Fortunately for the coxswain, the landing stage was partially sheltered by the McKinley’s bulk. The sailor used that to good advantage as he brought the boat alongside. Baxter gave the cox a thumbs up as he left the launch and received a salute in return.

  Neely was waiting on deck. “What’s this about sir?”

  “Damned if I know,” Baxter replied. “I was going to ask you.”

  After climbing the ladder to the upper deck, the officers made their way to Cogan’s quarters. “Once more into the breach dear friends,” Neely said sotto voce.

  Baxter smiled, said hello to Petty Officer Kyle, and was ushered into the admiral’s office where a buffet breakfast was waiting. “Dig in,” Cogan said. “Del will join us in a moment.”

  After serving themselves Baxter and Neely took seats and made small talk with the admiral. The most recent naval battle in the North Atlantic was very much on her mind, and the others listened as Cogan offered her analysis, which ended when Captain Delgado entered.

  “Alright,” Cogan said, once Delgado was seated. “Let’s begin. Here’s the situation. I shared your proposal with a number of people, and got lots of feedback.

  “Simply put, the officers hated it, because they don’t want to share their toys.

  “But the craftmasters I spoke to loved the concept, and volunteered to take part.”

  Baxter was impressed by the fact that Cogan had taken the time to consult key enlisted personnel. And the fact that the craftmasters approved of the proposal served to confirm his suspicions. They wanted to be part of the “small” navy.

  Cogan sipped her coffee. “But here’s the thing … Both groups agreed that there is no possible way that an LCAC can surprise the enemy. You can hear them from a mile away.

  “So, Commander, I reread your submission looking for a proposed solution. There was none. Noise wasn’t mentioned. Would you care to comment?”

  “I would,” Baxter replied, putting his fork down. “I didn’t realize the severity of the problem until I went out on a training mission yesterday. To say that LCACs are loud is an understatement.”

  Cogan’s eyes narrowed. “So, do you want to withdraw your suggestion?”

  “No,” Baxter responded. “Because I think we can neutralize the noise problem.”

  Delgado’s eyebrows rose. “How?”

  “An air force Reaper accompanies our boats when we stage an interdiction. I propose that we continue that practice, and use the Reaper to slam the back door just before our LCAC arrives.”

  “Go on,” Cogan said.

  “Arms smugglers invariably use a road to access whatever beach has been chosen for the handoff,” Baxter replied. “By dropping bombs behind them I think we can freeze them in place.

  “And, while they’re trying to figure out what to do, our LCACs will arrive, and the pursuit vehicles will roll off. It may be necessary to smoke the bad guys.

  “But, the more we capture, the more Intel we will gather. And the more weapons we can confiscate or destroy.”

  Cogan looked at Delgado. “What do you think, Del?”

  “You owe me ten bucks, Admiral.”

  Cogan laughed. “Del bet me ten dollars that you’d come up with a convincing story, and it looks like I’ll have to pay up.

  “Two LCACs, along their crews, will be seconded to you later today. Please take good care of them. And don’t request anything not included in your proposal.”

  The rest of the meal was quite congenial, but Baxter had a lot to do, and was eager to depart. “Congratulations,” Neely said, as they left Cogan’s quarters. “You did it!”

  “Yeah,” Baxter agreed darkly. “And now I have to make it work. Why didn’t you stop me?”

  “Because you’re unstoppable,” Neely replied. “And, once they take you away, I’ll be in command.”

  Baxter laughed. “Well, prepare for the Hail and Farewell ceremony. It could happen soon.”

  The next two days were an unremitting whirlwind of things to do. There were reports to write, LCAC crews to welcome, a platoon of marines to brief, and vehicles to take possession of. And much, much more.

  Then, right in the middle of his preparations, Baxter received a call from Captain Delgado. He went straight to the point. “Mutineers took control of a freighter loaded with arms, that was captured in Iran. Her name is the Garuda, and she was on her way to Aden.

  “Based on radio intercepts we know the mutineers plan to run the ship aground in Somalia and sell the weapons on the beach. Enough weapons to further destabilize East Africa.

