Baxter felt the hair on the back of his neck rise as the marines spread out to walk both sides of the potholed street. His hands were sweaty, the M4 was unusually heavy, and what felt like cold lead trickled into his stomach. Something was wrong.

  ***

  Doctor Yar was angry. Not at his fighters, but at himself. He had anticipated a rescue attempt in which American SEALs, or SAS operators, would helicopter in and try to free Arpin. That’s why the prison was ringed with fighters equipped with shoulder launched missiles.

  But rather than helicopter into Al Luhayyah, the Allies had attacked by sea, made use of naval guns to eliminate the Houthi anti-air capabilities, and were coming ashore! It was a failure of imagination on Yar’s part, and one he would atone for later on.

  But despite his own incompetence, Yar could see the makings of an even greater victory at hand, one which would vault him to an even higher position within the Houthi command structure.

  Taken together, there were more than two-hundred ISIS and al Qaeda fighters in town to witness the upcoming auction. And they, plus a hundred Houthis, would slaughter the imperialist invaders! Assuming the other leaders were willing to accept Yar’s plan.

  By Allah’s will, the ISIS and al Qaeda leaders were willing, each believing that they would be able to take credit for the impending victory.

  Yar’s orders were clear: “Let the kaffirs take the pilot. Watch where they head. The location of the landing zone will thus be revealed. Destroy the helicopters when they come. The rest will be easy.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Al Luhayyah, Yemen

  Baxter was wearing a headset with boom mike, and could monitor the radio traffic between Captain Lewis and the members of his company. “Charlie-Six, this is Charlie-Five. We have Flyboy. He’s on a stretcher. No casualties. Coming your way. Over.”

  “Roger that,” Lewis replied. “Over.”

  Baxter knew that Charlie-Five was a platoon leader and Lewis’ XO. The news that the marines had Arpin, and were going to rejoin their company, was almost too good to be true.

  “Charlie-Six, this is Pirate-Six actual. Get the Chinooks on the horn, and tell them to put down ten miles outside the city. We’ll call them when we’re ready. This is too easy. I want every head on a swivel. Over.”

  If Lewis felt resentful about the way Baxter had taken over, there was no hint of it in his voice. “This is Charlie-Six … You heard the man. Watch the windows, walls, and roofs. If you see something, say something. Over.”

  A flurry of clicks signaled that the message had been received. The group was headed east toward open desert. It was the perfect place to land the Chinooks without fear of collisions. Would the tangos figure that out? Probably.

  The early morning sun threw long shadows to the west.

  The undulating call of a muezzin broke the silence.

  A child ran out into the street to get a better look at the soldiers. A teenager captured the boy, said some angry words, and carried him back to cover.

  Then a rifle shot was heard and Lance Corporal Mark Edwards fell dead.

  That was when all hell broke loose. Automatic weapon fire kicked up puffs of dust as it swept the street. RPGs sailed in from rooftops, landed, and exploded.

  Houthi snipers picked their shots, each trying to rack up more kills than the rest, while a chorus of shouts were heard: “Almawt lil’amrikiiyn!” (Death to Americans.)

  “Alhamd lilah!” (Praise Allah!)

  And in English, “Suck it motherfuckers!”

  Baxter took cover behind a waist high wall and found himself kneeling next to a gunner’s mate from the Normandy. One of the loaders probably. The E-4 had a Milkor MGL six-shot grenade launcher, and was targeting roofs on the far side of the street.

  Baxter listened as Lewis gave orders, and knew better than to get in the way. So, he switched to being a rifleman. The M4 was equipped with a Trijicon 4x scope. And, as Baxter peered through it, he saw that a great deal of fire was originating from the rounded cupola on top of a one-story building. The Houthi sniper was too far back from the opening to see. But thanks to how small the structure was, Baxter figured he could nail the asshole anyway.

  Starting on the left, Baxter fired a series of three-round bursts as he worked his way to the right, figuring that the terrorist had nowhere to go. And sure enough, the outgoing fire stopped. It was safe to assume that the enemy fighter was dead.

  In the meantime, Baxter was aware that the air support Lewis had requested was reporting in. “Charlie-Six, this is High Pockets and Dancer in from the east with hogs.

