Exit Plan (20 page)

Total silence descended on the conference room. Myles stared coldly at the NIC chairman, and slowly, a faint smile appeared on the president’s face. “Well put, General. Well put. So we go with the rubber raiding craft option then?”

Before anyone could answer, Kirkpatrick chimed in. “I agree that the combat rubber raiding craft is the option we should go with, but I would also like to propose a compromise, sir.”

President Myles leaned forward, intrigued. “What do you have in mind, Ray?”

“Sir, I recommend that you let Captain Guthrie walk right up to the line before he deploys the raiding craft. He can then back off while the SEALs make their run, returning again only to affect the recovery. By temporarily relaxing your restrictions a little, you can cut the distance the SEALs are exposed by twenty percent while minimizing the risk.”

Joanna strained to maintain a calm expression; wanting to hide the excitement she felt as she watched her boss work. She had seen Ray Kirkpatrick “pull rabbits out of a hat” before during the transition period when the president-elect had backed himself into a corner, and every time, Kirkpatrick’s solution had paid off big-time. This simple compromise would only reinforce the widely held belief among the White House staff that he was Solomon incarnate.

“Done!” shouted Myles with approval. “Milt, get Captain Guthrie on the line.”

~ * ~

Kyle Guthrie looked first at his watch, and then the clock on the bulkhead as he paced around the BMC. Shaking his head and grumbling, he continued doing laps around the planning table. Harper, Simmons, and Frederickson sat in absolute silence, doing their best impression of church mice; the skipper was pissed. The VTC was supposed to have begun ten minutes ago, and the screen was still blank. Agitated and impatient, Guthrie fumed as the seconds ticked by.

“What the hell is taking them so long,” he growled. Guthrie always knew the beefed-up communications capability of a SSGN was a double-edged sword. It provided great benefits for planning and executing Tomahawk strikes or SEAL ops, and its impact on crew morale was without question, but it had its drawbacks as well—anybody in his chain of command could get a hold of him at a moment’s notice. And to communicate, he had to stick a mast in the air, a mast that made
Michigan
more vulnerable to detection. High-level VTCs were a particular pain. They always went longer than he liked. On more than one occasion after an excruciatingly long-winded exchange, he was heard to mumble, “Silent service, my ass!”

“If that contact gets much closer, I’ll have to dunk the masts and move,” the captain snarled, as he pointed to an auxiliary display with fire control data showing an Iranian patrol boat nearby.

“Sir, it
is
the President,” remarked Frederickson warily.

Guthrie’s scowl made even the combat veteran a little uncomfortable. “I’m well aware of that, Mr. Frederickson. I’m also positive that we aren’t the only problem on his plate right now given the news feed we downloaded. But to expect a covert platform that’s a stone’s throw away from a hostile shore to remain exposed for the sake of convenience is beyond stupid! I don’t care who it is! Either they stick to their damn schedule or they call us when it’s time to come up. Having my boat sitting here with two masts dangling in the air is just begging to be detected!”

Harper looked at Frederickson and made a cutting motion with his hand to “knock it off.” The engineer knew his captain was not in the mood to debate the merits of his perception about the shortsightedness of his superiors. The young SEAL nodded his understanding.

“Do you think the president will approve your request, Skipper?” asked Harper, as he pulled out a chair for Guthrie. He’d often seen Jerry Mitchell use a mission-related question to pull the captain back on track whenever he found him caught on a specific detail.

“I doubt it, Eng,” Guthrie replied, as he plopped down in the seat. “The man has only been in office for four months, and he’s still trying to get his feet under him. I don’t think he feels comfortable enough to make that kind of decision yet. You also have to remember he came from academia, and people of that ilk are loath to make quick decisions without first thoroughly researching the issue. Particularly if it’s a risky decision.”

“My guys and I can still make the run, sir,” asserted Frederickson confidently. “Especially now that we know what the indications are for a patrol boat that is leaving port.”

“Thank God that the Iranians like to talk. Otherwise we would have searched and searched for a deployment pattern that wasn’t there,” said Simmons.

“The CTs did a great job figuring that mess out, Isaac. We need to make sure that they get a commendation for their outstanding work. Please write up a draft when this op is finished,” Guthrie ordered.

“Yes, sir. I already have a rough draft in the works, and Travis here has graciously provided a few good words from the SEALs,” Simmons responded.

The cryptologic technicians had stumbled across the radio traffic of an IRGC patrol boat as it departed the nearby base at Asaluyeh. After analyzing the sequence of events, they managed to isolate the signal that indicated when the patrol boat had changed course to the northwest and started its patrol run. A little elementary chart work showed they had about forty minutes before the BQCMO sonar would pick up the patrol boat, and another five before the patrol boat would pass within radar range of the proposed route the Zodiac would take to the beach and back. Testing this theory against the last two patrol boats, they found that they had between forty-two and forty-nine minutes after the key signal had been transmitted. Unfortunately, there was no set pattern to the departures.

The length of a patrol appeared to consist of an hour-and-a-half trip up the coast, followed by a quick turnaround, and a backtracking along a reciprocal course back to port. A well-disciplined schedule would have had a patrol boat departing every two hours, but in reality it varied by as much as half an hour, which made part of the mission planning a bit more complex. And the problem wasn’t the run in.

