And Garuda’s main deck would be like heaven if Baxter could get there. Which, as Baxter had discovered while trying to board the Normandy, was going to be harder than it would’ve been when he was younger. Seriously, Baxter told himself. You need to get in shape.

  “Standby for the first transfer,” Mosely said over Baxter’s headset. There was barely enough time to assimilate the words before a wave lifted the tug upwards, the Garuda’s steel hull rushed at Baxter, and the ladder appeared directly in front of him. He jumped.

  The gap was something like three feet. Baxter’s hands clawed at a horizontal rung, slipped, and managed to get a grasp on the crosspiece immediately below. It was made of wood, and vastly superior to the all-rope ladder he’d been forced to use in Al Luhayyah.

  Baxter reached up to grab the next rung, felt Ames land on the ladder below, and hoped the other officer would manage to hang on.

  Then he was climbing and only dimly aware as Mosely called for the second transfer. The Garuda rolled to port. That caused the Jacobs ladder to swung out and away from the freighter’s hull.

  Baxter dangled for a moment, before the Garuda rolled to starboard, causing his body to slam into the steel hull. Baxter’s right hand came loose. He made a desperate grab, felt wood, and held on. Up, he told himself. And watch for the accommodation ladder on the left.

  Fortunately, the same person who attached lights to the Jacobs ladder had been able to secure one to the aluminum ladder as well. That helped. But it was still necessary to hold onto the rope ladder with his right hand while reaching with his left.

  Baxter’s fingers found cold metal and he grabbed it. Then Baxter ordered himself to commit. It’s the railing, Baxter thought as he made the crossing.

  “Standby for transfer three,” Mosley said, as Baxter felt a thump, and the tug’s fenders came into contact with the ship.

  How many … Baxter wondered, as he began to climb. How many made it across? And how many mutineers are waiting for us?

  The answer to the second question was none, as Baxter topped the stairs, and stepped onto the rainswept deck. He was breathing heavily.

  What looked like halos encircled the lights on the top of the forward cargo mast, dark shadows lurked all around him, and an empty oil drum was rolling back and forth in concert with the ever-shifting deck.

  Confident that there was no immediate threat, Baxter turned to the accommodation ladder just in time to see Ames arrive. He looked pale but determined. “Second Lieutenant Ames reporting aboard sir … When’s chow?”

  It was a joke, and Baxter laughed. Maybe there was hope for the newbie after all.

  “Count heads. I’ll handle security. Feed the new arrivals to me.”

  Baxter freed the HK MP7 submachine gun from the holster on his right thigh, worked a bullet into the chamber, and took the safety off.

  In order to secure a better field of vision, he climbed on top of a well tarped crate. It was chained to the deck—as were those around it.

  That was when a beam of bright light speared him from the bridge, an automatic weapon started to chatter, and bullets pinged steel. He jumped down. “Pirate-Four! The assholes on the bridge are firing on us! Order them to stop! Over.”

  Mosley was forced to use a different channel to speak with Papadakis, so Baxter couldn’t hear the interchange, but the incoming fire ceased. Then it resumed as mutineers fired from the bow.

  Watson appeared with three marines in tow. “Don’t worry about those bastards, sir,” the sergeant said. “They aren’t long for this world.” And with that Watson led his fire team into the shadows.

  Meanwhile a steady stream of marines had been completing the climb as evidenced by a call from Mosley. “Four to Six … Delivery complete. Starting the SAR (search and rescue) effort. Over.”

  Baxter swore. That meant at least one marine had fallen, and was fighting to stay alive somewhere among the dark swells. The leatherneck’s PLB (personal locator beacon) was attached to his or her PFD, which meant there was a chance of rescue.

  “This is Four,” Mosley said. “A guide is approaching your location. Over.”

  “This is Six,” Baxter said. “We have a friendly incoming from the superstructure. Hold your fire. Over.”

  A minute passed before a man emerged from the shadows. He was armed with a shotgun. “Over here!” Baxter shouted.

  The mutineers fired as the man dashed through a pool of light, but he managed to complete the trip unscathed. “I’m Ishaan Khatri, the first mate,” the man explained, as he ducked behind cover. “Captain Papadakis sent me.”