  “We’re packing guns, beau coup rockets, and two iron bombs apiece. Pop red smoke and dig deep. Over.”

  Baxter saw columns of red smoke rise along the street and knew that the A-10s were going to come in low and slow, using their 1x30mm GAU-8/A Avenger rotary cannons to “mow the grass” north and south of the east-west street. And God help any sailor or marine who was outside of the safe zone.

  There was a deafening roar accompanied by the bone chilling growl produced by two nose-mounted cannons as the jets arrived, shot the hell out of everything that lay beyond the green “lane,” and pulled up over the bay. Shoulder launched missiles chased them, chose to target flares, and exploded into puffs of gray smoke.

  Baxter thought about the little boy and his big sister. Were they still alive? He hoped so. But, if they weren’t, the Houthis had only themselves to blame. Firing from homes meant that homes would be targeted. It was as simple as that.

  “Charlie-Six, this is High Pockets. Give me a sitrep … There’s more where that came from. Over.”

  “This is Charlie-Six,” Lewis responded. “Hold five while we check to see what kind of condition our condition is in. Over.”

  “Roger that, Six,” the A-10 pilot replied. “Over.”

  Baxter listened as Lewis polled his platoon leaders, received positive reports, and made the call. “All units will continue east. Watch for snipers and IEDs. Over.”

  “This is Pirate-Six,” Baxter put in. “Take the helos off hold and bring ‘em in. Over.”

  There was sporadic gunfire as the marines made their way to the east side of town and into the desert. But there was not enough resistance to justify another A-10 run. They were circling above however, in case Houthi reinforcements arrived.

  The Chinooks landed in quick succession. Once all the marines and sailors were aboard, Lewis and Baxter followed the last man up a ramp, and went looking for empty seats.

  Arpin was on a different helo along with a navy doctor and two hospital corpsmen. Baxter never saw the Frenchman, which was just as well, according to what he heard. But the pilot survived and returned to flying two months later.

  As for Doctor Yar, he was in a car traveling in Syria, when a Hellfire AGM-114R9X “Flying Ginsu” took his head off. The weapon consisted of six blades, attached to a one-hundred-pound package of something the government press release described as “dense.” And was part of the U.S. government’s inventory of “standoff problem-solving applications.”

  No mention of the assassination was made on Houthi social media sites. But there was a champagne drenched celebration at the base where Arpin’s squadron was stationed. Their motto was, Œil pour œil et dent pour dent. (An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.)

  ***

  Two days had passed since the extraction. The Hercules was back in port, and Baxter was preparing for a meeting, when Lieutenant Neely entered his cabin. “Good morning, sir … I got your message. What’s up?”

  “I’m going to make my pitch to the brass this morning, and I thought you might like to ride shotgun. You helped write the proposal after all.”

  Patrol Boat-001 had returned from a night mission, and despite a lack of sleep, Neely managed a grin. “I wouldn’t want to miss the bloodshed, sir.”

  “I appreciate the vote of confidence,” Baxter replied, as he pulled his lap drawer open. And there, along with the pen he was looking for, was the photo of Hanson. He took it out.

  “Have a look at this … Have you seen it before?”

  “No,” Neely answered, as she examined the photo. “But I’ve seen the woman before. As well as her daughter.”

  Baxter frowned. “When? And under what circumstances?”

  “It was a raid,” Neely said. “We had signals intelligence suggesting that a deal was about to go down near Edd, in Eritrea. Weapons for slaves. That was the skinny. And our friend Andrew Jok was the slave dealer.

  “Long story short, Hanson led a two-boat raid. We arrived as the transfer was taking place. There was a firefight, Jok ran, and left his slaves behind. Miriam Omar and her child were among them.”

  Neely shrugged. “Hanson liked her. That was plain to see. And, once we got the slaves to Aden, he went looking for an NGO (non-governmental organization) that was willing to take her in. That’s what he told me.”

  Baxter glanced at his watch. “We’d better get going. It wouldn’t do to be late.”

