So you have no way to take us to the other submarine,” she continued. “How far away is it? Can we swim?”

“About fifteen miles — nautical miles,” he corrected himself. Jerry added, “Over twenty-five kilometers.”

The husband, Yousef, broke into the conversation. Jerry could hear the impatience and questions in his tone. Shirin answered, but whatever she said didn’t satisfy him. He looked unbelievingly at Jerry and Ramey, then fired another question at Shirin. As she started to answer he interrupted her, and she angrily countered.

Although they’d only been talking for a few moments, their rising voices reminded Jerry of their exposed position. “Matt, we’ve got to get off this beach.”

Ramey motioned toward the two Iranians. “Concur, sir, but we need these folks to work with us, and they seem to have their own issues. Maybe Harry can help.” He spoke into his chin mike. “Doc, to me. Pointy, maintain your position.”

Seconds later, the second shadow silently trotted up to Ramey, Jerry, and the two Iranians.

Yousef listened to the American commando, if he really was American. He called himself “Harry,” but spoke Farsi with a Tehrani accent. He was dressed in camouflage and armed like the others. He said he was a sailor, and a medic.

“Your wife is correct, sir,” he said in Farsi. “Our minisub was lost, and we are stranded here. One of our team was killed in the accident.”

Shirin asked, “How do you propose we get to your sub, then?”

Ramey replied, “Our backup plan is to launch a Zodiac — a rubber boat with an outboard motor — from the big submarine. It will come in to the beach and pick us up.” As Ramey explained, Fazel translated for Shirin’s husband.

“But we need to get under cover while I communicate with our submarine.” Ramey pointed toward one dune. It was taller than the rest and ran parallel with the beach. “There. Let’s go.”

With the entire team sheltering along the dune, Jerry watched as Lapointe set up the PRC-117. Although they all had headset radios, Pointy carried the long-range gear. The husband, Yousef, saw the petty officer setting up an antenna and spoke quickly, urgently. Fazel translated. “He is warning you that the Pasdaran have radio listening posts all along the coast. If we transmit, he says we will be detected.”

Ramey answered, “Explain to him this is a highly directional satellite communications antenna that uses frequency hopping. It is very hard to detect the transmissions.”

He then turned to Shirin. “What rank is your husband?” Jerry could see the wheels in the lieutenant’s mind turning. The man’s in uniform. Exactly whom am I dealing with?

Shirin answered proudly, “He is a Sarvan Pasdar — a Pasdaran captain.”

The SEALs looked at each other quickly, and Ramey shined a red light on Akbari’s shoulder. The epaulet showed the four open rosettes of a Pasdaran officer.

“He is—” She paused. “He was responsible for part of the air defenses at the uranium facility at Natanz.”

Jerry could feel the tension rise. There was a noticeable change in Ramey’s tone.

“Tell the captain that our sub will launch a rubber boat with an outboard motor, a Zodiac. It’s fast, twenty-plus knots — over forty kilometers an hour, and it’s armed. It will take about forty-five minutes to get here once it’s launched. It can hold us all, but it will be a little slower on the way back, about an hour. We can be off the beach and aboard the sub well before daylight.”

Lapointe had finished setting up the antenna. Ramey took the handset. Comms were good, and Jerry listened as the lieutenant reported their situation.

Finally, he asked, “The beach is secure. We’re ready for the boat as soon as you can send it.”

Jerry already knew what the answer would be. He heard Ramey say, “Understood.” He gave the phone back to Lapointe.

“They’ll get back to us in ten,” Ramey explained.

USS Michigan, Battle Management Center

Lieutenant Frederickson turned to Captain Guthrie as he hung up the handset. “Sir, I’ve alerted the CRRC crew and they’re gearing up. I’ll lead the mission. We can launch in five minutes.” Michigan didn’t even have to surface to launch the Zodiac or combat rubber raiding craft. The boat crew would launch from the dry deck shelter aft of Michigan’s sail. The package containing the boat was buoyant, and would inflate by itself in moments once they pulled a lanyard.

