Exit Plan

back,” Rahim answered. “He is being watched. His questions are being deflected to your office. And you’ve been ‘difficult to reach.’”

“It would be best if we could share our plans with him,” Moradi suggested.

“We can’t, and we’ve discussed this.” Rahim’s tone was firm. “His piety is beyond reproach, but I do not believe he would be willing to make the sacrifices required by your plan. And he would not agree with your assessment that the program is doomed to failure. He is too emotionally committed to its completion.”

“I agree,” Moradi replied, “but he has access to a great many people outside the program. If he reaches out to them — ”

“Which is why he is being watched.” Rahim assured him. “If he does reach out, he will be detained.” Forestalling Moradi’s protests, he quickly added, “He will not be harmed. I would never permit such a thing. If our plans are successful, he would only be held incommunicado for a short while, until the attack.”

“They will attack,” Moradi answered. “And soon.”

3 APRIL FOOLS

1 April 2013

2030 Local Time/1630 Zulu

USS Michigan

“Please tell me this is just another bad joke,” pleaded Jerry Mitchell, as he looked up from the report in his hand.

“Sorry, sir,” replied Lieutenant Jaime Manning, USS Michigan’s medical officer, “but this isn’t part of today’s festivities. Alex has really fractured his left arm, and I have to ground him from any further ASDS operations.”

Jerry winced at the word “ground.” Even after a decade that word still had some bite to it. He rubbed his right forearm, just above the wrist, almost by reflex, feeling the scars from the rough landing after ejecting from his Hornet so many years ago.

Not bothering to hide his frustration, he threw the report onto an already impressive mound in his in-box. As the executive officer of the blue crew on USS Michigan, his world revolved around paperwork. And while overseeing the ship’s administration was only one of his duties, it seemed to take up most of his time. Despite his best efforts, he scrambled just to keep up. Everything was getting done, but the process wasn’t pretty, nor was his stateroom. This little incident would add another report or two to Jerry’s growing to-do list. Turning back toward the doctor, he asked a one-word question. “How?”

“Well, XO, as you recall, last night’s movie was 300.”

“Tell me about it,” replied Jerry sarcastically. “I’ve been listening to the SEALs chanting HAROO! all day long!”

Manning nodded sympathetically. “Yeess, it has been getting a bit tiresome. But anyway, Alex and Holt got into a lively debate over the scene where King Leonidas kicks the Persian messenger into the well. Alex claimed the segment had to be computer animation because there was no way a real human being could kick like that, with any force. Holt, of course, disagreed, claiming he had used a similar kick before and that it was very effective. The discussion got a little animated, and ended up with Alex challenging Holt to prove it. So they went off to missile compartment lower level to conduct a Mythbusters-like experiment and settle the issue.”

Jerry sighed deeply as he rubbed his face; he had no trouble seeing why this story had a bad ending. Lieutenant (jg) Holt Barrineau was the assistant officer-in-charge of the SEAL platoon assigned to Michigan for the exercise with the Pakistani Special Forces. Holt was built like a truck — a very large truck — that made squeezing his powerful six-foot-four frame through the submarine’s constricted passageways and hatches a challenge. The crew called him “Gutzilla,” partly because of his huge size and aggressive demeanor, and partly because of his nearly insatiable appetite. Jerry had personally seen the young officer consume unbelievable quantities of food. Holt didn’t just eat; he refueled.

Lieutenant Alex Carlson was physically a polar opposite. Skinny as a reed, he barely made it to five-foot-ten inches in height and weighed in at 160 pounds when soaking wet. Barrineau easily had 100 pounds on him. But despite the significant differences in size, shape, and Navy training, Carlson and Barrineau were close friends. Carlson, as the Advanced SEAL Delivery System, or ASDS, pilot, worked far more closely with the SEALs than anyone else on Michigan. SEALs also hold a special respect for non-SEALs that take the same risks to bring them in and out of harm’s way. The mutual respect quickly turned into friendship. Jerry was confident that none of the individuals involved thought anyone would get badly hurt. He doubted thought entered into the discussion at all, but the basic physics of the situation were entirely in Barrineau’s favor, and by a wide margin.

“After a few slow trials to get the positioning right,” continued Manning, “Holt attempted the real kick. Unfortunately, as he raised his right leg, his left foot slipped and he rotated the kick instead of making it head on. The kick caught Alex between the fifth and sixth ribs on his left side, spun him about, and threw him into a missile tube where his left ulna took the brunt of the impact. It was a clean fracture, just above the wrist, and was easily set, but Alex will be in a whole arm cast for a couple of months, maybe three.”

Jerry shook his head and looked upward. “Lord, save me from the synergistic stupidity of knuckleheaded young men.”

“I believe the underlying medical condition is called testosterone poisoning, sir,” added Manning wryly.

Jerry didn’t immediately respond to the doctor’s quip. He simply frowned while he groped around on his desk for the clipboard with the exercise master events list. Quietly, he looked it over, then tossed the clipboard back onto his desk.

“I’m assuming that Alex can still stand watches.”

“Yes, sir. Between his arm and a couple of bruised ribs, he’ll be a bit sore, but he is able to stand regular watches on board Michigan. He just can’t pilot the ASDS.”

“That’s fine, Doctor. We only have one more event in this exercise, and it doesn’t include the ASDS, so this injury goes into the annoying vice inconvenient category.” Jerry paused momentarily, thinking. “Still, I’m going to have to give it some thought on how to describe this incredibly stupid stunt officially.”

“If it’s of any help, XO, some of the SEALs are calling it the ‘Spartan kick gone wrong.’ “

“Spartan kick gone wrong, eh?” Jerry mulled over the doctor’s suggestion. “It certainly is catchy. It would make a great title for a YouTube vid…”

He froze in midsentence as that dreadful thought finally worked its way into the conscious part of his brain. Leaning forward, a guarded expression on his face, and speaking softly, he asked, “Please tell me no one recorded this foolishness?”

Startled by her XO’s sudden change, Manning stammered, “I… I don’t think so, sir. Why would they do something so dumb as…”

Her response slowly drifted to a stop as Jerry adopted the classic “XO look,” a foundation of stern impatience with a dash of irritation.

“… and I’ll find out and get back to you ASAP,” concluded Manning quickly.

“Correct answer,” replied Jerry with a slight grin. “The last thing I need is for a video of this incident to go viral on the Internet the moment we get back to port. It would complicate my life and I don’t need any help with that. Capiche?”

“Yes, sir. I understand, completely.”

“Good. Now concerning your qual board…”

The sudden antiquated ring of the Dialex internal phone system rudely interrupted their conversation. Holding up his right index finger, signifying “Wait one,” Jerry reached over and unclipped the handset. “Executive officer,” he answered.

“XO, Officer of the deck, sir. The skipper asked me to pass on that we are receiving flash traffic. He is already in the radio room and requests that you get your, quote, carcass up there immediately, unquote, sir.”