by Larry Bond
8 April 2013
0530 Local Time/0230 Zulu
Nineteen Nautical Miles South of Iran
Jerry stared into space, his mouth hanging open, struggling to wrap his tired brain around what he had just heard. Ramey, also listening in on the circuit, was dumbfounded. Michigan was abandoning them.
Lapointe and Fazel had seen the sudden change in their expressions. “What happened, Boss?” asked Lapointe.
“Guthrie’s ditchin’ us! He’s not sending any help!” exclaimed Ramey, furious.
“What!?” Lapointe and Fazel blurted out simultaneously, astounded by their platoon leader’s words.
“Shut up, Ramey!” Jerry bellowed. “He can’t help us because he has problems of his own!”
“What do you mean, XO?” demanded Fazel.
“The last thing I heard before the Skipper signed off was the WLY-1 beeping in the background and a sonar operator warning of active sonars and launch transients.” Jerry sat as he explained, forcing himself to calm down. “I think they were being attacked by an Iranian sub, one of their Kilos.”
“But I thought only the IRGC operated in the gulf now,” said Lapointe, confused.
“That’s what I thought, too, Pointy, but only a Kilo has the sensors I heard being reported, and you wouldn’t hear any launch transients from a surface ship or air-dropped weapon. And if it’s a Kilo class, that means the Iranian Navy.”
Jerry took a deep breath, looked at the three SEALs and continued, his voice laced with worry. “Captain Guthrie has a tough fight on his hands. Staying to launch a Cormorant would have made him a sitting duck. He has over a hundred and fifty people on board Michigan that he’s responsible for, including most of your platoon. It’s not like he wanted to leave us to fend for ourselves.”
The four men sat in silence, their desperate situation weighing heavily upon them. They were outgunned, they couldn’t run, and they couldn’t hide. What else could they do? It was Ramey who finally broke the gloomy stillness. “All right, we need to start figuring out what we’re going to do when those patrol boats get here.”
“The only thing we can do is fight,” observed Fazel. “We certainly can’t outrun these guys.”
“Agreed, but the trick is how do we fight off three boats at the same time, Doc?” questioned Ramey. “We don’t have nearly enough firepower.”
Jerry heard the words, “at the same time,” and it suddenly dawned on him that Ramey was defaulting to a worst-case scenario. “Whoa, wait a minute, Matt. You’re assuming they’ll make a coordinated attack.”
“Yeah, what about it? It’s a reasonable assumption,” responded Ramey defensively.
“No argument there, Matt. And it would be appropriate if we were talking about a highly trained, professional military unit, but we aren’t, are we?” Jerry countered.
“I see where you’re going, XO. You think it’s more likely they’ll attack piecemeal,” Fazel concluded.
“Exactly! Think about it. The Pasdaran are aggressive, impatient, and right now, really pissed off. That means they’ll be even more impulsive than usual. On top of that, these are small patrol boats we’re talking about. They don’t have tactical data links, just voice radio, and they’re coming at us from three different directions. A coordinated attack may be a reasonable worst-case scenario, but I’d argue it’s the least likely scenario in this case,” Jerry explained.
“But they will eventually all get here,” Ramey contended.
“Agreed, Matt. But if they come in one at a time, we at least have a chance to thin out the herd. Not a great one, mind you, but it’s still a lot better than taking all three on at the same time. And, we can improve our odds a little by using our one advantage,” remarked Jerry cryptically.
“Advantage? What advantage?” Phillips didn’t see it.
But the others did. “We have eyes on the targets; we know where they are. But they’re unsure of where we are,” stated Ramey.
“Correct, and that allows us to choose when and whom we fight first,” Jerry declared. Using his hands, he showed the relative positions of the pursuers to their boat. “The RIB is on our right. The Ashura and Boghammar are on our left. If we alter course to the right a bit, we force the engagement with the RIB and put the other two into more of a tail-chase situation. That gives us a little more time to take out the RIB, which is also the fastest of the three bad guys.”