  A launch was waiting to take the officers to the amphibious command ship USS Mount McKinley. After an uneventful trip across choppy waters, Baxter led the way up the accommodation ladder to the main deck, where both officers rendered the traditional salutes.

  From there it was a short trip to Admiral Cogan’s quarters. Petty officer Kyle nodded. “The admiral is on a call. She’ll see you shortly. Please take a seat.”

  Captain Delgado arrived minutes later. The officers were discussing Neely’s cruise, and the patrol boat’s quirks, when Kyle cleared them to enter Cogan’s office.

  Baxter was nervous. All she can do is say “No,” he told himself. So, there’s no reason to stress.

  That made sense, but he still felt worried, as he took a seat and Cogan joined them.

  “So, Commander, welcome back! Congratulations on a successful extraction. The French are happy, General Langston is happy, and that means I’m happy. What can I do for you?”

  “Simply put, you can loan me two of your LCACs (Landing Craft Air Cushions), and authorize fighting vehicles which we’ll use to pursue smugglers.”

  Delgado laughed. “First a freighter. Now he wants LCACs.”

  Cogan’s eyebrows rose. “Is that all you have to say?”

  “No ma’am. That was the elevator pitch. Based on an analysis of Squadron 7’s after-action reports, it’s clear that our boats arrive on-scene too late to intervene 52% of the time.

  “And, when they succeed, the bad guys avoid contact 76% of the time by fleeing the scene. The net result is that they face very little risk of interdiction. I believe we can improve our record by using LCACs rather than patrol boats. Especially the boats we have.

  “The LCACs can travel at forty-five miles per hour over shallow water.

  “And they can deliver two Stryker vehicles each,” Baxter added. “They will roll off the LCACs in seconds, pursue the bad guys, and smoke them if necessary.

  “Armed trucks will follow and be used to transport prisoners and illicit cargos back to their respective LCACs.”

  “I see,” Cogan said thoughtfully. “It’s not the mission that LCACs were designed for.”

  “No, ma’am,” Baxter agreed. “But according to what I was able to find out, there are very few missions available for the LCACs you have. That’s why they spend most of their time on training missions. How about a trial? If the idea works, good. If not, no harm done.”

  “Baxter is asking for two LCACs,” Delgado added. “That leaves our command with six, which should be more than enough to support the special ops people. And, if something big comes up, we can pull the loaners in.”

  “It’s out of the box,” Cogan conceded. “But if successful, the interdictions would help us prove our value during the budget wars.”

  Cogan turned to Neely. “So, what’s your opinion Commander? Did you play a part in creating this proposal? Or was Baxter on his own?”

  “It was his idea,” Neely replied. “But I helped him flesh it out.”

  Cogan turned to Baxter. “I’m going to run your concept up the flagpole, and see who salutes. In the meantime, write it up. If I sell it, we’ll need all the details. And I mean all of them. Agreed?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good. Get out of my office.”

  ***

  Aboard LCAC 26, Aden, Yemen

  After spending a day writing the LCAC proposal for Admiral Cogan, Baxter was about to actually ride on one. Something he should have done prior to making his pitch.

  So there he was, crammed in behind the craftmaster and his assistant, as they readied the 87-foot-long Landing Craft Air Cushion (LCAC) for a training mission. In this case a play-pretend assault on a Yemeni beach by a company of marines.

  Half of the jarheads, along with their vehicles, were already crammed into the cargo area, and ready to go. The rest were on a second air cushion.

  Baxter had heard LCACs described all sorts of ways, including “Flying barges.” And that wasn’t far from the truth.

  The theory was simple: Air was forced under the hull at a higher-than-normal atmospheric pressure. And the difference between the high pressure below, and the lower pressure above, produced lift.

  Enough lift so that an LCAC could speed along just above land or sea. Thus, the description: “LCAC: Gliding on land—flying on water.”

  At the moment LCAC 26 was inside the hangar-like hull of an amphibious, well deck ship. Sailors with hand wands could be seen beyond the foggy windshield as the craftmaster and his support crew ran through the usual ritual.

  “Comms check.”

  “Roger. Five-by-five.”

  “Equipment secured on board.”

  “Systems check, and start up.”

