Exit Plan (59 page)

Shirin suddenly became solemn; she fidgeted nervously as she tried to find the right words. “Harry, what will happen to us?” she finally asked.

Fazel witnessed her abrupt change in expression, and completely understood the emotions behind the question. His parents had gone through the same thing. A feeling of loss and isolation, coupled with uncertainty and some fear. He sat down beside her, and did his best to allay her anxiety.

“I don’t know exactly what will happen, Dr. Naseri. I know you’ll be taken care of, both of you. Initially, there will be a lot of work to go over all the data you have on that flash drive. But afterward, what you do is up to you. With your credentials, you could teach, work for a nuclear engineering firm, or do something entirely new. Like I said, its up to you. America is a free country.”

“Where would I live? Are there many Iranians living in America?”

Fazel laughed heartily. “Absolutely! There are a great many Iranians living in America! Next to our mother country, no other country in the world has more of our people. And all of them are proud of their Persian heritage, as well as their allegiance to the United States. I can assure you, you will be most welcome in any community. If you wish, I can ask my father to put together some information on the various Iranian communities in America. He has many friends who’d consider it an honor to assist you.”

Harry’s confident response soothed and intrigued Shirin. She had no idea that the United States had so many Iranians living there, or that they would openly welcome someone who was guilty of treason. All she wanted was a quiet place to raise her child, do meaningful work, and new friends to replace the ones she’d lost.

“Do you have any other questions, Dr. Naseri?” Harry asked.

“Yes, Harry, just one more. What is your real first name?”

Fazel was momentarily surprised, but in a way the question did make some sense. He had spent more time with her than any of the other SEALs or Commander Mitchell, and he was a fellow countryman. She wanted some assurance that he meant what he had said. It was a question of trust. She had no choice but to trust him, but did he trust her? It was a small thing, almost trivial, but it was an important gesture for her. While he pondered his response, she sat there quietly. Finally he let out a deep sigh, looked her straight in the eye, and answered her question. “Harry is my real name, but it would be more accurate to say it’s my nickname. My given name, my Persian name is Heydar.”

“Thank you, Heydar,” she said politely.

~ * ~

Ten minutes. They seemed like an eternity. Rahim paced back and forth in the harbor master’s office, agitated, seething, while he waited for the flames to be extinguished and for a tanker truck to bring more gasoline for the remaining patrol boat. They were refueling the boat now at another part of the harbor, but the fire was still raging around the damaged pier. The initial report said there were no survivors from the two Pasdaran boats. Dahghan was dead. The chase had just gotten personal.

A young Pasdaran first lieutenant approached him, saluting as he spoke, “Major Rahim, sir, I’m Lieutenant Qorbani. We will be ready to depart as soon as the fire is put out on the pier.”

Rahim’s hearing had partially returned. There was still a maddening ringing in his ears, but he heard the lieutenant well enough, and he wasn’t happy with what he had said. “No! We leave immediately! Every minute lets the enemy slip farther away! I will not allow them to escape!” cried Rahim vigorously.

Qorbani was taken aback by the VEVAK agent’s forcefulness, but wisely gave the only acceptable response, “Very well, Major. My boat is this way.”

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.

~ * ~

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.”