Exit Plan jm-3, page 41
part #3 of Jerry Mitchell Series
They walked quickly through the office space of the harbor administrative building and exited by a side door. Qorbani turned away from the flaming pier and headed to the main berthing area just behind the building. Between two small coastal freighters was a very small boat. Its outboard engines were already idling; Rahim couldn’t hear them, but he could see the exhaust. Two sailors stood at attention by the lines, ready to take them in at a moments notice. The lieutenant motioned for Rahim to board first, and then signaled the sailors to cast off as he jumped aboard.
As they pushed themselves away from the pier, Rahim stood stoically in the cockpit. If the boat blew up like the other two, so be it — Insh’Allah. When nothing happened, he offered a short prayer of thanks. Rahim was now convinced he was blessed, under Allah’s divine protection. If the last explosion had been a mere ten seconds later, he would’ve been killed. Instead, he had been spared with only trivial injuries. Spared to fulfill his destiny, that of hastening the return of the Twelfth Imam.
The patrol boat slowly worked its way past the long arc of nested dhows, keeping as much distance between them and the fire as possible. Rahim ignored the occasional dull thump as the hull collided with something in the water. He’d have time to mourn the dead later. Right now, every fiber of his being was concentrated on finding and killing those accursed devils. They had managed to kill almost three dozen Iranians during the long chase; thirty-four martyrs had paid the ultimate price for defending the Islamic Republic. He vowed that their blood sacrifice would not be in vain. As for the two traitors, they would be severely punished both in this world and the next. Out of pure anger and spite, Rahim had already ordered the execution of both Akbari’s and Naseri’s mothers. A fitting punishment for the two women responsible for bring such heinous criminals into the world.
Qorbani deftly maneuvered his boat past the harbor’s mouth, and once into the channel, he gunned the engines. The small boat leapt to life as it accelerated, its bow rising above the water. As he rounded the outer breakwater, Qorbani spun the wheel over hard and the boat skidded onto its pursuit course — due south. Rahim glanced at the speedometer. They were traveling at forty-two knots.
A private poked his head into the cockpit, tapped the lieutenant on the shoulder, and gestured for him to pick up the radio. Qorbani nodded and reached over for the bridge handset. Rahim saw that he was talking to someone, but between the ringing in his ears and the din from the outboards, he couldn’t hear what Qorbani was saying. After a minute, Qorbani placed the handset in its cradle and leaned over to Rahim.
“That was headquarters. Two other patrol boats are heading to assist us.” He pointed toward the northwest. “There is a Torough-class boat over there. It’s based on the Swedish Boghammar, so it’s fast and well-armed. Over here, to the northeast, is one of the new ten-meter rigid inflatable boats. It is also well-armed and very fast. Its maximum speed is fifty-three knots.”
Rahim was pleased with the Pasdaran lieutenant’s report, but they still had to find the Americans. “Lieutenant, any reports on the Americans’ position?”
“No, Major. All we know is that two patrols reported them heading in a southerly direction. The lone survivor from the ambushed patrol also said they were in a small speedboat fitted with a single outboard engine,” Qorbani explained.
“How close do we have to be before we can see them on radar?” asked Rahim.
“With two small boats? I’m afraid the range will be quite short, perhaps five to seven nautical miles.”
“That’s all?” Rahim was surprised by how short the range was. He’d seen radar ranges out over twenty miles from a coastal station.
Qorbani nodded his head, affirming his assessment. “Yes, sir, radar range is based not only on target size, but also on how high up the radar is. Small boats don’t have much height of eye.” He slapped the roof of the cabin to emphasize his point. Tire navigation radar was mounted just on the other side. Then shrugging his shoulders he concluded with, “Physics, Major. Not much we can do about it.”
The lieutenant’s description of their sensor limitations troubled Rahim; the pursuit had to be better organized if they were to locate their prey. Surely three patrol boats should be sufficient to do the job.
“Can you make a calculation to estimate an optimal interception point? We need to coordinate the search better. I will not tolerate them escaping again!” shouted Rahim.
“Yes, sir, I can. But without any contact data, it will be a rough estimate,” Qorbani responded cautiously.
“Just do it!” Rahim demanded.
