Exit Plan jm-3, page 6
part #3 of Jerry Mitchell Series
A quick glance at his watch showed that the five minutes were nearly up. Moving forward to the front of the periscope stand, Jerry took up a vantage point from where he could see the radio room door. He was never very good at waiting, but with a high priority mission before them, Jerry was more impatient than usual. He just couldn’t let it show.
“XO, we are on course two seven zero, and our speed is thirteen knots coming to seventeen.” Nelson’s report yanked him back from his temporary vigil.
“Very well, OOD,” Jerry replied flatly.
“So what’s going on, XO? This can’t be part of the exercise. We’re going in the wrong direction. The last event is closer to the Pakistani coast,” prodded Nelson.
“You’re right. It’s not. But I don’t know a whole lot more than we’re to make for the Persian Gulf toot-de-sweetie,” answered Jerry. “The captain is getting the specifics on our new mission as we speak and should be out any second now to brief us.”
As if waiting for his cue, Guthrie abruptly emerged from the radio room, clipboard in hand. By his general body language one would be hard-pressed to say that anything unusual was happening, but Jerry had spotted the glimmer of excitement in his captain’s eyes.
“Mr. Nelson, report,” demanded Guthrie, as he hopped up onto the stand.
“Sir, we are on course two seven zero. Our speed is currently fourteen knots, accelerating to seventeen.”
“Very well.” Then turning toward Jerry he asked, “XO, is the congregation assembled?”
“Yes, sir. All interested parties are in the BMC awaiting your presence. Bursting with curiosity, I might add.”
Feigning sincerity Guthrie exclaimed, “Well, we can’t have that now, can we!?” Then with a subtle sweep of his hand, he motioned toward the BMC and added, “After you, XO.”
“Yes, sir,” responded Jerry, as he turned and headed for the door. He had just cracked it open when a loud voice shouted, “Feet!”
Inside, Jerry saw Lieutenant Travis Frederickson, SEAL Team Three’s targeting and operations officer, and the detachment officer-in-charge, standing by the access to the planning cell spaces. Stepping aside, Jerry let Guthrie enter first. Frederickson brought up the rear.
“As you were,” Guthrie said, as he positioned himself in front of the two-dozen people crowded in to the planning cell.
“Moments ago we received a flash-precedence message giving Michigan and the embarked SEAL platoon a new mission. I’m going to read the message and then I’ll give you your instructions. Save any questions till the end,” instructed Guthrie.
The captain took his reading glasses out of his poopie suit pocket, put them on, and opened the clipboard.
FROM: Commander, United States Central Command
TO: Commanding Officer, USS Michigan’s SGN 727.
SUBJECT: Fragmentary Order 05–13.
Terminate participation in Exercise Display Unity and proceed at best possible speed to coordinates latitude 27° 35’ 49” N, longitude 051° 55’ 29” E in the central Persian Gulf. Once in position, elements of Charlie Platoon, SEAL Team Three will rendezvous with and extract two Iranian nationals who have detailed information on the Iranian government’s WMD program. The rendezvous has been scheduled for 1630Z hours on 03 April. This time cannot be altered due to a lack of communications with the Iranian individuals. Presidential approval to violate Iranian territorial waters is in process.
Commanding Officer, USS Michigan, has operational control of the mission, while SEAL Team Three Detachment OIC has tactical control. More information to follow.
A low murmur arose as soon as Guthrie finished reading. Jerry snapped his fingers twice, calling for silence.
“Alright, gentlemen, and lady,” added Guthrie, nodding in Manning’s direction. “We have a no-shit hi-pri mission on our hands, and not a lot of time to get in position or prepare. We are already on course for the Persian Gulf, moving as fast as we can, given the stress limits imposed by the ASDS and the dry deck shelter docked on the turtleback. If you factor in the time for ASDS launch and transit, we have a tad over forty-three hours to get where we are supposed to be. So everyone will have to be at the top of their game.”
