Free Exit Plan by Larry Bond Page B

should reduce the risk to an acceptable level,” concluded Jerry.
     
    “Comments on the XO’s idea. Alex?” Guthrie asked.
     
    “The XO’s legit, sir,” responded Carlson favorably. “He has an intuitive feel for the minisub; he can do it.”
     
    “Vern?”
     
    “Concur with Alex, sir.”
     
    “Travis?”
     
    “Concur, Captain.”
     
    A visibly relieved Guthrie turned to Jerry and said, “Okay, XO, you got the job.”
     
    Facing the assembly, Guthrie offered a final opportunity for comment. “Anything else?”
     
    “Yes, sir,” answered Frederickson. “Captain, I’d like to request restricted access to the BMC and missile compartment lower level to enable my guys to properly prepare for this mission.”
     
    Guthrie had seen SEALs go into a similar isolation mode in the past. It helped the SEALs mentally prepare for a mission. He thought it was a little strange, but it was their way and it did seem to bear fruit. “Granted, Travis. Only the navigator, Mr. Carlson, the XO, and myself will have access. Everyone else has to get your permission. Jerry, make sure you pass the word.”
     
    “Aye, aye, sir,”
     
    “Thank you, Captain,” responded Frederickson.
     
    “Alright, people, we have a job to do, so get hot,” ordered Guthrie.
     
    Everyone in control clearly heard the SEALs. “HOOYAH, Skipper!”
     
    ~ * ~

 
4.   SORTIE
     
     
     
     
    2 April 2013
    1005 Local Time/1505 Zulu
    The White House
     
    Joanna Patterson concentrated on staying two steps behind the national security advisor. Ray Kirkpatrick was shorter than her by a good six inches, but he walked fast, and she worked to keep up. They were a little late, and that only added to her adrenaline level.
     
    She knew the West Wing very well, and had been in the Oval Office dozens of times, but this was a new job, with a new administration, and of course, a new boss—two new bosses if you counted Dr. Kirkpatrick. A close friend of President Myles, he’d been a deputy undersecretary of defense in the Huber administration. It was a big jump from deputy of whatever to national security advisor, but Kirkpatrick had made a name for himself. Energetic, almost to a fault, with good communications skills and ambition, he’d transformed his little acre in the Pentagon from a disaster to “a model of efficiency,” according to the cover of Pentagon Weekly. Kirkpatrick also understood the value of good press.
     
    Getting the briefing perfect had taken a few minutes too long. They arrived almost breathless, five minutes late, but the president’s secretary waved them inside. “You’re not the last. We’re still waiting for Admiral Hughes.”
     
    “Thank you, Mrs. McDowell.” Kirkpatrick headed inside and Patterson followed. A memory, of going to the dean’s office with a professor to ask for a grant, flashed in her mind.
     
    She’d only met President Kenneth Myles a few times, and then only briefly, without getting a real chance to talk with him. She’d enjoyed a long relationship with President Huber, based on their common advocacy of environmental issues. Her relationship with the new president was based on a glowing recommendation from Huber and a vetting by the Myles transition team.
     
    The room was crowded, in her opinion much more than necessary. The secretaries of state and defense waited near the president. It seemed like half the U.S. Intelligence apparatus was in the room: General Duvall, Chairman of the National Intelligence Council was here, as well as his boss, Gregory Alexander, the Director of National Intelligence, and Dr. Randall Foster, Director of the CIA. The military side included the secretary of defense, chairman of the joint chiefs, and General Ramsdale, head of Special Operations Command. Too many people drew too much attention and too much talk.
     
    The president was speaking to the Secretary of State, Andrew Lloyd. Lloyd was an old-school diplomat, with over thirty years of experience in the state