Qorbani nodded and signaled his sergeant to take the wheel. Politely pushing the obsessed VEVAK agent to the side, the lieutenant reached under the counter and pulled out a large laminated sheet of paper with numerous circles, scales, and a nomograph at the bottom. Rahim watched with rapt curiosity as Qorbani placed points on various circles and then traced out several lines with a grease pencil. He measured distances with a pair of dividers and drew more lines across the nomograph. After five minutes working the Maneuvering Board, Qorbani made a small circle around a point where four lines intersected.
“All right, Major. Assuming that they headed due south, with a maximum speed of thirty to thirty-five knots, and with a fifteen-minute head start, this is my best estimate of where we should vector our boats.” Qorbani tapped the circle with his finger.
To Rahim, the circles, lines, and dots looked like gibberish. Frowning, he asked, “Can you provide courses and speeds for the other boats?”
“Yes, sir. Here they are for the Torough and the ten-meter RIB. If I’m correct, we should pick them up in twenty to thirty minutes. If I’m wrong, one of the other boats should get them,” replied Qorbani, trying to sound more confident than he felt.
Rahim looked at the paper again and saw that it would be almost an hour before they would be in range to attack. He had to move fast. “Send the information to the other boats,” he commanded.
8 April 2013
0517 Local Time/0217 Zulu
Twelve Nautical Miles South of Iran
Ramey watched his GPS receiver display as the latitude number ran past 26°17’30” and kept on going. “Okay, people,” he shouted, “we are now in international waters. We are officially out of Iran.”
“Hooyah!” screamed Phillips.
Jerry was stirred from his dozing by Phillips’s howl. He carefully stood up, stretched, and looked behind them. The sun wasn’t up yet, but the twilight glowed on the horizon. The country of Iran was no longer in view.
“Congratulations, Matt. That was some display you put on as we left. Do you think you got all of the patrol boats in Bandar Lengeh?” asked Jerry.
Ramey shrugged. “Don’t know, XO. But that isn’t the question that’s bothering me. What I really want to know is how close were the patrol boats that were at sea when we bolted? Harry and Philly did a fine job picking a good boat for us. She’s doing thirty-five knots, that’s damn respectable. But most of the Iranian boats do forty-five knots or better. If they were close enough, they’ll catch us.”
“And we’re blind,” Jerry add.
“Bingo.”
“Did you try to contact Michigan yet?”
“A couple of minutes ago. Didn’t get a response,” answered Ramey.
“Strange. They must have had to dodge a surface contact. Do you mind if I try?”
“Knock yourself out, XO.”
Jerry put on the headset and made sure his personal radio was set to the right frequency and the power level was cranked up a few ticks. Depressing the transmit button, he phoned home, “Starbase, this is Gray Fox, do you read, over?”
No response. He waited for a few seconds then tried again, “Starbase, this is Gray Fox, do you read, over?”
“Gray Fox, this is Starbase, good to hear from you guys. Over.” Jerry waved for Ramey, and pointed at his headset. The platoon leader put on his headset and dialed in as well.
“Gray Fox” — Jerry recognized Guthrie’s voice—”report status.”
“Sir, we have just crossed into international waters. We are on course south, speed three five knots. No sign of pursuit but we have extremely limited detection capability. Is there a UAV up in our vicinity?” inquired Jerry.
“Affirmative, we are doing a quick search. Wait one.”
“Standing by,” Jerry replied. He then pointed toward the backpack with the laptops. Ramey grabbed it and dragged out a machine. He had it open and firing up when Michigan responded with bad news.
“Gray Fox, you have three inbound patrol craft.” Frederickson was now speaking. “The first contact bears zero six seven, range eight nautical miles, speed four two knots. The second contact bears zero nine eight, range one six miles, speed four six knots. The third contact bears two five two, range one six decimal five miles, speed five three knots. How copy, over?”
While Jerry repeated the data, Ramey brought up the images. Lapointe, awakened by the chatter, rolled over to see the screen. Fazel also joined him; curious to see just how much trouble they were in. Ramey froze the frame on the first contact and took a good look at it.