  “Making an already bad situation worse is the fact that some very bad weather is on its way. So, round up your marines, load them on the Hercules, and take the Garuda back.”

  “The Herc, sir? Wouldn’t a team of SEALs be better? Or a destroyer?”

  “No,” Delgado replied. “They wouldn’t. SEAL teams are in high demand. And, as for the destroyer, the idea is to regain control of the Garuda, not sink her.

  “There’s some good news though … The captain of the ship, along with seven members of his crew, took refuge on the bridge, and have managed to defend it.

  “Assuming they can hold out long enough they’ll give you a hand. Time is of the essence. Bon Voyage.” (Click.)

  There was no way that Baxter was going to send Lieutenant Mosley off to handle such a ticklish situation by himself. So, he did what he could to give Neely the most pressing tasks, before boarding the Hercules along with two squads of marines.

  A newly minted second lieutenant named Ames was in command, and painfully aware of his own inadequacies. In fact, it seemed as if Ames couldn’t take a pee without consulting Sergeant Watson first.

  Fortunately, Watson was not only patient, but competent, and had his marines ready to go within an hour of being notified.

  As for the Herc, like any tug, she was always ready for sea. All Mosley had to do was distribute small arms to his fifteen-person crew. Not that they would board the freighter. The marines would handle that.

  Baxter had raingear for tropical storms. The rest of his gear, along with a few personals, went into an AWOL satchel. Then, rather than carry a long gun, which might be hard to handle in tight quarters, he decided to take his sidearm and requisition a submachine gun after boarding the tug.

  Baxter joined the marines in one of two RIB boats for the short ride out to the Herc. Ames was talking a mile a minute. Baxter ignored most of the blather to focus on other things.

  The afternoon sky was dark, rain drops rattled against his rain jacket, and spray flew as the inflatable’s bow slapped a wave. Prior to departing Homeplate Baxter had taken a moment to check on the forecast. It wasn’t good.

  A cyclone named “Jawad” was heading northwest and was projected to pass within a hundred miles of the Garuda. High winds and torrential rain were expected. And, by the time the Hercules arrived, it would be dark.

  In order to come alongside the freighter Mosley would have to achieve an amazing feat of seamanship. Baxter didn’t have the exact figure. But it was reasonable to estimate that the Garuda weighed something like fifty-thousand tons.

  So, in the case of a collision, the tug could suffer catastrophic damage. And if the Herc sank, the Americans shouldn’t expect any help.

  Then, assuming Mosley succeeded in coming alongside the larger vessel, how would the boarding party climb fifty feet up to the main deck?

  One possibility would be to fire a line upwards using a 45/70 caliber gun made specifically for that purpose. In order for that to work however, there would have to be willing hands on the Garuda, who would grab the line, and use it to pull a rope ladder up. Could the loyalists on the bridge handle that? Maybe.

  Even if they did, the marines clinging to the rope ladder would be bashed against the side of the freighter every time it rolled, which was likely to be a lot. Something they’d never been trained to deal with.

  There was a palpable thump as the RIB boat hit the Hercules bow on and bounced off, much to Ames’ disgust. He turned to the marine in the stern. “What the hell was that Foster? The idea is to come alongside the tug, not ram it.”

  Baxter looked at Watson who rolled his eyes. Nothing needed to be said. Both knew what the other man was thinking. Maybe Ames would learn. Or maybe he would continue to be what he was: An incredible asshole.

  Foster’s second attempt was successful. Ames led the way up the powered accommodation ladder rather than waiting for his marines to complete the trip. There was a pained expression on Watson’s face. Baxter took the opportunity to speak with him.

  “I’d like to have a word with you, Sergeant. Assuming we manage to go alongside the freighter, we’ll have to send a man up the tug’s mast, to fire a line across to the ship’s bridge. Then the captain or one of his sailors can use the line to pull a rope ladder up.

  “Once we’re underway let’s assemble your people in the galley, and do what we can to prepare them for what’s likely to be a very hairy mission.”

