Exit Plan jm-3, page 8
part #3 of Jerry Mitchell Series
Jerry distractedly scratched the three-day growth on his chin. The rest of the SEALs had “gone native” as soon as they’d gotten underway. The Pakistanis were more comfortable working with bearded Americans, and the SEALs all had well-developed facial hair. Jerry had only started his after being tapped as Carlson’s replacement. It seemed pointless to him, but it might make the two Iranians more comfortable when they came aboard the ASDS. He was looking forward to shaving it off the moment they returned to Michigan.
The BMC included enough table and chair space so everyone could sit and see the screen. Lieutenant Ramey, the platoon leader, ran the brief. The other three members of the team, Lapointe, Fazel, and Phillips sat together on one side, with their wheel books open and pencils ready. Jerry and Lieutenant Higgs, the two ASDS pilots, sat across the table. Lieutenant Frederick-son, the ops officer, and Chief Special Warfare Operator Yates, the SEAL platoon chief, watched.
The rest of the SEAL platoon had already had their say during the planning stages. Now, with Michigan less than six hours from the launch point, they prepped the team’s personal gear, and along with Michigan’s crew, checked out and loaded the ASDS.
Although the extraction mission was a straightforward “template” operation, the SEALs had taken the plan apart, doing their best to break it. Worst-case scenarios had included everything from uncharted underwater obstacles to an ambush on the beach to Michigan being forced to abandon the rendezvous.
Lieutenant Ramey, thirty-one, and the platoon’s officer in charge, was on his third deployment. He’d given his platoon instructions to look for every possible contingency and develop a plan to deal with it. “I’ve seen plans go south in a heartbeat. The worst case isn’t watching the wheels come off. It’s having a mission go bad and you don’t even know it. That’s when people die.”
So they’d added problems like surface radar surveillance, or mines on the approach, or the beach itself, as well as obvious ones like the asset being used as bait, knowingly or unknowingly. They’d constructed a dozen different ambush scenarios, using satellite photos of the rendezvous area. How far ashore could the SEALs get before they couldn’t escape? What were the best weapons to break an ambush? Something big and noisy, or small and less noisy? What if one of the SEALs goes down? Or two? What if it’s one of the Iranians? The “what if’s” had gone on endlessly.
Jerry attended many of the planning sessions. Theoretically, his role was simple: Pilot the ASDS to a point two hundred yards from the beach, keep the minisub on station while the SEALs made the pickup, recover the swimmers with the “precious cargo,” and then head back to Michigan.
But Jerry had to know what to do if the SEALs had to move while they were on the beach. What if the team was ambushed? What if the Iranians were at the wrong location? Should the ASDS break down and couldn’t recover the SEALs, where would they go? Each rally point and alternative rendezvous location was marked and noted. Each one had its own code word and specific instructions. Jerry’s actions not only had to be automatic, but intimately understood by everyone, so they all could react instantly to a changing situation. Even if the group was separated, they could work seamlessly with minimal communications.
As the team lead, Ramey kicked off the briefing on the platoon leader’s order by going over the situation, mission objective, and a general overview of the action to be conducted and the means of execution. He then went into the current and projected weather, including tides and moon rising, setting, and phase. Next, a detailed map came up on the large display that illustrated the beach landing site, the initial rallying points, and the individual SEAL positions along with fields of observation and fire. Ramey pointed out the lack of any significant obstacles: the beach was essentially clear with a slight grade to a small berm thirty meters from the waterline, as well as the few areas with appreciable cover.
The enemy’s order of battle near the beach landing site was largely made up of small detachments of Basij militia and IRGC ground forces, although the former would be the most likely enemy forces should there be an encounter. The nearest Iranian Army units were located in Shiraz, approximately 125 miles to the north. The nearest naval facility was the IRGC naval base at Asaluyeh, thirty-six nautical miles to the southeast. The assets there were almost entirely lightly armed fast patrol boats.