“It’s the patrol boat I saw pulling into Bandar Lengeh. Intel data says it’s an Ashura II WPB. It’s armed with a 7.62 machine gun and small arms. We could probably fight this guy off if we had to.” Ramey moved on to the second contact. He paged through the freeze-frames until he found a good side view. Zooming in, he let out a sigh.
“The second boat is an Iranian-built Boghammar. It’s armed with a 107-millimeter multiple-rocket launcher and a DShK 12.7-millimeter machine gun. I’m not worried about the rocket launchers, but that.50 caliber is a big problem.” Ramey shook his head as he spoke.
Panning to the third contact, Ramey zoomed in. Immediately, his eyes opened wide and his face took on an exasperated look. Fazel and Lapointe both grimaced.
“What’s the matter?” Jerry asked. Concern grew within him as soon as he saw the SEALs’ expressions.
“The third patrol boat is one of those Fabio Buzzi thirty-three-foot RIB racing boats. It has the same armament as the Boghammar, only faster. We are completely outgunned here.”
Ramey turned the screen so that Jerry could see it. The patrol boat was sleek, sexy, and deadly looking. “Starbase, please advise as to the best evasion course,” asked Jerry
“Gray Fox, you are currently on the best course. Inbound hostiles will intercept in approximately two zero minutes.”
Jerry felt discouraged; the fortunes of war had flipped on them once again. The others, too, looked worried, which aggravated Jerry’s fears.
“We can’t outrun them, and we can’t outfight them,” Ramey said firmly. “We are going to need some help with these guys.”
Jerry agreed. “Starbase, it is the opinion of the platoon leader that we do not have the ability to fight off the incoming hostile boats.”
“Gray Fox, understand your assessment of the tactical situation. Help is on the way. ETA is approximately three zero minutes.”
Jerry looked down toward Ramey. The lieutenant was shaking his head. “Not soon enough. These guys will be here in about twenty minutes.”
“Starbase, be advised that were going to need assistance sooner. Request Cormorant support.”
“Gray Fox, we are already preparing to launch a Cormorant. Please stand by.”
“Standing by,” Jerry responded.
8 April 2013
0528 Local Time/0228 Zulu
Kilo-Class Submarine, Yunes, SS903
Mehr sat patiently in his chair in the central post, waiting. Hunting a submarine was a slow, exacting game, best played by chess aficionados. They had arrived at the coordinates of the missile strike seven hours earlier and immediately began an expanding box search. Just before entering the area, Mehr had recharged his batteries near the inbound shipping lanes, hoping that the noise from nearby merchant traffic would mask his own diesels. The captain had ordered a strict ultraquiet routine; nonessential equipment was either turned off or placed on its lowest setting. All off-duty personnel were confined to their bunks. No videos, no music, no talking. They had to be one with the sea. With a full can, and a reduced electrical load, Yunes moved silently through the shallow water, stalking their whale.
It was warm inside the boat. With many of the recirculating fans and air-conditioning secured, the temperature had risen to an uncomfortable, but tolerable, level. Mehr wiped the sweat from his brow. He was glad that it was still spring. This kind of maneuver would have been impossible during the summer months.
“Captain! Mechanical noise bearing red five zero,” reported the sonar operator from his cubicle behind Mehr. Russian sonar systems display azimuth information based on relative, vice true bearings. Thus, all directions are measured with respect to the ship’s bow from zero to 180 degrees. Bearings to port are red, while bearings to starboard are green.
“Any propulsion plant noise, Sergeant?”
“No, sir. It sounds like a large object is being moved.”
“Deck officer, sound battle stations, but quietly,” Mehr spoke softly as he walked to the sonar cubicle. The operator offered him a headset; donning it he heard a number of creaks and squeaks, followed by a loud sharp thud. Something had just locked into place. Allah be praised. They had found their prey; Mehr knew he needed to act quickly.
“Helmsman, left ten degrees rudder. Steady course three one zero.”
“Coming left to new course three one zero, aye, sir,” repeated the helmsman.
“Sonar, stand by to go active on main and mine-hunting arrays. Fire control, flood tubes one through four. Stand by for rapid salvo.”