  “Good,” Baxter replied. “If we can disengage the emergency steering gear, and return control to the bridge, the rest will be easy.”

  “I agree,” Khatri replied.

  Baxter turned to Ames. “I’ll lead half the marines below. Take the rest and reinforce the crew on the bridge. Stay in touch.”

  Ames said, “Yes, sir,” and ordered a corporal named Laraby to divide the force in two.

  That was when Baxter heard the stutter of automatic fire, an explosion, and silence. “This is Charlie-Three,” Watson said. “Two tangos down. The bow is secure. Over.”

  Baxter clicked his mike twice and turned to Khatri. “Lead the way. And watch for ambushes. They know we’re coming.”

  If Khatri didn’t care for the assignment, he gave no sign of it. “Follow me.”

  Khatri led the Americans through a maze of deck cargo, pausing occasionally so as to move in concert with the ship. He stopped just short of the walkway that ran alongside the superstructure. It was a choke point, and a natural spot for an ambush.

  Baxter approved. Slowly, ever so slowly, the civilian advanced. Then, convinced that the way was clear, Khatri moved forward. A wave exploded against the port side, causing the deck to tilt, forcing them to grab the side rail. The Garuda produced a groan like an animal in pain, before plunging ahead.

  Khatri stopped in front of a sealed hatch, hurried to open it, and motioned for Baxter to enter. He did so, closely followed by Laraby and five marines. Bare bulbs glowed, the green paint was peeling, and a list of safety protocols could barely be seen through grimy glass.

  Khatri dogged the hatch once the party was inside. After squeezing past the Americans Khatri led them to a ladder and peered over the rail. Then, careful to stay next to the bulkhead, he started down. That was when someone shot him from above.

  As the first mate’s body tumbled down the stairs, Baxter brought the stubby submachine gun up and fired a long burst.

  But it was Laraby who nailed the mutineer on the landing above. Two marines rushed up to determine if the gunman was alone. After confirming that he was, the leathernecks returned.

  Having lost his guide, Baxter had to find the emergency steering compartment on his own. It’ll be aft of the engine room, Baxter told himself. They always are.

  The ladder ended next to an open companionway through which a column of heat rose and the thrum of the ship’s engines could be heard. Did the engineers participate in the mutiny? Baxter wondered. Or are they working under duress? We’re about to find out.

  Baxter turned to Laraby. “We’re going to enter the engine room. There’s no way to know who’s who. Put someone sharp on our six.”

  The noncom nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  After making an adjustment, Laraby gave Baxter a thumbs up.

  Baxter stepped over the coaming onto another ladder and followed it even deeper into the bowels of the ship. He’d never been able to understand how navy snipes could stand the conditions down there.

  Baxter knew that the heat, the grime, and the never-ending din would drive him crazy. Just one of the reasons why he’d chosen to be a deck officer.

  The ladder ended at the ship’s centerline where a catwalk passed between two hulking engines. They were connected to other parts of the ship by color coded pipes and miles of conduit. If it was dangerous topside, it was potentially even more so in a world where the ship continued to gyrate, and there was no way to see what lay ahead.

  That was when a big black man rounded the port engine, caught sight of Baxter, and waved. “Hey, Mon … Thank God you’re here!”

  The crewman was reaching behind his back when Baxter squeezed the trigger. Nine-millimeter bullets stitched a line all the way up from the mutineer’s crotch to his chest.

  A shiny revolver clattered on the grating as he fell over backwards.

  Were some of the engineers being held captive? Or pretending to be hostages? That was the way it looked.

  The gunfire brought two more men on the run, both fell as the marines opened fire on them, and Baxter hurried forward. “Follow me!”

  Metal rattled as Baxter ran along the catwalk, came to a bulkhead, and was forced to choose. Right? Or left? He chose right.

  A walkway led to a watertight door. Anything could be waiting on the other side. Baxter turned to Laraby. “Undog the hatch, give it a shove, and step left. I’ll fire through the opening.”

  “Yes, sir, Laraby replied. “Are you going to reload first?”

  Baxter couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m not much of a marine, am I?”