The platoon leader then went over the rules of engagement, dealing with each scenario in detail. Since the mission was clandestine, denying the enemy any knowledge of the team’s presence was paramount. Therefore, weapons fire was restricted to self-defense only. If the enemy was firing at you, he already knew you were there. To minimize the chance of an ambush, CENTCOM was allocating an RC-135 SIGINT bird, to monitor the electronic environment, and a medium endurance UAV with the best infrared sensor package available in theater would have “eyes” on the beach landing site.
Ramey then began walking through the mission-phase diagram box by box. He recapped the original mission order, along with an overview of the equipment loaded onto the ASDS. He then described the weaponry and equipment to be carried by the extraction team, followed by a discussion of the communications plan. To prevent the Iranians from detecting their presence, any communications with Michigan would be with the directional PRC-117 SATCOM radio. Comms between team members and the ASDS would use the PRC-148 MBITR personal radios on the lowest power setting.
His laser pointer then moved over to the fifth box that said “Mobility,” followed by the bullet “ASDS Launch.”
“We will launch at 1630, two hours and forty minutes before last light. XO, please brief your part of the mission.”
Jerry stood and moved so he could point to their track on the screen. “After launch, initial course is zero zero zero true for forty minutes, then a turn at Point X-Ray to zero three zero for an hour and a half, all at eight knots and a depth of one hundred feet. The transit time accounts for the tide, which is ebbing at that location and will throughout this op. The dogleg adds a few miles to the run in, but we avoid a large shoal area to the east. Total length of the run is 18.3 miles, and the total time is two hours twenty-five minutes. We arrive at 1855, with fifteen minutes of margin for the 1910 diver lockout.
“There are no known large underwater obstructions within several miles of our route and the bottom slopes gently toward the shore, with the average water depth starting at one hundred eighty feet and gradually reducing to forty. When we reach Point Yankee, we slow to four knots and make a quick periscope observation of the landing area. We should be one mile from the shore at that point and we should be able to see our passengers on the beach. The last mile we creep in at four knots at an initial depth of thirty feet, coming shallower as we get closer. We stop at Point Zulu, three hundred meters from the shore, rise to a keel depth of fifteen feet and hover there at neutral buoyancy.”
Ramey nodded, following Jerry’s narration in his notes. “Petty Officer Lapointe.”
Petty Warfare Operator First Class Nathan Lapointe was from Baton Rouge. Short and compact, he was an excellent swimmer, even among the SEALs. He was also the communications expert, and the senior petty officer on the team. “The four-man element locks out by 1910 and approaches submerged to within a hundred meters of shore. I surface to do a quick look, and if it’s clear, the swim pairs split and complete the approach on the surface, blacked out in a combat swimmer mode. Fazel is with me and Petty Officer Phillips is with Mr. Ramey.
“Both swim pairs reach the beach by 1930. We come ashore about fifty meters apart, flanking the precious cargo that should still be on the beach. If that’s the case, I’ll go and take up an overwatch position here.” He pointed to a spot on a satellite photo of the beach. “I can watch the road, the beach landing site, and the dead space behind this rise.
“Once I’m ensconced, I’ll signal you that I’m in place and that the coast is clear. If at any time I see problems, I’ll alert the other element members and extract by the secondary route. I don’t make contact with the precious cargo, but provide cover for the rendezvous, and the withdrawal. Once the precious cargo is safely in the water, I’ll abandon the overwatch position, link up with my swim buddy, and we withdraw from the objective area together.”
“And once you send the All clear,’ the rest of us will move toward the rendezvous point,” Ramey continued. “Fazel on the left, Phillips and I are on the right. Fazel and Phillips establish a security perimeter while I make contact and establish the assets’ bona fides. The pass phrases are typical CIA, cutesy, but simple, and they should be sufficient. The phrases are the two stanzas from the nursery rhyme, ‘Star Light, Star Bright.’ I give the first stanza in Farsi. They respond with the second stanza in English. Harry’s been getting my Farsi up to speed, but since he’s a native speaker I’ll want his ears close to me just in case there’s an issue. Once we are sure of whom we have, I’ll fit them with swim bladders and Petty Officer Phillips and I get them into the water. We’ll conduct a surface swim back out to the ASDS, which hopefully will be able to get closer. The main concern is the water temperature. The latest data shows the surface water running about sixty-seven degrees Fahrenheit, a bit chilly for civilians.”