“Have you looked at the surface plot?” Guthrie asked. “There are patrol craft between us and the beach. We’ve been tracking them with the UAV and by their radar emissions.”

“They’ll never see a Z-bird.”

“They have good nav radars, Lieutenant. They’re designed to spot small stuff in the water, and a wet rubber raiding craft has a decent radar cross section — you’re not invisible. My guys have been laying out detection circles against a Zodiac-sized target. We’re pretty good at figuring out how to stay hidden, too, but the patrol boats are just too close, and they appear to be showing up every hour or two. And every single last one of them is faster than a Zodiac, some are more than twice as fast. If they see you, there is no way you can outrun them.”

“You can’t call off the mission, sir.” Frederickson almost pleaded.

“I don’t want to, but the odds are against us. We are just too damn far away. It’s very likely that the CRRC will get spotted on the way in, much less the way out. And that would draw attention to our people on the beach. If it was only on the outbound leg you might be able to fight your way clear. But if you get caught on the way in, there is no way you’ll even reach the shore, and it will only make things worse.

“I’ll tell them it’s off for tonight while you work up a new plan,” Guthrie ordered. “Then I’ve got another call to make.”

On the Coast near Bandar Kangan

Jerry didn’t believe it, even after Ramey passed the handset to him and he heard it straight from Guthrie. “Sir, we can do this,” he protested.

“You can’t make it without being spotted. Find cover and sit tight until sundown tomorrow. I’m going to try and get closer and then we’ll send the Zodiac in for you tomorrow night.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Ramey took the phone, listened for a minute, and handed it back to Lapointe. “Our contingency hiding spot is several kilometers to the east of here.” He turned to Shirin. “We’ll hole up out of sight, away from the road.”

“What about our car?” she asked.

“Where is it?” Ramey demanded. Jerry hadn’t thought to ask how they’d gotten to the rendezvous.

She pointed east. “Back that way, about fifteen minutes’ walk.”

Shirin spoke quickly to Yousef, who nodded, frowning. “If it is found, it will lead them to my mother, and then to us,” she explained. “If we had simply disappeared, it would not matter so much.”

Ramey agreed. “We’ll hide your car as well, then.”

She replied, “Good. This way.”

Ramey held up his hand. “Wait one.” He spoke into his headset microphone. “We’re moving east to find their car. Philly, tell me when you’re ready.”

Jerry heard their answers on his headset, and saw the other SEALs moving. There was only the slightest sound. Ramey explained to the civilians. “My men are taking screening positions. We can move in a moment — with your permission, XO,” he said, nodding toward him. Jerry thought he heard a hard edge on the remark.

A moment later, Ramey said softly, “Please, stay close,” and motioned with his right hand. He raised his rifle and scanned ahead with his night-vision sight, then set off at a walk, his weapon at the ready.

Jerry followed, trying to be as quiet as possible, feeling clumsy. The two Iranians were behind him, walking close together. The young Pasdaran captain was holding his wife’s hand. Each step on the gravelly surface sounded like a thunderclap. He wished for night-vision gear. Each of the SEALs had a set, but as the ASDS pilot…

Phillips’s hushed voice came over the headset. “Two soldiers just got out of a jeep. Flashlights. They’ve got AKs, but they’re slung. They’re looking at a car parked along the road. Light-colored sedan.”

“Hold.” Ramey held up a hand and dropped to one knee. Jerry and the two civilians followed, more slowly.

“Philly says two soldiers are looking at a light sedan.”

Shirin had whispered a translation to Yousef. “Yes, that is mother’s car.”

“Well, it looks like a Basij patrol has found it.”

Even in the dim light, Jerry could see the confusion and fear in her expression. “What do we do?”

“We wait, and get ready in case we have to fight.” Jerry heard Ramey give orders to Fazel and Lapointe, guiding them to positions flanking Phillips.

“Please don’t shoot them,” she begged.

