Free Exit Plan by Larry Bond

Master Chief Eichmann with a terse “Aye, aye, sir.”
     
    “Mr. Zelinski,” Guthrie continued, “I want an updated status report on all ship’s weapons and the UAVs. I don’t expect a fight, but the Iranians don’t always act rationally and I want to be ready just in case they make it necessary for us to defend ourselves.”
     
    “Yes, sir,” replied the weapons officer. “I’ll have it to the XO in a couple of hours.”
     
    “Good. Also work with the XO to schedule some additional battle stations torpedo and strike drills.” Checking off two more items, Guthrie turned toward his navigator.
     
    “Mr. Simmons, I need you to figure out our best avenue of approach once we enter the gulf. I want an optimized plan that gets us to the desired coordinates as fast as possible, while keeping us in the deepest water possible.”
     
    The young African American frowned. He was not happy with this assignment. “Skipper, we are talking two hundred feet of water at the very best, probably a lot less. It’s going to be frickin’ hard to maintain a decent speed without generating a visible wake on the surface. It’s hard to hide a hippo in a swimming pool!”
     
    Jerry had to grin at Simmons’s metaphor, for while it was a little crass to compare Michigan to a hippopotamus with her skipper present, it was an apt analogy. Submarine skippers, especially nuclear submarine skippers, weren’t comfortable in less than three hundred or four hundred feet of water, and preferred six hundred feet—a hundred fathoms.
     
    “You don’t see me smiling about this either, Isaac,” Guthrie replied sympathetically. “Just do the best you can, and while you’re at it please avoid shipping lanes if at all possible. I really don’t want to be in a sequel of Hartford’s collision.”
     
    The frown on Simmons’s face quickly mutated into a grimace at the mention of the collision between the Los Angeles- class attack submarine USS Hartford , and USS New Orleans , a San Antonio- class amphibious assault ship in March 2009. Hartford was submerged, crossing the main shipping lanes just inside the Strait of Hormuz, when her sail was struck by the amphib, causing significant damage to the submarine.
     
    Still uneasy, Simmons nodded and said, “We’ll get right on it, Captain.”
     
    “Mr. Frederickson”—Guthrie shifted his attention to the SEAL detachment OIC—”begin your formal mission-planning process. I want the brief back on the platoon leader order in thirty hours.”
     
    “Understood, sir. Mr. Ramey has that for action.” Frederickson pointed toward Lieutenant Matthew Ramey, Charlie platoon’s leader, as he spoke.
     
    “Very well,” said Guthrie as he checked his list. “One more thing for you and your SEALs to keep in mind when you start putting together your intelligence requirements for reachback support. Every time you want to transmit requirements or receive data, we have to slow down. The masts can’t handle speeds in excess of ten knots. We are operating under a very tight time line for this mission, and we can’t afford losing time for repeated periscope depth evolutions so you can phone home. So as you put together your essential elements of information needs for NAVSPECWARCOM or ONI to fill, please do so efficiently.”
     
    “Understood,” responded Frederickson and Ramey simultaneously.
     
    “Mr. Carlson, I want a complete check of the ASDS systems, particularly the batteries . . .” Guthrie’s speech came to an abrupt stop as he looked up from his clipboard and saw his ASDS pilot clearly for the first time.
     
    Jerry saw his captain do a double take. He then removed his reading glasses and took yet another look, followed by, “Alex! What the hell happened to you!?”
     
    Carlson just stood there silent, embarrassed.
     
    “Uhh, I did, sir,” replied Barrineau sheepishly.
     
    Guthrie turned toward Jerry, a look of total confusion written all over his face.
     
    “The, uh, medical