***

  Aboard LCAC-16 in the Red Sea

  Riding on the One-Six was like climbing inside a Mix Master and turning it to “high.” The engines roared. And even with “ears on,” the power plants were too damned loud.

  The hull shuddered as it sliced the wave tops off and sent spray flying. A lot of which splattered on the windscreen. The side-to-side wipers did their best to clear the water, but their best wasn’t good enough, and Baxter wondered how Craftmaster Cruz could see.

  Meanwhile all of the LCAC’s multitude of rivets, screws, and bolts were severely tested by the non-stop vibration that shook the hydrofoil like a level nine earthquake. Who was the dumb ass who came up with this plan? Baxter wondered. Oh, right, it was me. Note to self: Do some research next time.

  The mission was relatively simple. According to radio intercepts, Andrew Jok was about to receive a load of arms on a beach north of Tio, Eritrea.

  If everything went well, Baxter would be able to test the LCAC interdiction strategy, and bag Jok. Who, if he chose to cooperate, would be a font of information.

  “How’s it going, sir?” Cruz inquired. “Are you enjoying the ride?”

  “I love it,” Baxter lied. “It doesn’t get any better than this.”

  ***

  Near Tio, Eritrea

  Andrew Jok liked his comforts. And he liked to project a sense of all-knowing calm for the benefit of his “employees.” That’s why he was sitting on a lawn chair at the edge of the tree line, with a case of Asmara Extra Stout beer at his side, staring out to sea.

  His men were further back in the bushes, smoking marijuana, and lying about the number of women they’d had. An idyllic scene indeed.

  Or it would have been except for one thing. And that was a farang (white man) named Lonnie Good. An ironic name to be sure, since Good was a thief, a slaver, and yes—parttime smuggler. All activities the Brit had pursued prior to the war, interrupted only by a two-year stint in Barentu prison, followed by a daring escape.

  Now, rather than living in peace the way an old farang should, Good was making an excellent living by hijacking goods brought in-country by others.

  Fortunately, Jok had been able to place a spy in Good’s organization and received regular reports as to what the Brit was doing at any given time.

  Jok, who regarded himself as a good Catholic, looked up through green leaves to the blue sky. Bless me Father, for I have sinned. But not as much as the old farang has, so please bring your hellfire down upon him. Amen.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Near Tio, Eritrea

  LCAC-16’s cargo included two Stryker vehicles. One was armed with a 12.7mm M2 machine gun plus a light machine gun (LMG). The other boasted a 40mm grenade launcher and an LMG. Both vehicles carried eight-person squads led by experienced NCOs.

  Parked to the rear of the Strykers, and ready to follow them off, was a Medium Tactical Vehicle Replacement (MTVR) truck. It could carry seven tons of cargo. That meant the rig could handle any load of weapons that Jok was likely to sell or receive.

  A Reaper circled above. Once Jok’s shipment was on his vehicles, and they left the beach, the drone’s pilot was going to drop a couple of gravity bombs on the road.

  The twin explosions would force Jok to stop and send men forward to reconnoiter. In the meantime, the LCAC would arrive on the beach and drop its ramp, allowing the marine corps vehicles to roll off and give chase.

  Caught between the Reaper to the west, and the Strykers arriving from the east, Jok could surrender or die. That was Baxter’s carefully considered plan. But “carefully considered” didn’t mean jack shit in the real world.

  “Pirate-Six, this is Magic-Man,” the Reaper pilot said. “We’ve got us a problem. The cargo has been loaded, and the targets are traveling west, but what they don’t know is that they’re about to trigger an ambush. Please advise. Over.”

  Baxter’s thoughts began to churn. WTF? Who was waiting to ambush Jok? Government troops? Or one of the smuggler’s competitors?

  Things would go south very quickly if the U.S. Navy killed a platoon of Eritrean soldiers. “This is Six actual. Can you tell if the people lying in wait are wearing uniforms? Over.”

  It was late afternoon and, even with tree cover, Baxter figured visibility would be pretty good.

  “That’s negatory Six … No uniforms. It’s an L-shaped ambush though. Somebody knows what they’re doing. Over.”

  Baxter had lots of alternatives. But very little time in which to choose one. He had to commit. “Drop your bombs west of the ambush. That’ll freeze those bozos in place while Jok arrives from the east. Maybe they’ll fight it out. Then, when the shooting is over, our guys will swoop in. Over.”

  “On it,” Magic-Man replied. “Boom-booms in three. Over.”

  That was the moment when LCAC-16 passed a fishing dhow headed in the other direction. This, at least, was consistent with the plan. After unloading their cargo Jok’s suppliers were eager to amscray.