  “No, sir … But you show promise.”

  Baxter ejected the HK’s magazine, inserted a new one, and checked to make sure there was a round up the spout. Then he nodded to Laraby. “Do it.”

  After releasing the hatches, Laraby had the good sense to wait for the ship to roll from port to starboard before opening the door, knowing the wave action would do some of the work for him. Baxter fired a burst of three shots through the opening and stepped right. There was no response.

  Thus encouraged, Baxter entered a narrow alleyway, that led to another sealed hatch. He turned to Laraby. “We must be close. Have you got a flashbang?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Same drill as last time, except that I’ll be the one to undog it. You toss the flashbang. Then we enter.”

  Laraby removed a grenade from a pouch on his vest, ordered his marines to standby, and turned to Baxter. “We’re ready.”

  Baxter dealt with the latches, gave the hatch a push, and sidestepped. The grenade flew through the gap and produced a loud bang and a flash of light as it detonated. Baxter charged inside.

  What happened next was utter chaos. There were four mutineers in the emergency steering compartment. And though partially blinded by the flash, they opened fire anyway.

  The marine behind Laraby went down. Baxter felt a bullet nip his left arm, opened fire, and hosed the crewmen in front of him with 9mm slugs.

  There was no plan involved. Just a desperate desire to put the bastards down quickly.

  It was Laraby who shouted, “Hit the deck!”

  Baxter obeyed but didn’t know why. Then he realized that bullets were ricocheting off steel bulkheads and flying about like angry bees.

  “Aimed fire only!” Laraby shouted, as mutineers fired from behind a metal box with an old-fashioned spoked wheel attached. It was spinning on its own.

  Shit! Baxter thought. No one’s on the helm! What if the Garuda winds up broadside to the waves? She could roll over.

  That was when Laraby tossed a smoke grenade at the tangos. And, since he and his marines were wearing night vision gear, it was a smart thing to do.

  Artificial fog billowed, the marines picked targets, and shots rang out. Then it was over. While Laraby and a hospital corpsman tended to the wounded, Baxter rushed to a red phone.

  “Bridge! This is Commander Baxter in the emergency steering compartment. We are in control. I’m about to take the emergency generator offline. Do you read me?”

  “Of course, I read you,” Papadakis replied. “I’m not deaf. Go ahead. We’ll take over. Did you kill all of them?”

  “Most of them,” Baxter replied. “A couple are wounded.”

  “I’m sending two men down,” Papadakis said. “Come to the bridge. I have some excellent Ouzo. We will celebrate.” Click.

  Baxter turned the generator off, tried to call the Herc, and got nothing but static. After making the long trip up to the main deck he managed to get through. “Pirate Four,” Baxter said. “This is Six. Captain Papadakis is in control of the ship. Notify Central Command. What’s the status on the SAR mission? Over.”

  “This is Four,” Mosley replied. “Private Mori’s locater went offline before we could reach him. I’m sorry. Over.”

  “Damn it.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay, I assume Papadakis will turn around and head for Aden. I’ll meet with him in ten minutes. Over.”

  “Should we take you off? Over.”

  “No. It wouldn’t be right to risk the Herc for that. But stay with us—anything could happen—and we might need a tug. Over.”

  “Roger that,” Mosley replied. “We’ll remain on station. Over.”

  Rain hit Baxter sideways, and as the Garuda’s bow plunged into a wave, the same fifty-gallon drum he’d seen earlier barely missed him as it thundered from port to starboard.

  Baxter passed two dead bodies as he climbed the starboard ladder to the open bridge wing. All manner of furniture had been used to construct a barricade. It was riddled with bullet holes. A newly opened path led to a door. Baxter entered the bridge. Ames was there, along with some of his marines, and there was a big grin on his face.

  Why? Because he was still alive that’s why. Baxter smiled. “Good work, Lieutenant. Thank you.”

  Captain Papadakis was a short, barrel-chested man, who was overdue for a shave. “So, American, you got the job done.”

  “Yes,” Baxter acknowledged. “First Mate Khatri was killed. I’m sorry.”

  Papadakis made a face. “He was a good man.”