Flipping through the paper on the clipboard, Guthrie quickly read from a list of orders.
“Mr. Hogan and COB. Please coordinate with the XO on additional damage control drills.” Lieutenant Daniel Hogan, the damage control assistant, acknowledged the orders, as did Master Chief Eichmann with a terse “Aye, aye, sir.”
“Mr. Zelinski,” Guthrie continued, “I want an updated status report on all ship’s weapons and the UAVs. I don’t expect a fight, but the Iranians don’t always act rationally and I want to be ready just in case they make it necessary for us to defend ourselves.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the weapons officer. “I’ll have it to the XO in a couple of hours.”
“Good. Also work with the XO to schedule some additional battle stations torpedo and strike drills.” Checking off two more items, Guthrie turned toward his navigator.
“Mr. Simmons, I need you to figure out our best avenue of approach once we enter the gulf. I want an optimized plan that gets us to the desired coordinates as fast as possible, while keeping us in the deepest water possible.”
The young African American frowned. He was not happy with this assignment. “Skipper, we are talking two hundred feet of water at the very best, probably a lot less. It’s going to be frickin’ hard to maintain a decent speed without generating a visible wake on the surface. It’s hard to hide a hippo in a swimming pool!”
Jerry had to grin at Simmons’s metaphor, for while it was a little crass to compare Michigan to a hippopotamus with her skipper present, it was an apt analogy. Submarine skippers, especially nuclear submarine skippers, weren’t comfortable in less than three hundred or four hundred feet of water, and preferred six hundred feet — a hundred fathoms.
“You don’t see me smiling about this either, Isaac,” Guthrie replied sympathetically. “Just do the best you can, and while you’re at it please avoid shipping lanes if at all possible. I really don’t want to be in a sequel of Hartford’s collision.”
The frown on Simmons’s face quickly mutated into a grimace at the mention of the collision between the Los Angeles-class attack submarine USS Hartford, and USS New Orleans, a San Antonio-class amphibious assault ship in March 2009. Hartford was submerged, crossing the main shipping lanes just inside the Strait of Hormuz, when her sail was struck by the amphib, causing significant damage to the submarine.
Still uneasy, Simmons nodded and said, “We’ll get right on it, Captain.”
“Mr. Frederickson” — Guthrie shifted his attention to the SEAL detachment OIC—”begin your formal mission-planning process. I want the brief back on the platoon leader order in thirty hours.”
“Understood, sir. Mr. Ramey has that for action.” Frederickson pointed toward Lieutenant Matthew Ramey, Charlie platoon’s leader, as he spoke.
“Very well,” said Guthrie as he checked his list. “One more thing for you and your SEALs to keep in mind when you start putting together your intelligence requirements for reachback support. Every time you want to transmit requirements or receive data, we have to slow down. The masts can’t handle speeds in excess of ten knots. We are operating under a very tight time line for this mission, and we can’t afford losing time for repeated periscope depth evolutions so you can phone home. So as you put together your essential elements of information needs for NAVSPECWARCOM or ONI to fill, please do so efficiently.”
“Understood,” responded Frederickson and Ramey simultaneously.
“Mr. Carlson, I want a complete check of the ASDS systems, particularly the batteries…” Guthrie’s speech came to an abrupt stop as he looked up from his clipboard and saw his ASDS pilot clearly for the first time.
Jerry saw his captain do a double take. He then removed his reading glasses and took yet another look, followed by, “Alex! What the hell happened to you!?”
Carlson just stood there silent, embarrassed.
“Uhh, I did, sir,” replied Barrineau sheepishly.
Guthrie turned toward Jerry, a look of total confusion written all over his face.
“The, uh, medical issue I mentioned earlier, Skipper,” remarked Jerry as gracefully as possible. It’s almost always a bad thing for an XO to let his boss be surprised in public, as this violates one of the primary duties of an executive officer to not let his captain look bad.
