There it was again. The positive view of Hanson. But what about what Neely had referred to as Ted Hanson’s “dark side?” And the photo?

  Baxter led the way up to his quarters where the men sat on opposite sides of a small conference table. “I’m sorry to throw a wrench into the plans for today,” Delgado began.

  “But we have orders to take a company of marines into the Red Sea, and north to a town called Al Luhayyah, where the Houthis are holding a French fighter pilot named Claude Arpin. They plan to auction him off. We need to free Arpin before that happens,” Delgado added.

  “If we don’t, Al Qaeda, ISIS, or some other terrorist organization will purchase the poor bastard. And should that occur, the next time we see Arpin, he’ll be the star of a propaganda video. One in which some asshole saws his head off with a knife.”

  Baxter didn’t have to imagine it. Videos like the one Delgado described had been released in the past. “Yes, sir. How good is our Intel?”

  “Very good. We have imagery of the capture and HUMINT for the rest.”

  “What’s the plan?”

  “There is no plan,” Delgado replied. “At first the people at Central were going to drop a SEAL team in. But, due to the fact that Arpin is being held in a building surrounded by something like a hundred Houthi fighters, they switched to a seaborne rescue.

  “That’s where you come in. According to Captain Fenton, all I have to do is describe the situation, and you’ll create a plan.”

  “Captain Fenton has a tendency to exaggerate,” Baxter replied. “But I’ll try.”

  “Good,” Delgado said, as he offered a slip of paper. “Here’s the name of the folder you’ll want. Plus the password.”

  Delgado stood. “Deliver your plan to me within two hours. Don’t waste time escorting me down to the main deck. Talk to you soon.” Then he was gone.

  Baxter swore. Two hours? WTF? On the other hand, he could understand the urgency.

  A large map of the Middle East was taped to a wall. It included the Red Sea, Saudi Arabia, and Yemen. And there, right around the corner—on the east shore of the Red Sea—was the city of Al Luhayyah.

  After signing onto the local net and entering the name of the city, Baxter was rewarded with an entry that described Al Luhayyah as a once-prosperous trading center which had fallen on hard times, and been left with a population of less than three thousand people.

  The port of Al Luhayyah was located four miles southwest of the town, and partially protected by the offshore island of Al-Urmak.

  So where was Arpin being held? In the city? Or at the port?

  Baxter navigated to the folder Delgado had flagged for him, entered the password, and clicked on the words “Operation Fly Boy.”

  That opened the folder to a list of subfolders. Baxter chose the one labeled, “Intel Summary.” And it was an eye opener. The prison was in the city, but according to the satellite photos, accessible by sea. Kind of.

  In order to reach the city, it would be necessary to navigate through a maze of narrow channels where a single mistake could spell disaster. Baxter scribbled a note: “Yemeni pilot.”

  And, making the task even more difficult, was the fact that coastal freighters and fishing boats were anchored all over the place. Still, Baxter thought, it might work.

  It would have been nice to pull some other people in for an old-fashioned brainstorming session. But Neely’s absence and the short timeline made that impractical.

  Baxter considered three strategies, rejected two of them, and made notes. Then, with two minutes to spare, he went outside to place a scrambled sat call. A PO answered and Delgado took the call thirty seconds later. “Right on time … I’m impressed. What’s the plan?”

  “Well,” Baxter replied, “I need a small freighter in good working order. One the Alliance is willing to sacrifice.”

  “Really?” Delgado inquired. “What will you do with it?”

  “I’ll hack two holes into the starboard side and set it on fire.”

  Delgado laughed. “Okay. You have my full attention. Give me the rest of it.”

  It took ten minutes to sketch in the basic outline of the plan, and twenty more to answer Delgado’s questions. Some of which forced Baxter to make adjustments.

  Finally, when the Q&A session was over, Delgado offered his assessment. “Captain Fenton is correct. You are batshit crazy.

  “But I will take your plan to Admiral Cogan, and if she buys in, we’ll be good to go. Get to work in the meantime. There’s a lot to do.” Click.

  There was a lot to do, starting with the Hercules, which would be central to the operation. Baxter summoned Lieutenant Mosley, and preparations began.