  “Engineering plant online.”

  “Green well, clearance received.”

  “Lift off, coming up on cushion.”

  “Clearing the well deck.”

  “Feet wet, gate cleared.”

  Then, “flying side-by-side,” the LCAC pulled up alongside the mother ship and passed it. Spray flew, and the vertical wipers slapped back and forth, as the LCAC picked up speed.

  Even with ear protection on, Baxter could hear the thunder of the LCAC’s four Lycoming/AlliedSignal TF-40B gas turbines. Two for propulsion, and two for lift.

  As for the ride it felt like a passenger plane in severe turbulence.

  In fact, Baxter was struck by the similarities between an LCAC and an airplane. The craftmaster and his assistant were sitting in a cockpit, they had headsets on, and were in touch with the equivalent of air traffic control.

  Like a plane, the LCAC’s “pilot” was using a yoke to steer with his feet on the rudder controls. And, similar to a helicopter, the LCAC could achieve six dimensions of motion.

  In spite of all the technology involved, and the high level of skill required, the craftmaster and his assistant were NCOs rather than officers.

  Baxter was impressed. And his initial impression was positive. There was a downside though—it would be impossible to sneak up on the bad guys with an LCAC. The air cushion was big, loud, and completely obnoxious. A problem Baxter had underestimated. So much so, that he wondered if he should pull the proposal, pride be damned.

  It was a relatively short trip to what had been a bathing beach prior to the war, and currently served as a place for leathernecks to make practice landings.

  Baxter was encouraged to see how easily the LCAC went ashore, turned sideways to the sea, and began to unload.

  That part of the plan would work, Baxter concluded, as a JLTV (Joint Light Tactical Vehicle) rolled off. But was that enough to make up for the noise? Maybe, and maybe not.

  It was just after 1800 hours when Baxter made it back to Homeplate and his cabin. And there, sitting at his desk, was a navy lieutenant. Wearing camos, no less. A sure sign that she didn’t work for Admiral Cogan. She was attractive in a careless sort of way.

  “You’re Commander Baxter,” the woman said, as she stood. “Sorry about camping in your office, but I have reports to write, and hoped you wouldn’t mind. I’m Lieutenant Kirby, NCIS.”

  Baxter frowned as Kirby came forward to shake hands. Why would an agent from the Naval Criminal Investigative Service want to speak with him? Because one of his sailors fucked up, that’s why.

  Kirby grinned. “Don’t worry, sir … I’m not here to arrest you for any of your dark deeds. It’s Commander Hanson that I’m interested in. And your number two says you have a photo of Hanson hugging an Eritrean national. I’d like to see that.”

  “What?” Baxter said sarcastically, as he sat behind his desk. “You forgot to search my lap drawer?”

  “I would never do such a thing,” Kirby replied with an enigmatic smile.

  Was she joking? Or serious? Baxter couldn’t tell.

  He removed the photo and gave it over. “Hmm,” Kirby said. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she? What do you know about her?”

  “Only what Lieutenant Neely told me,” Baxter replied. “And most likely shared with you.”

  Kirby nodded. “Can I keep the photo?”

  “Of course.”

  “Thank you. I’ll be in touch.”

  Then she was gone.

  Baxter ate a sandwich in the galley, took a tepid shower, and hit the rack. He was sound asleep when the knock came. A bleary-eyed Baxter went to open the door and found an ET standing there. “Message from the XO, sir … The two of you are scheduled to have breakfast with the admiral and Captain Delgado at 0730.”

  Baxter looked at his watch. It was 0615. “Thanks. Tell the XO that I’ll meet her aboard the McKinley at 0715.”

  The sailor said “Aye, aye, sir,” turned, and left. That was when Baxter realized he was standing there in his boxers. Would the ET share that? Of course, she would.

  As Baxter shaved, he wondered what the meeting was about. Good news regarding the LCAC proposal? Quite possibly. After all, why stage a breakfast meeting to share bad news?

  Or the get-together could have to do with something entirely different. And that, Baxter decided, was the most likely possibility.

  A stiff breeze was pushing its way in from the west, the bay was choppy, and spray flew as the launch punched through the waves.