A deep calming sigh came from Guthrie. “My bad, XO, not yours. Now what do we do about this unexpected complication?” Facing Manning he asked, “I don’t suppose Alex is medically cleared to pilot the ASDS?”
“No, sir,” the doctor answered. “The fracture is in a very bad spot, just about the wrist, and I had to severely restrict that arm’s range of motion if it’s to heal properly”
“I can do it, sir,” implored Carlson. “Just give me a shorter cast for this run so I can still handle the controls.”
“Absolutely not!” Manning stated firmly. “Your strength in that arm is compromised. Trying to manhandle watertight hatches and other equipment will result in more damage.”
“Alex,” injected Jerry “You’re not going to win this one. Been there, done that, bought the wardrobe.” He bared the scars on his right wrist to emphasize the point.
“I can pilot the ASDS,” said Lieutenant Vernon Higgs. “I’m qualified and can still perform my other duties once the minisub is in position.”
“That’s too risky, Vern,” Carlson countered. “You can’t work the lockout chamber controls and support the diver egress and just let the boat sit there, even anchored, that close to the shore. And we have very little information on the bottom topography and the currents along the Central Iranian coast. Operating that boat with one of your squads going in and out is definitely a two-man job.”
“What other option do we have, Alex?” Higgs argued. “I don’t think we can get another qualified pilot out here in time.”
“Even if the Navy could find one and get him out here quickly, you’re still talking twenty-four hours at a minimum. By that time we’ll be in the Persian Gulf, probably close to the Iranian coast; how do we get him on board without drawing attention to our position? If we divert to a safer location, we’ll lose a lot of time,” Simmons added with growing frustration.
Guthrie listened intently to the brainstorming, remaining silent to allow his junior officers room to freely voice their ideas and concerns. By their expressions and comments, the SEALs all believed that the risk was acceptable for Lieutenant Higgs to perform both jobs. The submariners strongly disagreed.
Guthrie did as well. “I can’t allow Higgs to do the job alone. Too many bad things could happen. But to be honest, I’m not keen on telling my boss that I can’t do my job without help, and I don’t want to do this unless there is absolutely no other choice available to us.”
The assembly grew quiet as two-dozen brains chewed on the problem. After about fifteen seconds of awkward silence, Jerry finally spoke up. “I can pilot the ASDS, Captain.”
Every head in the room snapped in his direction. Guthrie looked quizzical, and intrigued. “Okay, XO, explain yourself.”
“Yes, sir. You know I attended some of the training sessions before this patrol, to get a better appreciation of ASDS operations, and I’ve spent some time on the simulator. I went out with Alex during both the workups and on one of the exercise events. I even managed to get some stick time. I believe I have a good feel for how the ASDS handles, and Vernon can assist with the launching and landing evolutions. I’m also a qualified Navy diver, all of which makes me the closest thing to a spare pilot.”
Guthrie took stock of his peoples’ reactions as Jerry explained his plan; both Higgs and Carlson were nodding their agreement, a good sign.
“Alex can provide some additional training while we’re en route, and Vernon and the others can make sure I understand the SEAL aspect of this mission. This should reduce the risk to an acceptable level,” concluded Jerry.
“Comments on the XO’s idea. Alex?” Guthrie asked.
“The XO’s legit, sir,” responded Carlson favorably. “He has an intuitive feel for the minisub; he can do it.”
“Vern?”
“Concur with Alex, sir.”
“Travis?”
“Concur, Captain.”
A visibly relieved Guthrie turned to Jerry and said, “Okay, XO, you got the job.”
Facing the assembly, Guthrie offered a final opportunity for comment. “Anything else?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Frederickson. “Captain, I’d like to request restricted access to the BMC and missile compartment lower level to enable my guys to properly prepare for this mission.”
Guthrie had seen SEALs go into a similar isolation mode in the past. It helped the SEALs mentally prepare for a mission. He thought it was a little strange, but it was their way and it did seem to bear fruit. “Granted, Travis. Only the navigator, Mr. Carlson, the XO, and myself will have access. Everyone else has to get your permission. Jerry, make sure you pass the word.”