A lightly loaded F470 Zodiac combat rubber raiding craft with a fifty-five-horsepower outboard motor can do about twenty-five knots, which meant the fifteen-nautical-mile trip to the beach could be done in about thirty-five minutes. No, the issue that had the planners chewing on their pencils was the return trip. Fully loaded with ten people, the Zodiac could only make twenty knots, which meant a forty-five-minute trip back to the sub. If a patrol boat were noted leaving port just as the Zodiac reached the shore, timing would be very tight on the way back. But even with this near worst-case scenario, the SEALs felt the odds were still substantially in their favor.

At first, Guthrie was uneasy during the brief back, but Frederickson made a compelling argument that this was their best shot. They still had the element of surprise working for them, and the irregularity of the Iranian patrol schedule meant they would probably have more time, rather than less. He then addressed the low-probability, but high-impact scenarios that would require the SEALs to either fight their way out or abandon the Zodiac, which included the possibility that an Iranian patrol boat skipper might get lazy on them and not bother reporting in as he started his route, thus denying
Michigan
of their indicator. When the captain pressed Frederickson on just what was the worst-case scenario, the young SEAL responded immediately that an unexplained increase in the number of deployed patrol boats would be “highly detrimental to mission success.”

Guthrie had then looked directly at Frederickson and asked, “And what is your recommended course of action for this situation, Lieutenant?”

“I’d recommend scrubbing the mission, sir,” Frederickson replied without hesitation. Without another word, Guthrie had approved the plan.

~ * ~

Guthrie looked over at the auxiliary display, and the Iranian boat was moving away from them. “That’s better,” he mumbled to himself. He then checked the clock on the bulkhead; it now read 2130. Just as he was about to let loose with a sigh of frustration, the screen flickered to life.

“Michigan
, this is the White House Situation Room. Are you still with us?”

Guthrie reached over and tapped the mute button, turning on the microphone. “This is
Michigan.
Yes, we are still here. For a while there I thought I’d have to pull the plug and reposition, but the offending contact has moved on.”

“My sincere apologies for the delay. The president has been in some rather intense discussion with the CNO and the national security advisor on your proposed plan. Please standby while I get the rest of the VTC participants up on the channel.”

“Roger, standing by.” Guthrie tapped the mute button again and turned toward his junior officers. “Okay, gentlemen, you are about to enter the stratosphere. The president, several cabinet-level officials, and more stars than a planetarium will be on this teleconference in a moment. Just stay calm, and keep your lips buttoned. If I need anything from you, I’ll ask. Got it?”

The three men nodded as they watched more and more windows opening up on the screen. The main screen showed the president talking to the SECDEF and the CJCS. The smaller windows around the periphery held the conference rooms of two combatant commanders and their subordinate commanders. Just about everyone had a flag officer at the center of the window.

“Oh. My. God,” whispered Harper, his eyes wide with awe.

“Sssh,”
Guthrie snapped.

The unseen speaker in Washington announced, “Mr. President, all commands are present and we are ready to begin.”

“Good afternoon, everyone. I first want to thank you all for dropping everything and making this VTC. I didn’t give you a lot of time, but the situation in Iran demanded we get together and discuss the proposed plan of action for the ASDS incident,” opened Myles. “I also owe you an apology, Captain Guthrie, for keeping you waiting so long. Admiral Hughes here commented that submariners have an inherent loathing of remaining exposed for so long, and that you had probably removed all your fingernails by now.” The admiral’s grin clearly showed he was joking.

Guthrie tapped the mike button. “Well, I hate to disappoint the CNO, sir, but my fingernails are
mostly
intact. But I must also admit that I’m still trying to get used to the enhanced communications capability of my boat. I’m not accustomed to speaking directly to my commander in chief while submerged on station.”

“You’re being gracious, Captain, and I appreciate that. Now before we get started, would you please introduce the three young men with you?”

“Certainly, sir. To my immediate right is Lieutenant Commander Mike Harper, my engineer and acting executive officer.” Guthrie watched as every senior naval officer suddenly looked confused. “To his right is Lieutenant Isaac Simmons, my navigation and operations officer. And to my left is Lieutenant Travis Frederickson, the SEAL detachment officer in charge.”

“Thank you, Captain. Now to the business at. . . What?” Myles looked annoyed as Hughes leaned over and whispered a question. Guthrie only heard a few words, but he was pretty sure the CNO wanted to ask him the one question he didn’t want to answer. When President Myles gave his consent, Hughes leaned toward the mike and said, “Captain, did I hear you correctly that your engineer is the acting executive officer?”

“That is correct, sir.”

“Captain, where is your XO?”

Guthrie took a depth breath before replying. “He is currently not on board
Michigan
, Admiral. He was piloting the ASDS during the mission.”

“What!?! Explain yourself, Captain,” demanded Hughes. It was a good thing the mikes were muted in the conference rooms at SUBPAC, Sub Group Nine, and the Naval Special Warfare Command as each commanding rear admiral had the exact same reaction.

“My ASDS pilot was injured during a physical fitness exercise with the SEALs less than an hour before we got the message to head to the Persian Gulf. My orders had a very challenging, nonnegotiable schedule I had to meet, and I did not believe it was feasible for me to request a replacement while adhering to the stealth and speed requirements explicit in my orders.

“Lieutenant Commander Mitchell was well versed in ASDS operations, had some experience in piloting the minisub, and is also a qualified Navy diver. I felt he met the spirit behind the ASDS pilot qualifications, if not the exact letter. My only other alternative was to let the SEAL copilot take the ASDS in by himself—an option I deemed unsafe.”