“As long as they don’t spot us, or call for reinforcements, we won’t have to.” Ramey’s tone was matter-of-fact. Jerry knew the SEALs could kill the two soldiers in seconds, but that would not help their cause.

“They’re both back in the jeep now and moving, heading west on the highway.” Philly’s voice was as flat giving the “all clear” as it was with the first warning.

After Shirin translated, Yousef spoke and she explained, “They’ll report the car. The next patrol will check to see if it is still here.”

Ramey ordered, “Okay, everyone, let’s move. Philly, we’re joining you.”

A few minutes’ walk brought them to a dune where Phillips lay prone near the crest, facing the car. Spotting them, he eased back down the slope and knelt near the base. “Two guys in fatigues, in their early twenties. They had radios, but I didn’t see either one use them. They wrote down the license plate.”

3 April 2013

1150 Local Time/1650 Zulu

White House Situation Room

Joanna Patterson had come in early, and had heard Michigan’s signal that the ASDS launch had taken place as planned, at 0830 Washington time. The next call would not be until Opal and the team was safely aboard the ASDS, expected a little after eight in the evening local time, shortly after noon for her.

She’d brought along work and managed to get some of it done between glancing at the clock and checking radio intercepts. An RC-135 with the call sign “Pinto” was patrolling over the Saudi coast at high altitude. At that height it could pick up transmissions hundreds of miles away, including not just military and commercial radios, but cell phone and microwave communications as well.

The U.S. routinely kept a plane on station over Saudi Arabia, so Pinto wasn’t directly connected with the operation. In fact, they knew nothing about it, but the operators on the plane had been told that signals coming from the vicinity of Bandar Kangan, on the south coast of Iran, were to have top priority for both detection and analysis.

So far, Pinto’s reports had been routine. There had been some traffic: Basij units on routine patrols, Pasdaran boats off the coast, but it had been clear-language transmissions, and no reports of contact.

Images from the UAV signal had also been piped in to the Situation Room. Being shown on a supersized wall monitor didn’t improve their clarity, but she’d seen two people on the beach waiting.

She’d fidgeted, sent out for some coffee, and thought about all the people who had waited while others risked their lives.

The SEALs were late coming ashore, and that was enough to start her worrying. What had slowed them down? Then the UAV’s image showed figures arriving on the beach, and joining the other two, but they didn’t leave. What had happened?

The ASDS was supposed to transmit one of a series of code words once Opal was aboard and they were headed back to Michigan. One meant a successful extraction; another meant they hadn’t been able to find Opal at the rendezvous point; another would warn that they had been discovered, and so on. Instead, the call came from Michigan, and late. The communications specialist had passed her the handset.

Captain Guthrie’s report was grim. After reporting the loss of the ASDS, Higgs’s death, and the team’s rendezvous with Opal, Michigan’s, skipper said, “They’re going to a safe layup position and we’ll send a CRRC in for them tomorrow night.” Guthrie made another request to bring Michigan inside Iranian territorial waters. The closer he got to the coast, the better the odds of recovery with a combat rubber raiding craft.

After giving her Higgs’s name and rank, Guthrie listed the others on the beach. When she heard Jerry’s name, she was surprised. What was Michigan’s executive officer doing on the beach? Guthrie explained, and she realized Jerry was the fifth man. Only four men were supposed to come ashore, and she cursed herself for missing that vital detail when she’d seen the UAV’s image.

She’d known Jerry for years, and had once sailed with him on a mission. He was a dear friend. Jerry had also served under her husband, Lowell, before he’d left the Navy to run for congress.

Distracted by the news, Patterson automatically thanked him for the report and said she’d pass on his request. Her mind filled with activity. Someone had died, and there were things to be done. When a mission starts going bad, it often gets worse, quickly. Kirkpatrick would have to be briefed, and after that, the president.

And she would call Lowell, and see what he knew about Guthrie. She wanted to tell him about Jerry, as well, but that would mean telling him about the mission.

And the waiting was not over yet.