Special Warfare Operator Second Class Heydar “Harry” Fazel was the team’s medic, a hospital corpsman second class and the next senior after Lapointe. Every SEAL mission included a medical specialist, and Fazel’s skills would have made him a physician’s assistant in the civilian world. Although a medic, he would be armed to the teeth like the other members of the extraction team. “I cover left and stand by in case you need translation, but stay close enough to Pointy to lend assistance as needed.” Fazel was a first-generation American, born in the U.S. after his parents had fled the Iranian Revolution in 1979.
“After the Boss, Philly and the precious cargo are back in the water, I wait for Pointy at the water’s edge, and we egress together. I also signal Commander Mitch — I mean the XO — that we are feet wet. After we are back on board the ASDS, I’ll check our guests for hypothermia, just to be safe.”
Jerry finished. “Higgs and I will keep the ASDS at periscope depth with both masts exposed, about a foot of mast out of the water. Once we receive your signal we’ll move in to meet you as water depth allows. Once the swimmers are close by, I’ll broach the ASDS to allow access to the upper hatch. After everyone is back aboard, we get as deep as we can and retrace our route back to Michigan.”
Lieutenant Ramey nodded approvingly. “That’s the plan. Now, last chance. Any more thoughts on the last-minute change?”
Jerry replied first. “Doubling the distance is still well within the margin for the batteries. The usage curves on the exercises we ran were close to the manufacturer’s specs. The only issue was the power surge during the last run. Alex, have you been able to run that issue to ground?”
“We think so, sir,” replied Carlson. “We replaced a motor controller on one of the aft thrusters that had an intermittent ground. We’ve checked both the new motor controller and the batteries with three diagnostic runs and they’ve come up green each time.”
Fazel chimed in and said, “I’ve already raised my concern. If there are casualties, it doubles the time until they’re treated.”
Captain Guthrie answered, “If you need to get back aboard quickly, I’ll bring Michigan in to meet you. Of course, I’ll have to get permission, but we’ll have a mast up, and line of sight to the RC-135 if the SATCOM doesn’t work.”
Ramey nodded politely, but didn’t look reassured. “If we’ve been shot at, sir, there may be pursuit.”
“Not a problem, Lieutenant. We’ve got to rendezvous submerged, and the IRGC Navy has no ASW capability at all, either with planes or their surface craft. As long as we can avoid visual detection, we’ll be able to rendezvous safely.”
“And since the rendezvous will be after dark,” Jerry added, “they’d have to be right on top of us even to see Michigan while at periscope depth.”
“And if all goes according to plan, sir, we won’t have to ask.” Ramey looked around the space. “Anyone else? No? Then we muster here at 1515 hours for final checks.” He grinned. “And remember to pee! There are no rest stops along the way.”
5. “ABANDON SHIP!”
3 April 2013
1615 Local Time/1315 Zulu
USS Michigan
Jerry and Guthrie emerged from the captain’s stateroom and walked casually to the ladder well that led up to the control room. Jerry had traded in his dark blue coveralls for a set of desert cammies. Other than the pixelated combination of tan, brown, gray, and olive drab colors of the Type II Navy Working Uniform, there were no rank insignia, nametag, warfare patch, or anything else that could identify the wearer as belonging either to Michigan or the U.S. Navy. He was also armed. The SIG Sauer P226 pistol rested in a paddle holster on his right side; while four fifteen-round magazines were on his left. At first, Jerry had protested that this was a bit over the top. After all, he was just piloting the ASDS, nothing more. Ramey and Higgs were adamant that Jerry be armed. But it was Alex Carlson who broke through when he pulled his XO aside and said, “Just wear the damn thing, sir. I would if I were going.”
“Status, Mr. Simmons,” barked Guthrie as he entered control.
