Exit Plan (53 page)

He yawned and stretched, fatigue was grinding his ability to think to a halt. It had been over thirty-six hours since he last slept, and he’d kept going by sheer force of will and an abundant supply of coffee. Most of the additional troops had arrived as promised, and the security at the airport, harbor, and all of the nearby checkpoints had been beefed up significantly. Dedicated search-and-destroy teams would be deployed later in the morning, supported by aviation assets. He’d reviewed the detailed search plan developed by Colonel Yavari’s staff and deemed it acceptable. If the fugitives believed they could simply go to ground and hide until things calmed down, they were sadly mistaken. Rahim took some encouragement from that last thought, for if true, it meant the traitors were unaware of the plan that he and General Moradi had put into play.

Yawning again, Rahim concluded that any further attempts to keep working would be a waste of time; he really did need some rest. He had to be refreshed for the activities later in the day. After writing a short note to remind himself to discuss augmenting the command center staff with Colonel Yavari, Rahim slowly made his way to the cot put up for him at the back of the office. Collapsing onto the stretched fabric, sleep came quickly.

~ * ~

Ramey, Fazel, and Phillips leaned up against the stack of loading crates stored near the water’s edge. This was the designated operational readiness position, or ORP they’d selected from imagery, the launching point for the water phase of their mission. The harbor at Bandar Lengeh, like many Iranian ports, was constructed using three breakwaters. The nearest one was a two-hundred-meter-long segment that ran straight out into the gulf. The second breakwater was farther away, and it was the longest of the three. Built in the shape of a crescent, it formed the back and side of the harbor. The last breakwater was an artificial island; offset about two hundred meters from the harbor entrance, it protected the mouth from any waves that came directly from the southwest. The platoon leader carefully surveyed the two breakwaters connected to land with his infrared sight and noted the guards walking their beat. A well-armed fast boat was just exiting the harbor, departing on patrol.

It had taken the SEALs longer than anticipated to complete the land portion of their plan; there had been a lot of patrols along the beach. A typical SEAL could have run the 11.5 kilometers from their layup position to the edge of the storage area in about an hour, but Ramey and company had spent a lot of time on their bellies crawling through the sand, rock, and short scrub. Twice, a Pasdaran patrol walked within meters of where the SEALs lay, oblivious to their presence. Travel got a little easier once they reached the edge of town, where the pathways and unlit streets enabled them to safely pick up the pace.

“Okay, gentlemen,” Ramey whispered. “We hit the water here. I can only see one guard on the curved breakwater. It’s much more likely there are two, possibly more, as that section is a lot longer. If you have to take them out, use your knives only. Clear?”

Both Fazel and Phillips nodded in silence.

“Pick a fast-looking boat and tow it behind the dhows. After I set the charges on the IRGC patrol boats, I’ll meet you at the exfiltration ORP by the far breakwater. Any questions?”

Both shook their heads no.

“Alright, then, let’s get ready,” ordered Ramey.

As one SEAL removed his camouflage jacket, rolled it up, and stuffed it into his pack, the other two kept watch. The green t-shirt and darkly camouflaged arms offered less of a contrast against the water than the lighter jacket, and it would make swimming a little easier. One by one they crawled from behind the crates and down the rocks lining the harbor wall, slipping silently into the water.

During the planning session, it became clear from new imagery that the landward approaches to the harbor were just as reinforced as the airport. But unlike the airfield, which could only be approached by land, the harbor had another, more difficult to defend avenue—the sea, and that suited Ramey just fine. Unlike other Special Warfare soldiers that see water as an obstacle, to the SEAL it is a sanctuary. When SEALs find themselves in trouble and have the option, they always head for the water.

The trio swam quietly but steadily toward the closest of the three breakwaters. The water was on the cool side, but definitely warmer than their earlier swim the night the ASDS sank. A light wind was at their backs, from the southwest as expected. The slight waves it generated could be heard breaking on the rocks, helping to mask what little noise the SEALs made. They traversed the open water swiftly, and then hugged the base of the breakwater around into the mouth of the harbor.

Fazel and Phillips broke off at that point, swimming across the harbor entrance, after making sure no one was entering or leaving port. It was only 150 meters to the other side and they used the channel marker light as their guide. Ramey continued to follow the breakwater around, heading toward a small pier that jutted out from the rocky base. The harbor buildings were illuminated and he could make out the silhouetted forms of two IRGC patrol boats berthed at the pier. Following the breakwater, he inched slowly toward the small jetty. He was halfway there when he heard someone walking above him; he froze. A guard was making his rounds. Ramey could see a flashlight being waved about as a Pasdaran soldier made a halfhearted search along the water’s edge. Without a sound, the platoon leader slipped under the surface and swam away from the breakwater, toward the pier and his intended targets.

~ * ~

“They’re back,” reported Jerry. “Four armed soldiers, walking along the beach, toward the east. About five hundred meters due south.”

Lapointe dragged himself over, grunting every now and then when he rubbed his wounded leg up against the ground. Jerry handed him the night-vision goggles and pointed toward the ocean. The petty officer looked through the NVGs and scanned the entire area between them and the small breakwater at Bandar Shenas. “Every hour, on the hour. Punctual fellows, these Pasdaran. Very commendable.”

“Agreed, their consistency is a good thing. But I don’t think an hour will be enough time for us to hobble across two kilometers,” Jerry stated politely.

“Did I ever tell you that I dislike smart-ass officers, sir?” grumbled Lapointe, with a grin on his face. “Under normal circumstances I could kick your ass in a 10K run, XO.”

