by Larry Bond
“I don’t know, probably,” Yousef half lied. The Pasdaran weren’t usually kind to family members of traitors. He had no concerns for his own mother; the woman who had lovingly raised him had been gone for over a year. Her body still functioned, but Alzheimer’s had destroyed her mind. She no longer remembered him, and could barely talk. Yousef relived the pain he felt when he told her she was going to be a grandmother and all she did was stare vacantly and drool. Death would be more merciful.
An eternity later, when Shirin had finally stopped crying, she drew a slow breath and said quietly, “Yousef, I’m very afraid. For mother, the baby, for you, and me.”
Her admission shocked him. She’d always been as determined as him, as passionate about their cause as he was, although for her own reasons. Both were scared, of course, but they’d never spoken of it. He thought of her as the strong one.
He had to say something. “It’s a simple plan,” he finally said. “We drive along the beach. We stop for a walk to admire the sunset, and happen to meet some strangers. Who happen to be wearing wet suits. And have a submarine.”
She laughed in spite of her tears. “Oh, well, that’s fine, then. I love walks on the beach.” There was nervousness in her voice, but she was smiling. “I am glad we left our car with mother. This thing smells.”
“It may smell, but the Peykan doesn’t have any tracking devices on it,” Yousef replied. “Remember yesterday, after we arrived and I went out to check the engine? There were marks on the lower body—streaks where the dirt had been rubbed off. I couldn’t see anything underneath, but you never really know how small those devices can be. They could listen to what we say, track our location, and perhaps even disable the engine if they wanted to. I suspected as much.
“That’s when I put the dirt in the Cowin’s fuel filter. Our car will tell Rahim and his jackals that we are staying at your mother’s for the next three days. And if we miss the meeting tomorrow, we will stay at the hotel for the next two nights and have a nice excursion by the shore. We can return to your mother’s house, and then go back to Natanz with nobody the wiser.”
She shook her head. “No. If they aren’t ‘wiser’ now, they will be soon. I can’t describe how nervous I was when I arranged my leave. The security people lectured me for half an hour, and Major Rahim himself kept ‘passing by,’ asking questions about my mother and our plans, especially when we’d be back. The whole time, my stomach was in knots.” She hugged herself. “We can’t go back. I couldn’t say good-bye to mother like that again.”
“If this doesn’t work—” She lowered her voice. “If the Americans don’t meet us tomorrow tonight, we have to escape on our own. We get a boat— rent, buy, or steal one and just leave. You know what’s waiting for us. We can’t go back!”
Yousef wanted to agree. With freedom a possibility, the thought of returning to Natanz repelled him. But crossing the gulf in a small boat? Two hundred kilometers of open water with a pregnant wife? And there were Pasdaran patrol boats, on the lookout for spies and smugglers. Spies like the two of them, he admitted to himself.
But arrest and Evin Prison held a special terror for every Iranian. Risking death in an open boat might be preferable. “We can talk about that later,” he finally answered. “Let’s see what happens tomorrow tonight.”
“Where will we live?” she asked. Shirin wanted to imagine the future, to think about things she’d kept locked in a corner of her mind for years. She was beginning to consider the possibility that they might actually leave Iran. “Do you want to live in America? We don’t have to, you know. We could live anywhere—France, or Brazil.”
“We’d both have to learn French or Portuguese,” Yousef answered. “At least you speak excellent English. Much better than me.” He shrugged. “I should have studied harder.”
“Then what about England or Australia?”
“It’s pleasant to think about,” he agreed. “We haven’t had a lot of choices for the last few years.”
“The Americans will help us,” Shirin asserted. “They owe us, and even if they didn’t, the flash drive has enough to pay for our passage.”
They drove though the uneven landscape. Highway 65 wove and twisted across crestlines and valleys, always seeking the smoothest way south. Scrubby short plants stood out in different shades of green against dull brown, but it wasn’t all desert. They also passed by fields and orchards that surrounded small farming communities.
Shirin took out the GPS navigator and checked their progress. It showed their planned route. “We should be in Bandar Kangan by three o’clock.”
They would drive south to the coast and then northwest on Highway 96. Their route to Kangan took them right past the place where they would meet the Americans. The spot was nine kilometers southeast of the town, at a place where the highway passed very close to the water. It would be natural for a couple to pause by a narrow, rocky beach and watch the sun go down. Lingering long enough to see the sky erupt into bright colors during twilight— exactly at twilight. The Americans would arrive shortly after that.
Yousef had arranged their trip so they could see it first in the early afternoon, in full daylight. They could also check for any activity. It didn’t have to be VEVAK or a Basij patrol. Fishermen, roadwork, anyone nearby would prevent their escape.
They had a latitude and longitude for the rendezvous point, but they had not entered that into the device. Both had memorized the numbers, and would simply drive, then walk until the readout matched their recollection. Shirin didn’t think she’d ever forget them.
~ * ~
3 April 2013
1100 Local Time/0800 Zulu
USS Michigan, Battle Management Center
The final authorization for the mission had come in late last night, but it came with a twist. Michigan now had to stay in international waters, some fifteen nautical miles from the coast, while the ASDS made the longer trip in. This eliminated more than half of their time reserve, which wasn’t a whole lot to begin with. Now they only had thirty minutes from the moment they arrived on station to the ASDS undocking and heading toward the shore.
Aside from Jerry, now the substitute ASDS pilot, the skipper, Lieutenant Commander Mike Harper, the boat’s engineer, and Lieutenants Simmons and Carlson were the only members of Michigan’s crew present. As navigator, Simmons had to make sure Michigan was in the right place both for departure and rendezvous—especially for the rendezvous. Harper, as the next senior officer, would be the acting XO while Jerry was off the boat. Lieutenant Carlson, cast and all, had been allowed to attend because of his expertise with the ASDS.
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 hav
e 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?”