“Aye, aye, sir,”
“Thank you, Captain,” responded Frederickson.
“Alright, people, we have a job to do, so get hot,” ordered Guthrie.
Everyone in control clearly heard the SEALs. “HOOYAH, Skipper!”
4. SORTIE
2 April 2013
1005 Local Time/1505 Zulu
The White House
Joanna Patterson concentrated on staying two steps behind the national security advisor. Ray Kirkpatrick was shorter than her by a good six inches, but he walked fast, and she worked to keep up. They were a little late, and that only added to her adrenaline level.
She knew the West Wing very well, and had been in the Oval Office dozens of times, but this was a new job, with a new administration, and of course, a new boss — two new bosses if you counted Dr. Kirkpatrick. A close friend of President Myles, he’d been a deputy undersecretary of defense in the Huber administration. It was a big jump from deputy of whatever to national security advisor, but Kirkpatrick had made a name for himself. Energetic, almost to a fault, with good communications skills and ambition, he’d transformed his little acre in the Pentagon from a disaster to “a model of efficiency,” according to the cover of Pentagon Weekly. Kirkpatrick also understood the value of good press.
Getting the briefing perfect had taken a few minutes too long. They arrived almost breathless, five minutes late, but the president’s secretary waved them inside. “You’re not the last. We’re still waiting for Admiral Hughes.”
“Thank you, Mrs. McDowell.” Kirkpatrick headed inside and Patterson followed. A memory, of going to the dean’s office with a professor to ask for a grant, flashed in her mind.
She’d only met President Kenneth Myles a few times, and then only briefly, without getting a real chance to talk with him. She’d enjoyed a long relationship with President Huber, based on their common advocacy of environmental issues. Her relationship with the new president was based on a glowing recommendation from Huber and a vetting by the Myles transition team.
The room was crowded, in her opinion much more than necessary. The secretaries of state and defense waited near the president. It seemed like half the U.S. Intelligence apparatus was in the room: General Duvall, Chairman of the National Intelligence Council was here, as well as his boss, Gregory Alexander, the Director of National Intelligence, and Dr. Randall Foster, Director of the CIA. The military side included the secretary of defense, chairman of the joint chiefs, and General Ramsdale, head of Special Operations Command. Too many people drew too much attention and too much talk.
The president was speaking to the Secretary of State, Andrew Lloyd. Lloyd was an old-school diplomat, with over thirty years of experience in the state department. Myles’s vice president had been picked to balance the ticket, but Lloyd was Myles’s closest political ally. He’d helped shape the president’s foreign policy platform before the election, as well as taking state after the inauguration. They’d been friends for decades, sharing interests in Asian history and Italian cooking.
President Myles had taught in Asian studies and written extensively before becoming involved in foreign policy, and then politics. He had the gravitas of a scholar, with a shock of snow-white hair that the political cartoonists loved, over an angular face with a strong jaw. Politically, he was more pro-business than many Democrats would like, but Patterson approved of his environmental record, and he’d said all the right things about national security. This would be his first real test.
Admiral Hughes, the Chief of Naval Operations, hurried in and took a seat next to the General Dewhurst, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
“We have a quorum, gentleman, and we’re ten minutes late,” Myles’s chief of staff announced. “Dr. Foster, please begin.”
The CIA director s tone was grim. “Good morning Mr. President, ladies, and gentlemen. Nothing has changed since the initial briefing last week. There has been no indication of what happened to Pilot, who was supposed to convey Opal out of Iran to our agents in Kuwait. To the best of our knowledge, Opal is still safe and is following the instructions we provided for the backup extraction plan. Contact with Opal has been irregular since the loss of Pilot. It is possible that Pilot has been arrested, but we have no proof either way. While he had no information on Opal’s identity, Pilot did have instructions for making contact and extracting someone. If he’s been compromised, VEVAK knows we’re trying to get someone important out of Iran.