“XO, we can’t sink a RIB, at least not with small arms. I’ve been on boats very similar to the Iranian models. Those things use closed cell foam in their hulls. They’re almost impossible to sink,” observed Lapointe.
“Who said anything about sinking them, Pointy?” Jerry replied with a smile. “Our target is one of the outboard engines. We take out an engine and he’s out of the game.”
“What you’re suggesting makes a lot of sense, XO. But dealing with the DShK heavy machine gun will be crucial. Even on a small boat it has a serious range advantage over our best weapon,” Ramey stated thoughtfully.
Jerry was relieved to see that Ramey had swiftly recovered from the initial shock of Michigan’s abrupt departure. They had all been flabbergasted, overwhelmed when they realized Guthrie couldn’t send help. But the platoon leader had rebounded quickly and was dealing with their problems, not just agonizing over them.
“Yes, Matt. On paper a .50 caliber machine gun has, what? . . . about twice the range of Harry’s sniper rifle?”
“More or less, usually more, it depends on the specific model. But when mounted on a small boat the effective range drops by about a third,” Ramey replied.
“Well, this isn’t your basic paper drill; we’re at sea and that changes everything,” said Jerry.
“How so?” asked Ramey.
“When I was at postgraduate school, I read a lot about the Navy’s research into the Iranian small boat swarm-attack problem—lots of small boats mobbing one of our own ships, a destroyer or cruiser. The Navy’s been putting .50 caliber machine guns and 25-millimeter cannons on our ships, because they concluded the larger five-inch and three-inch guns were too easily overwhelmed and didn’t handle small boats that were in close. But even with these smaller, fast-firing weapons, accurate engagement ranges was well inside eight hundred yards, and those Iranian patrol boats are a lot smaller than a destroyer.
“We are both in fast-moving, bouncy boats, with unstabilized guns, aimed by a Mark 1 Mod 0 eyeball. And the IRGC trains to attack big lumbering targets, not nimble little speedboats. I’d be surprised if they could hit us at more than two hundred yards under these conditions. They’ll have to get really, really close to score any hits. And at those ranges, I’ll bet on your marksmanship over theirs any day of the week.”
“Well, I’m glad to see we’re good for something,” Phillips quipped.
“Just drive, Phillips,” chastised Ramey, then he said more seriously, “Okay then, here’s the basic plan: XO, you take on the navigation issue and figure out the best course to close the RIB. My guys and I will do what we can to protect Dr. Naseri and prepare for the fight. Any questions?” There weren’t any. “Then back on your heads, people.”
The collective brainstorming session had buoyed their confidence; the situation wasn’t completely hopeless once it was broken down. With renewed assurance that they had a fighting chance, the SEALs began preparing with gusto. While Jerry worked out the best course to take to close on the RIB, Ramey and Lapointe looked at ways to prevent the enemy from doing to them, what they planned to do to him—take out an engine. At the same time, Fazel concentrated on finding a way to give Shirin some protection from at least small-arms fire.
It took Jerry only a couple of minutes to do the math, and he ordered Phillips to change course twenty degrees toward the west. If his mental gymnastics were correct, things would get really interesting in about ten minutes.
~ * ~
8 April 2013
0540 Local Time/0240 Zulu
Twenty Nautical Miles South-Southwest of Bandar Lengeh
Rahim tapped his fingers on the coaming. It had been over thirty minutes since they’d left Bandar Lengeh and there was still nothing on the radar screen. Visibility had improved considerably as soon as the sun broke over the horizon, but the lookouts had spotted nothing. Agitated, impatient, and just a little green from the patrol boat’s choppy motion, the VEVAK agent was in a foul mood. “Lieutenant! You said we should have detected them by now!”
“Yes, Major, I did. However, there were a number of assumptions behind that statement. If even one was incorrect, then the estimate would have been incorrect as well.” Qorbani kept his tone respectful; this wasn’t the first time he had to deal with someone that didn’t understand the maritime patrol problem.
