Exit Plan (29 page)

Emily had been relieved to find the entire Mitchell family so loving and accepting; her own parents had been divorced for many years and they still had issues. As the only child, she constantly found herself as the rope in a never-ending game of tug- of-war. Emily had already been leaning toward Jerry’s home state for the wedding, more as neutral ground than anything else, but once she found all those “enchanting” hiking trails up on the North Shore, the deal was sealed.

Finally, the last couple approached them. Jerry and Emily had both been waiting patiently for this reunion.

“Emily, you look radiant!” exclaimed Patterson, as she rushed up to hug her. “I always knew this day would come.” She turned to Jerry and gave him a big hug as well. “Even when the two of you were too damn stubborn to admit it!”

“I’m so glad you could make it, Joanna. We were surprised by your RSVP, we know how busy you and Representative Hardy are this month,” Emily replied.

“Nonsense! We wouldn’t have missed this for the world!” beamed Patterson. “Besides, we both needed a break from the campaign trail. I’m just glad the Minnesota caucuses were last week. Very convenient.”

“Congratulations, Emily, Jerry.” Hardy smiled broadly as he gave the bride a hug. “I have to admit I wasn’t as prescient as my wife, but I am just as pleased that the two of you woke up and pulled your heads out of your rears.” He slapped Jerry on the shoulder as he shook his hand.

“Is it true you’re going to be an executive officer?” asked Hardy with disbelief.

“Yes, sir. I’m slated to be the XO of USS
Michigan
blue crew.”

“Good Lord, I suddenly feel old. I think I need a drink,” Hardy moaned. Jerry thought he did look much older, but was too polite to say so.

“Congratulations on winning the primary in Connecticut, sir,” he said, instead.

“Thank you. The senatorial race has been rougher than I expected, but we did well,” He tilted his head in Patterson’s direction. “Joanna is a force of nature in such matters. I doubt I would have won without her insight and dogged determination.”

“You see, Jerry. Lowell has mellowed over the years,” teased Patterson, as she wrapped her arms around Hardy’s neck. “What he really wanted to say was ‘nagging.’ “

Hardy rolled his eyes, while Emily and Patterson laughed. Jerry struggled to maintain a neutral composure. It’s not nice to laugh at a former skipper.

“Moving on,” Hardy demanded. “Where are you lovebirds going to spend your honeymoon?”

“We’re heading north, sir. Emily has discovered Superior National Forest and she really wants to do some winter hiking,” replied Jerry enthusiastically.

“You’re kidding, right?” Hardy was skeptical.

“No, sir. Emily is quite the hiker,” answered Jerry. “Truth be told, she’s walked my butt off in California. We’re hoping to get in some good old-fashioned walking on the Gunflint Trail, and maybe some cross-country skiing. I doubt I’ll get her on the slopes at Lutsen though.”

“That’s not a honeymoon!” barked Hardy. “That’s a forced march, in Siberia no less! Please tell me you aren’t planning on doing cold weather camping?”

“No, no, no. Emily has some very strong opinions on that,” stated Jerry firmly. “Her idea of roughing it is confined strictly to the trails. The accommodations have to have a warm bed, a hot tub, a good restaurant, and a well-stocked bar. Tents and dehydrated food are right out.”

“Thank God, for that tattered shred of sanity!” responded Hardy, amazed.

“Now, darling, not everyone wants to be a beach bum,” chided Patterson sternly. “It’s their honeymoon, let them do what they want.”

“Oh, oh, I know that voice. I’d better go get that drink, before I end up sleeping on the couch. We’ll talk more later.” It was Hardy’s turn to chuckle at his wife’s expense. The two walked toward the bar hand in hand.

The dinner was exquisite. Lenny Berg’s toast as the best man was unexpectedly gracious. The first bites of the wedding cake were exchanged without incident, and Jerry launched the garter into a sea of eligible bachelors. When it was Emily’s turn to throw the bouquet, she positioned herself before a throng of unattached young women and lofted the bunch of lavender roses over her head.

Jerry watched as the tidy bunch of flowers slowly flipped end over end, almost in slow motion. Flowers? Flowers! . . .

He awoke suddenly, his mind racing, triggered by the vision of flowers floating in the air. Did the florist remember to send Emily the card and flowers? As his groggy head started to clear, he remembered getting the familygram from his wife, thanking him for the flowers and the beautiful card. He had left the handwritten card with the florist to accompany the roses. The message was short and simple, “each petal a thought of you.” It was the best he could do since he would be at sea during their first anniversary.

Jerry shivered as he looked around. The wind was still howling; he could hear sand pelting the building’s thin metal walls. Lapointe and Phillips were standing guard, while everyone else appeared to be asleep. He laid his head back down and tried to snuggle deeper into the thermal blanket. Cold and sore, Jerry desperately wanted to go back to sleep. He wanted the dream to continue, he wanted to be back home.

~ * ~

They’d ridden out the shamal, which had thankfully ended about 1700. It had been a long, uncomfortable wait. Even with rags stuffed in cracks around the doors and windows, the air in the shed had been filled with fine dust. They’d all worn improvised masks, but the grit still found its way onto their teeth. Clothing offered little protection. This made staying bundled against the damp chill more unpleasant as the gritty cloth rubbed up against their skin.

It wasn’t all bad news. Any trace of their passage last night had been obliterated, and with luck, the old Peykan was buried under a new sand dune.