  Admiral Cogan gave the green light three hours later, and the clapped-out freighter Normandy dropped anchor that evening. She was, according to Delgado, a gift from the French, who requested that one of their officers take command of the rescue effort.

  Cogan blocked that, thank goodness, and the men and women of Squadron 7 worked through the night. By the time the sun rose, two rectangular sections of steel had been removed from the Normandy’s starboard side, both well above the waterline.

  The Herc guided the freighter in next to Homeplate, where sailors were waiting to swing two 5”/54 caliber Mark 45 naval guns in through the newly created openings, and bolt them down.

  Metal screeched, pneumatic tools rattled, and a chief gunner’s mate shouted orders over the din. The guns could fire up to twenty rounds per minute. And Baxter was counting on them to not only scare the shit out of the terrorists, but to sanitize the area around the prison.

  Ideally, if all went well, the marines would be able to rescue Arpin without a firefight. Of course, things never go well, Baxter mused. And there’s no reason why this mission should be any different.

  It took the better part of an additional day to load supplies, brief the marines, and finalize the extraction plan. It was pitch black by the time the Hercules left port, soon followed by the Normandy.

  Spies were everywhere in and around Aden. So it was necessary to keep the vessels well separated as they followed Yemen’s coast west, to the point where the Gulf of Aden met the Red Sea.

  Then the ships turned north. The plan was to arrive in Al Luhayyah at dawn, hoist a newly made Houthi flag, and fill the airways with garbled messages.

  “We’re Houthis! We were attacked! We have a fire on board!” That sort of thing. All with the help of a Yemeni loyalist, who’d been fighting the rebels for years.

  Baxter had chosen to travel aboard the Hercules, and managed to grab six hours of sleep in Mosley’s cabin, before rolling off the bed fully dressed.

  Mosley was on the bridge and assured Baxter that both the tug and the freighter were on schedule. And according to the NRO (National Reconnaissance Office), there was no unusual activity in Al Luhayyah.

  Baxter glanced at his watch. “Inform the Normandy that we will come alongside an hour from now. Tell the captain to feed his crew and make sure that the marines have MREs plus water. Lots of it. We’re in for a hot day.”

  Mosley nodded. “Aye, aye, sir. Speaking of which, you’ll find coffee and breakfast in the galley.”

  “Well done,” Baxter said. “I’m going to put you in for a Humanitarian Service Medal.”

  Mosley laughed. “Thank you, sir … My family will be proud.”

  Baxter arrived in the galley to find that bacon, eggs and potatoes were waiting in warmers, alongside a large urn of navy coffee. The day was off to a good start.

  Baxter returned to the bridge just in time to witness the first evolution outlined in his plan. That was the tricky business of bringing the Herc in against the Normandy’s port side. Even though bumpers had been deployed, and the Red Sea was relatively calm, there were plenty of things that could go wrong.

  It was a tricky moment for Lieutenant Mosley, who had to call the shots, and for Baxter, who was determined to keep his mouth shut.

  There was more than one occasion during the half hour process when Baxter wanted to say something like: “Don’t let her fall off,” “Watch the prop wash,” or “Put the helm over!”

  But he didn’t. And in the end, Mosley succeeded. The hulls met with a well-padded thud, lines were passed, and the Normandy’s engine was placed on standby. All with only deck lights to see by.

  “You nailed it,” Baxter told Mosley. “Well done.”

  The look of relief on the other officer’s face was plain to see.

  A blood red sun had parted company with the horizon by then. And it was time for Yemeni pilot Emir Abdo to take over as the conjoined ships approached the entrance to the outer bay.

  “It’s simple to enter the outer bay,” Abdo assured the officers. “The hard part is finding your way into the inner bay, and through a maze of channels, to Al Luhayyah’s waterfront. It’s easy to run aground. Especially with large vessels.”

  It was Baxter’s worst nightmare—that one or both of his ships would run aground. If that occurred, the Houthis would realize that a rescue attempt was underway, and spirit Arpin away. Then, as the Americans struggled to free their vessels, terrorist fighters would attack in fishing boats.