8 April 2013
0530 Local Time/0230 Zulu
Nineteen Nautical Miles South of Iran
“Gray Fox, Cormorant launch in three minutes. Please stand by to take con…” Guthrie stopped talking in midsentence. Jerry could hear the WLY-1 acoustic intercept receiver beeping away in the background. What he heard next sent chills up his spine.
“Conn, Sonar, Shark Teeth and Mouse Squeak transmissions bearing one three zero! Contact is close. LAUNCH TRANSIENTS’.”
Jerry heard Guthrie spitting out orders, then abruptly signed off with, “I’m sorry, Jerry, you’re on your own!”
23. WHALE HUNT
8 April 2013
0530 Local Time/0230 Zulu
USS Michigan, SSGN 727
“TORPEDOES IN THE WATER!” shouted Buckley over the intercom.
“Where, Woody?” yelled Guthrie. He didn’t have time for the intercom and just shouted down the passageway.
“Conn, Sonar, first torpedo bears one two two. The second bears one three seven.”
Guthrie motioned to Simmons, the battle stations OOD, to acknowledge the report. He glanced at the fire control display that Ensign Sandy Wagner had manned, and there was nothing there on their assailant. He has to be in our baffles, behind us, Guthrie thought. This guy was dangerous.
“Weps, launch an ADC Mark 4 countermeasure from the starboard launchers. Helm, right fifteen degrees rudder, steady course north, all ahead flank!” Guthrie’s immediate concern was the two torpedoes, but he couldn’t ignore the shooter. He knew they had to get him out of their baffles and into view so they could start tracking him, but they had to jam his sonar as well.
Guthrie looked over at the intercept receiver. The WLY-1 warned them about enemy sonar transmissions, and it had lit off the same time as Buckley’s warning of incoming torpedoes. It showed two Russian-made sonars, the MGK-400 Rubikon and MG-519 Arfa. Those were fitted on Iran’s Kilo-class subs. The countermeasure should have some effect.
The captain dodged as other members of the fire control party took their positions. Lieutenants (jg) Sean Porter and Daniel Hogan had set up the geoplot and were starting to plot the bearings to the torpedoes.
“Sean, Daniel, just plot raw bearings. We don’t have time to fair them. I need to know if I have to turn, ASAP.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” replied Porter as he drew out a bearing line on the paper.
“Conn, Sonar, first torpedo bears one one seven, drawing slowly to the right. The second torpedo is in our baffles, but was last seen drawing left. Neither weapon is active,” reported Buckley more calmly.
“Very well. Find that Kilo, Woody!” shouted Guthrie as he shuffled over to the geoplot. Lieutenant Erik Nelson showed the bearing spread on the two torpedoes. “Captain, this one on the left looks like it will miss us, but just barely. The one on the right will be a problem if we remain on our present course.”
Guthrie nodded. The torpedoes had been placed exceptionally well. There was no way they could get out of the acquisition cones of both of them.
“Dmitry, deploy an ADC Mark 5 torpedo countermeasure and prepare the ATT launchers.”
The weapons officer reached up, lifted a protective cover on the countermeasure panel, and punched the button. On the aft starboard side of Michigan, one of the external countermeasures tubes erupted, spewing out a long cylindrical canister. Once activated, the countermeasure transmitted a loud acoustic signal that a homing torpedo would hopefully find alluring.
“ADC away, and the antitorpedo system is online,” reported Zelinski.
Before Guthrie could acknowledge the weapons officer’s report, the WLY-1 acoustic intercept receiver screeched out another warning.
“Conn, Sonar, torpedoes have enabled!”
Kilo-Class Submarine, Yunes, SS903
“Captain!” shouted the sonar operator excitedly. “A sonar jammer has been deployed.”
Mehr looked up at the MGK-400 sonar display and saw that it was now filled with numerous spikes in the direction of the Ohio-class submarine. “Calm yourself, Sergeant! We knew he would do this,” he admonished the nervous operator. “I just launched a sonar jammer myself, so settle down.”
“Captain,” interrupted Lieutenant Kashani, the fire control officer, “the torpedoes are nearing their activation point.”
“Very well,” Mehr said. The enemy would know soon enough that he had done more than just harass them with a sonar lashing. It was time to change their position.