“I don’t know about that, Pointy. I’m pretty good at running, but the circumstances right now ain’t exactly normal, are they?”

The enlisted man sighed. “No, sir. They most definitely are not. But don’t think I didn’t hear that challenge. After we get back and I’m all patched up, we’re gonna have a race, you and I. And I’m going to enjoy all that beer you’ll be buying me and my buddies after I win.”

“You’re on, Sailor,” replied Jerry confidently, as he extend his right hand. Lapointe grasped it firmly, and shook it.

Jerry raised his SCAR and looked through his infrared sight; Lapointe was still using the handheld NVG. “I think they’re leaving,” Jerry said.

“Concur, sir. We should get going as soon as they clear the area. We’ll cross to the north, over the sand dunes with the scattered scrub and trees. That should keep us well outside of their visual range. Where is Dr. Naseri?”

Jerry tilted his head back into the grove. “She’s still sleeping over by Yousef’s grave. She said it would be her last time to be near him.”

“She’s one tough woman, XO. She lost her uncle and husband in one day, but she’s still fighting. You have to admire intestinal fortitude like that.”

“She’s lost a lot more than that, Pointy. Did you see the piece of green cloth she wrapped one of Yousef’s epaulets in?”

“Yes, sir, I did. What’s that about?”

“That’s a piece of her father’s flight suit. He was an F-14 pilot, imprisoned and tortured by the IRGC right after the Revolution. And yet, he flew to defend Iran during the Iraq war in the eighties. He died in combat. Shirin was just a baby, she never knew her father. You heard what she repeated over and over again after Yousef died?”

The petty officer nodded.

“Well, Harry told me that ‘Baba’ is kind of the Persian equivalent of papa. She was crying for her unborn child, as much as herself. On top of all that, her mother has almost certainly been arrested, and probably killed. She’s lost everyone dear to her. That’s a steep price tag in anybody’s book,” Jerry observed thoughtfully. “We owe it to her to get her out alive.”

“I’m all for that,” agreed Lapointe, as he continued tracking the Pasdaran patrol. “They’re just about far enough away for us to get started. You get Dr. Naseri, I’ll grab my new crutch and my weapon. It’s time for us to catch our ride home.”

~ * ~

Fazel emerged from the dark water like a creature out of a horror film, and carefully crept up the embankment. The guard had just walked by, interested more in searching the edge along the outer perimeter of the breakwater than inside toward the harbor itself. Silently and methodically, the corpsman climbed up onto the path, approaching the guard from behind. With one smooth motion, the SEAL covered the guard’s mouth with his hand, pulled back his head, and plunged the knife between the collarbone and trapezius muscle into his heart; the guard didn’t even have time to drop the flashlight he was carrying.

Grabbing the flashlight, and then rolling the body over onto the rocks of the outside wall, Fazel slowly began pacing along the path, pretending to be the Pasdaran soldier. Ramey had been right, there were two guards on that part of the breakwater, but the other one was easily over one hundred meters away and walking in the opposite direction. As long as he stayed that far away, he wouldn’t be a problem.

“All clear, Philly. Check out the boat, but be quiet about it,” Fazel advised over the radio.

“Understood,” Phillips responded. He was already beside a speedboat that had caught his eye. It was about the right length, six or seven meters, and it had a respectable one-hundred-horsepower outboard. There were a couple of boats with larger engines, but they were in the middle of the nest. This one was the last boat in a long string, which meant its absence wouldn’t be as easily noticed. Pulling himself up onto the transom, he was able to get a footing on the outboard and slithered inside. Phillips paused to listen for the guard, then peered over the gunwale to check on his location. The Pasdaran soldier was at the far end of the breakwater, walking away from him.

Crawling toward the open cockpit, Phillips could feel his heart pounding with excitement. This was his first deployment and it was everything he’d dreamed it would be. Being downrange, mucking about in the bad guys’ backyard unseen and unheard, was what kept him going during BUDS. He relished being part of a selective group that was determined to succeed, no matter how tough the job was or how much it hurt.

Phillips pulled out a small red light and held it up high under the steering console. He quickly inspected the wiring. No security measures; they’d be able to hot-wire this boat in no time. Sliding back down to the stern, the young SEAL peered over the gunwale again. The guard was still far away, but had turned around, as the flashlight beam now pointed in Phillips’s direction. He needed to finish up soon. Checking the after storage compartment, he made sure that the marine batteries were in place before looking for a fuel gauge. He found it on the starboard side of the below-deck fuel tank, near the fueling port. The tank looked hefty and the gauge read three-quarters full. “Score!” he whispered.

Slipping off the transom and back into the water, he moved quickly toward the boat’s bow. Tracing the mooring line by hand, he cut it as close to the pier as he could. He didn’t want a long piece of line floating in the water that could attract unwanted attention. Again he paused and listened for the guard. Nothing.

“Harry, I’ve got the boat. Where’s the guard?” radioed Phillips.

“Still a ways away, but walking slowly toward us. I’m on my way back, start towing the boat out.”

Phillips had already slid between “their” boat and the next one in the nest when Fazel gave the order. Slowly, carefully, Phillips pushed away the hull. The beast was heavy, but it soon surrendered to his determined shoving. Inertia did the rest. Once the boat was clear of its neighbor, Phillips returned to the bow, grabbed the line, and began pulling it along the inner edge of the breakwater. With two rows of nested dhows between him and the harbor lights, it would be virtually impossible for anyone, other than the guard that Fazel had taken out, to see him as he struggled to tow the boat out to sea.