“We are on station, hovering, Captain. Depth is one three zero feet with forty-eight feet beneath the keel. We’ve had twelve sonar contacts. Four are classified as tankers and are well to the west and south of us in established shipping lanes. Six are classified as fishing trawlers, heading toward either Bandar Kangan or Dreyyer. They are all past CPA and opening. The last two were probably patrol boats, as they were moving quite fast. One was headed in the direction of Lavan Island. We just lost the other as it headed north into shallow water. No contacts are estimated to be within eight thousand yards, and ASDS launch stations are manned and ready.”
“Well done, Isaac,” Guthrie complimented his navigator. Then, with a touch of sarcasm he added, “See, it wasn’t that hard.”
Simmons laughed wearily. Jerry knew the junior officer had been doing port and starboard watches to ensure that they made the deadline, without being detected or running into something. And with the exception of one rude surprise, the transit to the launch site went off without a hitch.
“Thank you, sir. But I don’t think I need that many gray hairs just yet,” replied Simmons, visibly relieved.
“Nonsense! It suits you. Besides, you need those occasional surprises to add spice to your life.” The captain was clearly in a good mood, although he was just as surprised as everyone else when the loud THUMP, THUMP, THUMP of a ship’s propeller had been heard through the hull.
Two hours ago, a large ship, probably a supertanker, had passed very close to Michigan, and none of the submarine’s sensitive sonar arrays had heard a thing until it was right on top of them. Looking at the ship’s course as it passed by, it became clear that the bow of the tanker had been pointing directly at Michigan. Even a large noisy ship, normally easy to detect, can become a ghost if a sonar array is looking straight at the bow. The phenomenon, called a bow null, occurs when the ship’s structure and cargo absorb the noise from the propulsion plant at the very back. Simmons had turned pale when he estimated that there might have been as little as fifty feet between the tanker and Michigan.
“Sir, surprises like that lead to heart attacks,” Simmons countered heartily.
Guthrie shrugged his shoulders as he reached over to the intercom. “Sonar, Conn. Report all sonar contacts.”
“Conn, Sonar,” responded Lieutenant Junior Grade Andy Buckley, Michigan’s, sonar officer. “We currently hold eleven sonar contacts. Sierra seven eight is classified as a tanker. He bears zero nine eight and has just dropped anchor. Sierra eight zero bears one two two and is heading southeast at high speed. Classified as a patrol boat. Sierra seven nine and eight two are tankers, bearing two one zero and two five six. Both are heading northwest. Sierra eight three, also classified as a tanker, is currently in our baffles. Contact is tracking to the southeast. The remaining six contacts are all fishing trawlers off our port bow, heading home to either Deyyar or Kangan. No close contacts.”
Guthrie took in the report as he quickly glanced at the fire control display’s tracks for the eleven contacts. Satisfied that his people had good situational awareness, he hit the intercom button again. “Sonar, Conn. Woody, we’re coming up for an observation. With us at a dead stop, keep a sharp ear.
“Conn, Sonar, aye.”
“Mr. Simmons, bring her up to eight zero feet,” Guthrie ordered.
“Bring her to eight zero feet, aye, sir.”
While Simmons had the ship’s diving officer and chief of the watch bring Michigan to periscope depth, Guthrie turned to Jerry and said, “We’ll take a quick look around and if all’s clear, we settle back down to a hundred and thirty feet and get you and the SEALs on your way.”
“Sounds good to me, sir. I’d like to get this excursion started,” replied Jerry with a smirk. “The SEALs are beginning to get that trapped animal look, and I was afraid they might start chewing off limbs to escape.”
“Long stays on a boat are agonizing for SEALs,” stated Guthrie. “They tolerate it just as long as there is a meaningful reason for being here. For them, it’s all about being down range and in the thick of it. They think we’re absolutely crazy for staying in a steel sewer pipe for seventy-five days at a crack.”
“Yeah, well, anyone who intentionally leaves a perfectly good submarine isn’t all there in my book, Skipper. And yes, I’m including myself in that category.”