“Could they have gone more to the west?” demanded Rahim.
“Of course they could have, sir. But to escape Iran, they have to move away from our coast, not parallel it. Besides, such a course would send them directly toward one of our secondary bases on Kish Island. A westerly course would be foolish. Since these are not fools we are dealing with, a southerly escape course makes the most sense. There is nothing more we can do but continue on toward the intercept point and wait,” Qorbani answered.
Rahim didn’t like the lieutenant’s answer, but his explanation was logical. Frowning, he peered through his binoculars, straining to catch some sign of his prey. They have to be out here somewhere, he thought. Allah would surely not abandon him at this crucial juncture.
Suddenly, Qorbani shook Rahim’s shoulder. He turned to see the Pasdaran lieutenant on the radio. He repeated the contact report back for accuracy, as well as for Rahim’s benefit. “Understand the ten-meter RIB has contact on a high-speed craft heading south-southwest. Visual contact expected in four minutes.”
~ * ~
8 April 2013
0543 Local Time/0243 Zulu
Twenty-Five Nautical Miles South of Iran
Jerry leaned against the forward part of the control console and scanned the starboard side. “Nothing yet, Matt,” he reported.
“Keep looking, XO. He’s only about three miles away, broad on our starboard beam,” shouted Ramey, as he watched the UAV video feed. “Yeah, they have us on radar. One of the sailors keeps pointing in our general direction.”
Fazel had tucked Shirin as far forward in the small boat as he could. She wore one of the tactical vests and her head was sandwiched between two of the backpacks. It wasn’t much protection. A direct hit from any of the larger Iranian weapons would likely go right through, but it would provide her some shielding from splinters if the boat’s hull was hit.
At the opposite end of the boat, Ramey and Lapointe had wrapped two tactical vests around the head of the outboard engine and stacked the remaining packs along the back end. Again, the protection was minimal. A .50 caliber bullet would have no problem going through, but smaller rounds might be stopped. Ramey also set up firing positions for Fazel and himself, the goal being to limit their exposure while hopefully reducing the effects of the boat’s movement on their own shots.
Lapointe tried to assume a prone position, but the bouncing hull kept slamming into the knee on his wounded leg. And try as he might, the pain made even limited aiming impossible. Both he and Jerry would provide supporting fire from behind the console. Phillips volunteered to stay on as the driver. He and Ramey went over a basic evasive steering plan that would complicate the Iranians’ ability to hit them, but not limit their field of fire. Being the most exposed, Phillips wore the last vest. After a short discussion, it was decided that Jerry would be the backup driver in case Phillips was wounded and incapable of steering the boat.
“Tallyho!” shouted Jerry. “Contact just abaft the starboard beam!” He made repeated motions with his arm, pointing in the general direction of the Iranian patrol boat.
Ramey raised his scope and swiftly confirmed the sighting. “Got it, XO! Okay, everyone, take your positions.”
~ * ~
Shirin was shaking with fear. Never had she felt so exposed, so isolated. She let go of Fazel’s hand with great reluctance, and only after he repeatedly said he had to take his place aft. As he left he motioned for her to get down and stay down. Without Yousef’s reassuring presence, she felt utterly alone huddled up in the bow.
~ * ~
While the corpsman scooted passed Jerry to his defensive position, Lapointe loaded a high-explosive dual-purpose 40mm grenade into the launcher mounted on his SCAR. He only had eight grenades and he planned to use them sparingly.
During the planning, Ramey had instructed Lapointe to wait until the patrol boat steadied itself, an indicator that they were probably going to shoot, and then fire a grenade at their bow. Jerry was uncertain of what Ramey hoped to achieve with this tactic and asked Lapointe, “Pointy, how can you possibly expect to hit a small, high-speed craft with such a low-velocity weapon?”