Jerry had slept, but he didn’t feel rested, and he’d kill for a shower. Still, he felt better. There would be no shamal tonight, and just knowing what to expect helped his attitude. He also blessed the day he’d joined the Navy. He liked the outdoors, but this was taking it too far.

After the shamal ended, they managed to push open a door on the lee side of the storage shed. The SEALs secured the area, Lapointe set up the satellite antenna, and Jerry called
Michigan.

“We’re ready for resupply. When do you plan on launching the Cormorant?”

Guthrie’s voice was almost cheerful. “We’ll launch at 1900, just before last light, so we can hide the plume of the booster rockets. Everything you’ve requested is being loaded as we speak.”

“Thank you, sir. This drop will help boost morale.” Jerry knew the resupply effort would solve their immediate needs, but it didn’t deal with the larger issue. “How’s the surface picture looking?”

“Worse. The number of surface patrols has increased steadily; you’d think there was a regatta up there. Fortunately, they haven’t wandered too far from Kangan, yet. But you are less than forty kilometers from the IRGC naval base at Asaluyeh, which means we still can’t come in and get you. By the way, we’ve had a request. Our friends back home examined the material you sent and would like one more file. Tell Dr. Naseri it’s a confidence building request.” Guthrie read off a string of letters and numbers.

Shirin was still dozing, so Fazel quickly explained and Yousef roused her while Pointy used his laptop and found the file Guthrie had asked about. Yawning, she typed in the decryption key, then again when it didn’t work the first time. “This is the last one,” she warned.

~ * ~

Guthrie had tried not to hover, but now it was time for a last check. Simmons could get
Michigan
to the right location, depth, and heading without the captain looking over his shoulder.

The missile compartment was crowded when he arrived. The two supply capsules had already been loaded and secured inside the Cormorant’s fuselage. Lieutenant Frederickson, Chief Yates, and several enlisted members of the SEAL platoon were watching with interest as the missile techs performed the prelaunch checks while Lieutenant (jg) Pat Doolan, one of the assistant weapons officers, supervised.

The captain had served in
Ohios
before as a junior officer, when the boats carried twenty-four Trident
II
missiles. Now, the “Sherwood Forest” of double cylinders was loaded with other things. And while their general appearance hadn’t changed, Guthrie could see the details: the equipment added to recharge the scuba tanks and the added workspace for the SEALs to maintain their gear. And for two tubes, twenty-three and twenty-four, the equipment that supported the Cormorant UAVs inside. The access hatch was open, with Doolan and his chief making the final inspection. The shape of the UAV was hidden, wrapped inside its own folded wings.

Lieutenant Frederickson offered the captain a clipboard. “Here’s the final list, Skipper—four hundred and seventy pounds.”

“Is that all? The Cormorant can carry more than twice that.”

“But our people can’t. If they split the load equally, it’s over sixty pounds per person. And I don’t think the woman’s going to be carrying much at all. My guys have been working on this list since Matt and the others got stuck on the beach.”

Behind him, the missile techs closed the access hatch to the tube and began checking the seals. “Captain, can we watch the launch in the control room?” asked one of the techs. “The Tomahawk weapons control center is going to be packed, and we’d like to see our bird fly.”

“I don’t need a lot of bystanders in control during this evolution. But, I’ll authorize your team to go to the BMC for the launch. That way those of you who are not on duty can watch.”

The young missile technician smiled. “Thank you, sir.”

Half an hour later,
Michigan
was at UAV launch stations. Sonar reported no nearby contacts, and the diving officer was ready to compensate for the absence of nine thousand pounds of robotic aircraft. The launch procedure was ridiculously simple.

The sound-powered phone talker reported, “TWCC reports Cormorant shows ready.”

Guthrie ordered, “Open the hatch on missile tube twenty-three.”

“Open the hatch on missile tube twenty-three, aye. Launcher, Control. Open the hatch on missile tube twenty-three.” After no more than thirty seconds, the petty officer reported, “Hatch on tube twenty-three indicates fully open and locked.” The chief of the boat, standing watch as the diving officer, could see the indicators on the ballast control panel. He nodded confirmation.

“Elevate the platform,” commanded Guthrie. The phone talker relayed the order to the launch control station in the missile compartment. The Cormorant was perched on a launch rig that would lift it clear of the missile tube hatch. Since the UAV was uncontrolled during its ascent, it had to be clear of any obstacles before it was released.

“Captain, launch platform is raised.”

“Very well. Release Cormorant.”

“Release Cormorant, aye. TWCC, Control. Release Cormorant.” Seconds later, the phone talker relayed, “Sir, Launcher indicates Cormorant has been released.”

“Good,” Guthrie answered. “Lower the platform and close the hatch on tube twenty-three. Increase speed to five knots, come to course one five zero.”

The helmsman echoed his order and began turning the sluggish sub onto its new course. The Cormorant was still rising, although it would break the surface in moments.

“Up periscope.”
Michigan
still had an old-style Type 8 optical periscope, along with the newer photonics mast that didn’t need to penetrate the pressure hull. Coached onto the UAV’s bearing by Simmons, the BVS-1 photonics mast would be pointing straight at the Cormorant when it cleared the surface. Monitors in the control room showed the two images side by side; natural light and low-level light from the photonics mast’s cameras. Guthrie used the older Type 8 to conduct a safety sweep.