  “Aye, aye, sir. And thank you. We need to give them every chance we can.”

  “Every chance we can,” Baxter thought. Will that be enough?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Aden, Yemen

  Once aboard the Hercules, Baxter went directly to the bridge where Mosley and his XO were reviewing the latest weather data. “Jawad is picking up speed, sir. They’re predicting a Sea State 6.”

  That implied thirteen-to-twenty-foot waves. “Roger that, Clay … All we can do is try. Let’s put to sea.”

  An ET appeared as the anchor came up. “Captain Papadakis wants to speak with you, sir. His call is in the clear.”

  Mosley nodded. “Thank you, Mendez. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Mosley went over to lift a mike off its hook. “Garuda, this is Pirate-Four. We’re getting underway. ETA five hours. What have you got for me?”

  As was the case with any number of merchant captains, Papadakis was sloppy where radio procedures were concerned. “Five hours?” the Greek demanded. “Are you crazy? I’m dealing with a mutiny here.”

  “We will travel as fast as we can in these conditions,” Mosley replied. “I assume you have control of the bridge.”

  “Of course, I have control! I couldn’t speak with you otherwise,” Papadakis said irritably. “There’s two access ladders and both are blocked.”

  Baxter motioned for the mike and Mosley gave it over. “Captain Papadakis, this is Pirate-Six. I’m in command of the relief effort. Is it possible that the mutineers can monitor our conversation? Over.”

  “No,” Papadakis replied. “All the com gear is on the bridge and in the radio shack. Radios are stored in the lifeboats. But they’re pre-tuned to the emergency frequency, and can’t access anything else.”

  “Good,” Baxter said. “The last thing we want to do is tip them off. Since the mutineers aren’t on the bridge, I assume they’re steering from somewhere else.”

  “Yes,” Papadakis responded. “The emergency steering system is located in the stern. And I can’t control it from the bridge. Because the mutineers can’t see where we’re going, they put a man in the bow. My number two tried to shoot him, but he’s hiding behind the forward winch.”

  “Good to know,” Baxter replied. “I think our biggest challenge will be getting aboard. We’ll deal with the steering issue then. Any ideas? Over.”

  Baxter fully expected Papadakis to say “No,” or to suggest the possibility of firing a line across. He did neither one.

  “Yes,” Papadakis answered. “The ship has a powered accommodation ladder. Once your tug is in position, I’ll lower it part way.

  “But, in order to reach it, your men will have to use the Jacobs ladder hanging off the port side of the ship. All they have to do is make the jump, climb ten feet, and transfer to the ladder. Pilots do it all the time.”

  By “pilots,” Papadakis meant the harbor pilots who went aboard ships like the Garuda when she was entering or leaving a port. Often risking life and limb to do so.

  But never, insofar as Baxter knew, had pilots been ordered to make such a transfer during a cyclone. Which was what he and the marines would have to do.

  Yet, however iffy the process was going to be, it was better than shooting a line across. “Okay. Can your men provide covering fire while we’re coming aboard? Over.”

  “Yes,” the Greek answered. “And we’ll serve milk and cookies in the galley.”

  Baxter struggled to control his temper. It was tempting to tell Papadakis to fuck off. “Good luck. We’ll call when we’re thirty out. Over.” Then he broke the connection.

  Mosley made a face. “What a jerk.”

  “That’s for sure,” Baxter agreed. “I’m going below. We need to prep the marines.”

  Baxter arrived in the galley to find that Ames was holding an inspection. Why? Because it was the only thing he knew how to do.

  Someone yelled, “Attenshun! Officer on deck!”

  “At ease.” Baxter said. “Sorry to interrupt, Lieutenant, but I need to brief your people on what we can expect.”

  “Yes, sir … No problem, sir.”

  “Good. Gather around and make yourselves comfortable if such a thing is possible.”

  There was standing room only. Baxter scanned the faces in front of him. “My name is Commander Baxter. I’ve met some of you before, but not all.

  “We’re going to encounter rough seas soon. So, we’ll be barf buddies by the time this ride is over.” That got some laughs—just as it was intended to.