  Abdo was the app for that. But Baxter was taking a big chance by betting so much on a stranger, no matter how well vetted that stranger was and what he had to lose, including his life.

  Baxter turned to Mosley. “It’s time to make smoke. Pass the word. Mr. Abdo, please be kind enough to put out the distress signals. And remember, you are a loyal Houthi.”

  Abdo made a face, but did as he was told. The transmissions were in Arabic, so Baxter couldn’t understand the words, but the urgency in the pilot’s voice didn’t require a translation.

  Meanwhile, in keeping with the instructions they’d been given, the marines were dropping smoke grenades into otherwise empty fifty-gallon drums.

  The combination of the ship’s slipstream and the force of two industrial strength fans was more than enough to push the thick gray smoke out through the gun ports into the morning air. The picture, as seen from shore, would be that of a tug assisting a ship into harbor.

  And, the fact that the Herc’s single water cannon was shooting a stream of water onto the freighter, was the icing on the cake.

  Meanwhile, the Houthi flag fluttering from the tugboat’s mast should do a great deal to reassure any doubters. The flag consisted of text on a white background: “Allah is Greater, Death to America, Death to Israel, Curse on the Jews, and Victory to Islam.”

  Catchy it wasn’t, and in Baxter’s opinion, a sure sign that the Houthis were in need of a new ad agency.

  Abdo delivered his orders in English, and the sailor at the wheel did an excellent job of keeping both ships in the main channel—using her own initiative when necessary.

  There weren’t any channel markers, and why would there be? The locals didn’t need them.

  Baxter brought a pair of binoculars up to his eyes. There was blue-green water in the foreground, a scattering of fishing boats anchored beyond, a coastal freighter snugged up to a rickety pier, nearly identical one-story mudbrick buildings on the far side of a dirt road, and a spindly minaret in the distance.

  The citizens of Al Luhayyah couldn’t purchase propane due to the Saudi blockade. That forced them to cook over trash fires, which sent intertwined fingers of gray smoke up into the air, where they combined to create a layer of smog. Aha, Baxter thought, as an ancient fireboat came out to meet the incoming vessels. They bought it.

  Baxter turned to Mosley. “Put out the word … Our people are to remain below deck until further orders.”

  The Normandy ran aground five seconds later. That caused the tug to swing toward the sandbank, making the problem worse. Mosley was quick to react. “Both engines half speed astern!”

  The Herc shuddered, and water boiled, but to no avail. Baxter felt a rising sense of panic. It took all the control he could muster to sound calm. “Order the Normandy to engage her engine, and go full astern.”

  Please, please, please, Baxter thought. Break her loose.

  White water churned around the freighter’s stern, and began to turn tan, as smoke continued to pour out through the holes in the ship’s starboard side.

  “Full power astern,” Mosley said to the helmswoman.

  Baxter felt the additional revs through the soles of his boots. There was no reaction at first. Then the bridge crew felt a sudden jerk as the Normandy broke free.

  Abdo was quick to reassert his authority as the fireboat arrived and added a second stream of water to the firefighting effort.

  That was when Baxter realized that the locals were shooting water in through the recently made gunports drenching sailors and marines alike. Harmless? Maybe … But maybe not. “Tell the Normandy to belay the smoke,” Baxter ordered.

  “Mr. Abdo? Call the fireboat off. Thank them for their heroic efforts, and ask if they can standby just in case.”

  Meanwhile the ships, both under power, were turning to port, which put the Normandy broadside to the beach. An anchor splashed into the water. “Standby to fire,” Mosley ordered. “Fire!”

  Mosley’s order was relayed to a drone, and from there to a Boeing E-6 Mercury airborne command post circling high above. The four-engine jet had been retro-fitted to “go tactical,” and carried two navy POs, who could fire the Normandy’s 5”/54 caliber guns remotely.

  Meanwhile, sailors on the freighter were responsible for keeping the weapons “fed.”

  Thanks to the E-6, and its technology, the flying gunner’s mates could fire with pinpoint accuracy. That would reduce collateral damage and avoid the possibility of dropping shells onto the building where Arpin was imprisoned. It also meant that Baxter had one less thing to worry about.

