Exit Plan Read online

  “What about Dr. Sabet?” Moradi asked. The program’s scientific leader had not been brought into Moradi’s plan and had recently found out about construction of the site near Qermezin and the changes at Natanz.

  “He was definitely not pleased when he discovered you had changed the plan and given orders behind his back,” Rahim answered. “He is being watched. His questions are being deflected to your office. And you’ve been ‘difficult to reach.’”

  “It would be best if we could share our plans with him,” Moradi suggested.

  “We can’t, and we’ve discussed this.” Rahim’s tone was firm. “His piety is beyond reproach, but I do not believe he would be willing to make the sacrifices required by your plan. And he would not agree with your assessment that the program is doomed to failure. He is too emotionally committed to its completion.”

  “I agree,” Moradi replied, “but he has access to a great many people outside the program. If he reaches out to them—”

  “Which is why he is being watched.” Rahim assured him. “If he does reach out, he will be detained.” Forestalling Moradi’s protests, he quickly added, “He will not be harmed. I would never permit such a thing. If our plans are successful, he would only be held incommunicado for a short while, until the attack.”

  “They will attack,” Moradi answered. “And soon.”

  ~ * ~

  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 p
atrol, 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.