  “Our mission is to intercept a hijacked freighter, go aboard, and take over. Friendlies control the bridge at the moment. That may or may not be the case as we go alongside.

  “We’ll face two hurdles. The first challenge will be getting aboard during a storm. The second will be fighting, compartment to compartment, inside the ship.

  “To the best of my knowledge, you don’t have specific training for either one of those challenges. But you’re marines. So, what the hell? Oorah!”

  The answering cry of Oorah was loud and proud.

  Baxter nodded. “Okay, let’s brief this mission, starting with the importance of the PFDs that you have on.”

  The briefing lasted for the better part of two hours, with barf breaks, as the Herc plunged into the storm. The wind was blowing from the south in a northwesterly direction, which meant that a never-ending series of waves slammed into the tug’s port quarter in a determined effort to push the ship to starboard.

  Meanwhile the tug’s bow rose and fell like a bucking bronco. Down one moment, and up the next, as white water exploded away from the ship’s flared bows.

  All of which forced the quartermaster to make constant corrections as he struggled to keep the Hercules on course.

  Baxter had never been seasick, but felt sorry for the green-faced marines, who were struggling to concentrate as Sergeant Watson and he took turns lecturing them.

  “You will sling your long guns,” Watson told them. “And reserve both hands for the Jacobs ladder and the companionway. Then, when you reach the main deck, you can bring your M4 or shotgun around.

  “Later, when we go down into the bowels of the freighter, you may decide to rely on your pistol. Long barrels can be a problem in tight quarters.”

  At that point Ames placed both hands over his mouth and bolted for the head. A normally pristine facility which was now liberally splattered with vomit.

  “Okay,” Watson said. “I think we’ve covered everything that we can. Dismissed.”

  Each hour seemed like three, as the Hercules battled her way ever closer to the point where her course would intersect with the freighter’s, and whatever fate had in store.

  Finally, with thirty minutes left to go, Baxter made the call. “Garuda, this is Pirate-Six, give me a sitrep. Over.”

  “We’re still alive,” Papadakis replied. “No thanks to you. There were three attempts to take the bridge, but we beat them back. Honsing was killed. Gulati was wounded.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Baxter responded. “We will approach your port side as discussed earlier. Please prepare to lower your accommodation ladder. After you do so, hold your fire, or run the risk that we’ll fire on you. Finally, send a guide down to meet us if conditions allow. Understood? Over.”

  “What? You think I’m stupid? Of course, I understand.”

  Baxter sighed. “I can see your nav lights. Standby. Over.”

  And it was true. Baxter could see white lights on Garuda’s otherwise darkened superstructure, and the red glow to port, as the distance closed. Did the mutineers have lookouts stationed on deck? And, if they did, could they see the Herc?

  That seemed highly unlikely since the tug’s lights were off, and the storm was still raging. Baxter turned to Mosley. “Okay, Clay … I’m going down. If someone goes into the drink, I’m counting on you to search for them. And, if we lose power aboard the freighter, we might need a tow.”

  Mosely knew all that of course, but nodded anyway, and offered a fist bump. “Go navy!”

  The wind-whipped, rain-soaked marines were lined up along the starboard rail, and all of them were clinging to it, as the Herc rolled from side-to-side.

  Ames was where he should be, which was at the head of the file. Baxter joined him there. It was necessary to shout in order to make himself heard over the wind rumble. “Are we having fun yet?”

  Ames managed a weak smile. He was shivering. “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll take point,” Baxter shouted. “Our first job is to deal with resistance if any, and help our marines reach the deck. If I fall, you will assume command. Listen to Watson … He will tell you how to get the job done.”

  Ames nodded. “Aye, aye, sir.”

  The Garuda loomed ahead of them. Waves exploded against her port side. And there, dangling from above, was a Jacobs ladder with two flashlights taped to it. It was a clever idea, and a big help, since it would give Mosley’s helmsman a clear target.

  The original Jacobs Ladder led to heaven. And was part of a dream that Patriarch Jacob had during his flight, as described in the Book of Genesis.