  “I agree,” Baxter replied. “Are we headed for Aden?”

  “Yes,” the Greek said. “Come to my cabin. A glass of Ouzo will warm you up.”

  Papadakis was correct. It did.

  ***

  Aden, Yemen

  Four days had passed since arriving back in Aden. The storm had abated, the sky was clear, and Baxter was sweating into his white uniform as he left Homeplate’s mess and returned to his cabin.

  The meeting with his boat commanders had gone well for the most part, but Lieutenant Katy Wong was in the dumps, after failing to capture a smuggler on a beach in Eritrea.

  Fortunately, considerable progress had been made, and the newly acquired LCACs were ready for sea. The big hang up had been the need to fit auxiliary fuel tanks to the hovercraft which normally had a range of two hundred and thirty miles.

  Now, with the armored auxiliaries in place, the LCACs could travel twice as far without refueling. And that was a game changer.

  Baxter entered his quarters to find that NCIS agent Lieutenant Kirby was sitting with her feet up on his desk and smoking a cigarette. The boots produced a double thump as the agent stood. There was a hiss when Kirby dropped the ciggy into a cup of cold coffee. “Good afternoon, Commander. It’s me again. Do you have time for a chat?”

  Baxter didn’t have time. But he wanted to know what Kirby was up to. “Sure. What’s up?”

  “I completed my investigation into Commander Hanson’s death. Would you like to hear what I discovered?”

  Kirby was still behind Baxter’s desk, which left him to sit on his guest chair. “I would.”

  “Well, it’s just as Neely said it was. Hanson had a gambling habit. And although he tried, he couldn’t stop.

  “Gambling is illegal here. So, in order to feed his habit Hanson had to participate in underground poker games. That’s where he met a crime boss named Fakhir Yahya. A douche bag who covers all the bases—including prostitution, loan sharking, and gambling.

  “So, one night Hanson is sitting in the back room at the Three Palms restaurant, playing five card stud with four men, one of whom worked for the house. Meaning Yahya. And things didn’t go well. Hanson lost, and he kept losing.

  “But, according to one of the players, Hanson believed he could dig himself out. So, he borrowed some money from the house. A thousand American according to what I was told.

  “There was a catch however. In order to borrow the money Hanson had to put up collateral. A car, a ring, anything that Yahya could sell to get his money back should Hanson fail to turn his luck around.

  “So, what did our fair-haired boy do? He offered Miriam Omar as collateral. And she was there, standing behind him, looking beautiful.

  “Up to that point Hanson had been keeping Miriam and her daughter in a small apartment where he was a frequent visitor. The conversation took place in English, and we can assume that Miriam speaks English, because she’d be a piss poor mistress otherwise.”

  Kirby paused at that point to light a cigarette. She took the smoke deep into her lungs and blew it out. “Imagine that, Commander. Imagine how Miriam felt as Hanson treated her like a thing. An object he could use anyway he chose.”

  Baxter was descended from slaves. And had been raised to respect the suffering that his ancestors had been forced to endure. But where was this story headed? Was Kirby setting him up for something?

  “What Hanson did was clearly wrong,” Baxter said. “But please get to the point. Assuming there is one.”

  Kirby nodded. “Roger that. During the next half hour Hanson lost the thousand dollars, Yahya’s functionary called two security types in, and they took Miriam away.”

  Baxter frowned. “Where is she?”

  “Yahya owns a walled mansion here in Aden.” Kirby replied. “Miriam and her daughter are somewhere inside.”

  “And?”

  “And I want you to help me get them out. I’ll take care of getting them back to Eritrea.”

  “No can do,” Baxter replied. “I’m sympathetic. I really am. But if we managed to survive the extraction, we’d be court martialed.”

  “Not if we follow my plan,” Kirby replied. “No one will be harmed, Miriam and her daughter will be freed, and you’ll earn some good karma.”

  Baxter sighed. “Okay, tell me your plan. But no promises.”

  Baxter listened. Kirby’s plan was both audacious and, contrary to her assertions, it was dangerous. But yes, if everything went perfectly, it would work. If, Baxter thought. The most dangerous word in the English language.