  “It’s time to cast off,” Mosley said tactfully.

  “Thanks,” Baxter replied as he shouldered a small pack, and grabbed his M4. “Haul butt the moment you’re clear. I’ll see you in Aden. And Clay … ”

  “Sir?”

  “You rock.” Then Baxter was gone.

  ***

  Capitaine Claude Arpin was lying naked on the stone floor when the shelling began. He hadn’t had anything to eat for days, his body was covered with purple bruises, and the little finger on his right hand was broken.

  “Nine to go,” Yar promised. “One for each visit you force me to make.”

  Arpin tried to focus. It wasn’t easy. Shelling? By whom? The Allies? No. If help came, it would come by air, in the middle of the night. Was it nighttime? He didn’t know.

  So, what did this suggest? The Saudis perhaps … Attacking on their own. Or some sort of intermural squabble between the Houthis and ISIS. Or al Qaeda. It didn’t matter which.

  A pox on both your houses, Arpin thought. Shakespeare! It’s important to study the classics. My mother would be proud.

  ***

  The tug’s main deck was lower than the freighter’s. So, Baxter had to climb a rope ladder to make the transfer. Were his sailors watching? He hoped not. Damn. I need to work out.

  But rung after rung he managed to pull himself up. A marine was waiting to help Baxter over the rail. He had freckles and a big grin. “Welcome aboard, sir. Captain Lewis sent me to get you.”

  Captain Matthew Lewis was the officer in charge of the landing party which, if everything was running on schedule, was ready to depart. “Thank you,” Baxter said, as he tried to restore his dignity. “Lead the way.”

  Baxter followed the marine down a ladder to the lower deck. The thump produced by the five-inch guns morphed into a steady series of loud bangs as the officer drew closer.

  Each shot was followed by a metallic clang, when an empty casing hit the deck.

  Captain Lewis was giving last minute orders as Baxter arrived. The marine had to yell in order to be heard. “Warn the bridge! Plant the charges! We’re going ashore.”

  While a lieutenant spoke into a mike, a marine EOD tech carried his satchel toward the nearest gun, and a noncom told the loaders to break it off and beat feet for the rafts.

  Lewis saw Baxter and saluted. “All of the preset targets have been neutralized sir, and the airborne command post is departing the area.”

  Baxter nodded. “And the Chinooks?”

  “They’re enroute, sir.”

  Baxter felt a sense of relief. The weakness of his plan lay in its complexity. In order for the strategy to work ships had to fool the Houthis. Next, having done so, they had to navigate the maze of channels and reach the beach.

  Then, once the naval guns prepped the area, the marines had to land, establish a safe corridor, free Arpin, and head for the LZ two city blocks away. The Normandy’s crew had to reach the extraction point as well, along with the navy loaders.

  That’s when four Chinook helicopters would arrive to fly everyone out. So, there were a lot of moving parts. Too many. “Let’s get out of here,” Baxter said. And Lewis nodded.

  The gunports served as exits. A sergeant stood by each rough-cut hole and counted heads as marines, sailors and civilians passed through, wrapped arms and legs around ropes, and slid down to the inflatables floating below.

  Once the counts were tallied, marines paddled the rafts toward shore. Except for the naval guns, not a single shot had been fired.

  Lewis was seated next to Baxter. He offered two remote detonators. “Would you care to do the honors, sir?”

  Baxter took the devices and smiled. “Yes, thank you.”

  The first explosion was quickly followed a second, and a series of sharp bangs as individual shells cooked off. First a freighter, now a pair of guns, the cost was mounting.

  A noncom was yelling, “Out! Out! Out” as the rubber rafts ran up onto the sandy beach. The company consisted of three platoons, two of which had orders to move forward, and secure the corridor that led from the prison to the LZ.

  The third platoon was headed for the prison, and Baxter wished he could accompany them. But the last thing the platoon leader needed was a senior officer peering over his shoulder.

  So, Baxter followed Lewis onto the dusty street that connected with an open area two blocks away. The city was quiet. Too quiet. A dog barked, but nothing more.