Lapointe at first looked at Jerry incredulously, then snickered. “Who said anything about hitting them, XO? That would be the golden BB of all time! The boss figures that the Iranians will turn wide enough to avoid the grenade, giving him or Doc a clear shot at an outboard.”
“Oh, yeah. Disregard the silly question,” Jerry replied, feeling more than a little embarrassed. Lapointe laughed.
Although the RIB had been spotted at a range of nearly five thousand yards, this was far beyond the range of any weapon on either side. For seven agonizing minutes, Jerry and the SEALs could only watch as the Iranian patrol boat slowly closed on them. Through his sight, Jerry could see the long, slender wedge bouncing on the waves, throwing water out to either side. He knew they’d have to slow down considerably if they expected to hit anything. With the hull undulating up and down as the Pasdaran boat skipped along, he could see the machine gun barrel wandering all over the place. Sometimes it wasn’t even visible as the boat’s hull pitched upward.
Lapointe had taken over monitoring the UAV feed from Ramey. Both he and Fazel were now in a prone firing position, their weapons resting on the boat’s transom and held firmly against their shoulders. “Shot warning!” Lapointe sang out. “The gunner has just pulled back on the cocking handle.”
“Steady on course, Philly,” Ramey shouted. “Don’t turn until Pointy tells you to.” The junior enlisted gave him a thumbs-up sign, acknowledging the order.
Jerry leaned over and looked at the UAV feed. The unmanned aircraft was bore-sighted on the RIB, keeping a steady eye on the pilot and gunner. It felt bizarre to be watching in real time as someone took shots at you, sort of like looking at a video game in reverse.
“Shot! Right slow!” yelled Lapointe. He could see a flare of infrared energy around the muzzle as the weapon fired. Phillips altered course slightly to starboard. The splashes from the rounds landed well to port.
“He fired too soon,” criticized Ramey, then he said to his men, “Hold your fire. He needs to get a lot closer.”
The Iranian crew didn’t seem to realize this as another three wild volleys were fired before they stopped and concentrated on closing the range. Within another couple of minutes, the range had shortened to less than five hundred yards. This was the point when Phillips would begin using more radical turns to chase the splashes of the previous burst, to throw off the Iranian gunner’s aim.
“Shot! Left hard,” Lapointe called out again. Phillips banked the boat hard left. The splashes were to the right; immediately he shifted his rudder, and headed in their direction. The RIB was starting to get really close.
“Now, Pointy!” Ramey commanded. Lapointe raised his weapon, placed his sights ahead of the RIB’s bow and pulled the trigger. A dull pop and a little smoke was the only sign the grenade launcher had been fired. Seconds later a small white plume of water marked the explosion. As anticipated, the Iranian turned hard right and Ramey and Fazel took a couple of aimed shots. Both missed.
“He’s got to get closer, Boss,” Fazel observed. Ramey nodded his agreement.
The RIB crew recovered quickly from their rude su
rprise and brought their racing boat back on to a pursuit course. The two boats weaved back and forth, the range dropping with each turn. During their maneuvers, Lapointe fired off another three grenades, each shot a little closer to the Iranian boat than the one before. Each time they swerved hard, with Ramey and Fazel taking aimed shots. Suddenly, Fazel saw something fly off one of the outboards. “I got a hit!” he yelled.
Jerry and the three SEALs all watched for some indication that the RIB’s speed had been reduced, but it seemed unaffected as it continued to close. Another burst of .50 caliber fire came perilously close to the boat’s stern—off by a mere foot. Water from the splashes sprayed on Ramey.
Phillips instantly zigged to the right, but the Iranian gunner had finally caught on to the American’s strategy and immediately let loose another volley. Several rounds hit the gunwale between Jerry and the corpsman, tearing away chunks of the hull as they passed through.
“Son of a bitch!” yelped Fazel, as the bullets zipped over his head. Unfazed, he took several more shots. He scored some hits, but they were on the hull and thus totally ineffective. The RIB was only a couple of hundred yards away.