epaulets in?”
“Yes, sir, I did. What’s that about?”
“That’s a piece of her father’s flight suit. He was an F-14 pilot, imprisoned and tortured by the IRGC right after the Revolution. And yet, he flew to defend Iran during the Iraq war in the eighties. He died in combat. Shirin was just a baby, she never knew her father. You heard what she repeated over and over again after Yousef died?”
The petty officer nodded.
“Well, Harry told me that ‘Baba’ is kind of the Persian equivalent of papa. She was crying for her unborn child, as much as herself. On top of all that, her mother has almost certainly been arrested, and probably killed. She’s lost everyone dear to her. That’s a steep price tag in anybody’s book,” Jerry observed thoughtfully. “We owe it to her to get her out alive.”
“I’m all for that,” agreed Lapointe, as he continued tracking the Pasdaran patrol. “They’re just about far enough away for us to get started. You get Dr. Naseri, I’ll grab my new crutch and my weapon. It’s time for us to catch our ride home.”
Fazel emerged from the dark water like a creature out of a horror film, and carefully crept up the embankment. The guard had just walked by, interested more in searching the edge along the outer perimeter of the breakwater than inside toward the harbor itself. Silently and methodically, the corpsman climbed up onto the path, approaching the guard from behind. With one smooth motion, the SEAL covered the guard’s mouth with his hand, pulled back his head, and plunged the knife between the collarbone and trapezius muscle into his heart; the guard didn’t even have time to drop the flashlight he was carrying.
Grabbing the flashlight, and then rolling the body over onto the rocks of the outside wall, Fazel slowly began pacing along the path, pretending to be the Pasdaran soldier. Ramey had been right, there were two guards on that part of the breakwater, but the other one was easily over one hundred meters away and walking in the opposite direction. As long as he stayed that far away, he wouldn’t be a problem.
“All clear, Philly. Check out the boat, but be quiet about it,” Fazel advised over the radio.
“Understood,” Phillips responded. He was already beside a speedboat that had caught his eye. It was about the right length, six or seven meters, and it had a respectable one-hundred-horsepower outboard. There were a couple of boats with larger engines, but they were in the middle of the nest. This one was the last boat in a long string, which meant its absence wouldn’t be as easily noticed. Pulling himself up onto the transom, he was able to get a footing on the outboard and slithered inside. Phillips paused to listen for the guard, then peered over the gunwale to check on his location. The Pasdaran soldier was at the far end of the breakwater, walking away from him.
Crawling toward the open cockpit, Phillips could feel his heart pounding with excitement. This was his first deployment and it was everything he’d dreamed it would be. Being downrange, mucking about in the bad guys’ backyard unseen and unheard, was what kept him going during BUDS. He relished being part of a selective group that was determined to succeed, no matter how tough the job was or how much it hurt.
Phillips pulled out a small red light and held it up high under the steering console. He quickly inspected the wiring. No security measures; they’d be able to hot-wire this boat in no time. Sliding back down to the stern, the young SEAL peered over the gunwale again. The guard was still far away, but had turned around, as the flashlight beam now pointed in Phillips’s direction. He needed to finish up soon. Checking the after storage compartment, he made sure that the marine batteries were in place before looking for a fuel gauge. He found it on the starboard side of the below-deck fuel tank, near the fueling port. The tank looked hefty and the gauge read three-quarters full. “Score!” he whispered.
Slipping off the transom and back into the water, he moved quickly toward the boat’s bow. Tracing the mooring line by hand, he cut it as close to the pier as he could. He didn’t want a long piece of line floating in the water that could attract unwanted attention. Again he paused and listened for the guard. Nothing.
“Harry, I’ve got the boat. Where’s the guard?” radioed Phillips.
“Still a ways away, but walking slowly toward us. I’m on my way back, start towing the boat out.”
Phillips had already slid between “their” boat and the next one in the nest when Fazel gave the order. Slowly, carefully, Phillips pushed away the hull. The beast was heavy, but it soon surrendered to his determined shoving. Inertia did the rest. Once the boat was clear of its neighbor, Phillips returned to the bow, grabbed the line, and began pulling it along the inner edge of the breakwater. With two rows of nested dhows between him and the harbor lights, it would be virtually impossible for anyone, other than the guard that Fazel had taken out, to see him as he struggled to tow the boat out to sea.
It wasn’t long before Fazel was back in the water with Phillips. And after stringing a second towline, he put his back into it as well. “Sweet ride, Philly,” remarked the corpsman approvingly. “She certainly looks fast.”
“And I made sure she has plenty of gas, Doc,” huffed Phillips. Fazel could only smile and shake his head. Together, the two SEALs manhandled the speedboat toward the mouth of the harbor.
On the other side of the port, Ramey had just finished attaching two of his improvised explosive devices to the undersides of the IRGC patrol boats. The first boat was one of the notorious Swedish Boghammars. Very fast and armed with two heavy machine guns, this bad boy definitely had to be taken out. He tied the Mark 67 hand grenade, wrapped with half a pound of C4 plastic explosive, to the lowest step of the swim ladder using duct tape and rope. He made sure the explosive package was underwater to improve its effectiveness. He then looped line through the eye of the pin, straightened out the pin’s flared end to ensure a smooth extraction, and secured the line to one of the pier’s pylons. When the boat moved away from its mooring, the pin would be pulled from the grenade, followed four or five seconds thereafter by a loud
The second IED was attached forward, taped on the outboard side of the hull, just below the sharp chine near the waterline. And like the first grenade, he looped a line through the pin, straightened the end, and tied it off on a pylon. The booby trap would almost certainly be spotted in bright daylight, but by then it wouldn’t matter. All Ramey cared about was that these boats didn’t leave port for the next few hours.
The second patrol boat was a smaller Watercraft 800. Ramey didn’t see any armament, but he knew it was fast and fixed two of his IEDs to it as well. He still had some time, so he took the two remaining bombs and rigged them to blow up under the pier’s wooden deck. He took extra care to ensure one was directly under a fuel tank that was bolted to the deck — an insurance policy that hopefully would keep the Pasdaran busy while they made good their escape. With all his special packages in place, Ramey ducked underwater and swam away. When he surfaced he was over thirty meters away from the breakwater. He could see the guard’s flashlight, and while it was unlikely he would be seen, Ramey wasn’t taking any chances and went back under to put more distance between him and the Pasdaran sentry. When he came up the second time, in the middle of the port proper, he spotted the channel marker light and headed for the exfiltration point.
Jerry struggled to keep Lapointe upright as they worked their way across the uneven, sandy terrain. They’d left the grove over an hour ago, but even though he was giving it his all, the wounded petty officer could only go so fast. While the crutch and splint enabled Lapointe to move, each step was agonizing. Jerry knew he was in considerable pain as the sweat was pouring off his shaking body, and yet all Jerry heard was his sharp exhale each time the splint hit the ground. Lapointe had insisted they take this route even though it would be tougher for him to navigate. It was not only the shortest path to the breakwater, but it kept them out of range of any passing patrol. It also would provide good cover for them to hide, just in case a Pasdaran patrol deviated from its observed route. The problem was they still had about half a kilometer to go till they reached the breakwater, and their pace was slowing.
It had been a difficult departure. While Lapointe got accustomed to the feel of his walking aids, Jerry went back to Yousef’s grave to get Shirin. He found her there, kneeling, her hand on the freshly turned soil, speaking softly in Farsi. He knelt down next to her, cleared his throat and said, “Shirin, it’s time to go.”