  What they didn’t know was that a second LCAC was waiting offshore with two Strykers on-deck, either of which could blow the dhow out of the water. Ensign Jim Osborn was in command and thrilled to have a role.

  As Baxter’s LCAC roared toward the beach he waited for the impact that never came. Because, rather than hitting sand and sliding up a foot or two the way a RIB would, the hydrofoil skimmed up the slope, and came to a stop just short of the turnaround which marked the end of the dirt road.

  Baxter was out of the pilot house and on deck when the gravity bombs exploded. Due to the noise made by LCAC’s engines Baxter had to yell into his mike. “This is Six! The shore party will depart!”

  That was the order the vic drivers were waiting for. The first Stryker roared down the bow ramp, bounced once, and took off. The second machine followed.

  The hulking MTVR wasn’t part of the interdiction force and departed in a more dignified fashion. The driver was supposed to remain in the turnaround until ordered forward.

  But now, with everything in flux, Baxter wanted to go where the action was. And the MTVR was the only vehicle available.

  The driver’s assistant was standing in back, manning the light machine gun that pointed forward over the cab. That meant Baxter could ride shotgun. He ran over, opened the passenger door, and hopped in. “Hit it Corporal. Put your foot down.”

  The driver was understandably surprised. “Sir, yes sir.”

  The MTVR jerked into motion. The windows were open and Baxter could hear the crackle of gunfire ahead. Then the call came in. “Six, this is Magic-Man, a helicopter just arrived on the scene. Over.”

  Baxter felt liquid lead trickle into the pit of his stomach. “What kind? Armed? Or unarmed? Over.”

  “Unarmed. No markings. Over.”

  “Can you smoke it?”

  “No can do. My loadout doesn’t include any air-to-air missiles. Over.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah, I’d love to bag a chopper. The other guys would be jealous. Over.”

  “Keep me informed,” Baxter replied. “Over.”

  Holy shit, Baxter thought. What I need is a list of who’s who.

  ***

  Lonnie Good was, among other things, an ex-RAF helo pilot. And a competent one.

  But that career came to an end in the wake of a criminal investigation probing the sale of aircraft parts to a rebel group in North Africa.

  Good hadn’t flown in six years but he still had good hands and feet. All four of which had to work in concert to fly the old French-made, SE 3130 Alouette II observation helicopter. A machine which had been sitting in the airport in Kassala unused, because the Eritrean Department of Agriculture couldn’t find a qualified pilot.

  So why let the helo go to waste? As Good’s import-export business continued to expand, it became necessary to supervise multiple operations at the same time, and the little Alouette was perfect for the job. That’s why it disappeared from the airport late one night.

  Now, as Good flew over the contested area he spotted two armored cars, both of which were firing on Jok’s men.

  At this moment Good realized that the situation was a great deal more complicated than a firefight between two rival gangs. Allied forces were involved by the look of it. Why? Because Jok was a sloppy sonofabitch. His “spy” was a good example. A truly incompetent sod, who gave himself away by asking too many questions.

  Ah well, Good thought. Preparation is the pathway to success.

  Good’s sixteen-year-old son was seated next him. “Time to earn your keep, boy … Open the satchel between your feet and prepare to drop grenades—one at a time. I’ll tell you when.”

  At that point Good contacted General Moto, a man who’d never worn a uniform, but liked the title. “Kanga-Three, this is Zero-One. Break contact and exfil to the west. Let’s get out of this bloody mess and live to fight another day. Over.”

  “I read you,” Moto said in his usual stilted fashion. “We will withdraw to the west. Over.”

  “That’s the ticket,” Good said. “I’ll cover your withdraw with some love from above. Don’t be alarmed when you hear the explosions.”

  The next part was going to be tricky because the helo was small and extremely fragile. Some lucky rifle shots would be enough to bring it down. “Get ready,” Good said. “When I say, ‘now,’ arm a grenade and drop it. Continue to do that until I say ‘stop.’ Got it?”

  “Yes Papa,” the boy said. “I will.”

  Good put the Alouette into a tight turn and dropped the helo down to treetop level. Then Good hollered “Now!” as he sped over the area occupied by Jok’s men. Good could see the twinkle of ground fire below. But, since Jok’s riffraff weren’t used to firing on aircraft, they neglected to lead their target. So, the tiny helo emerged from the run intact.

  Good laughed as he sped out of the conflict zone, turned, and began another run.

  ***

  Baxter was standing next to Stryker two. It fired into the thick foliage ahead as the helo clattered above. A series of explosions marched from left to right as someone dropped what Baxter assumed were hand grenades on Jok’s men. “I have it,” PFC Ryder said. “Just say the word.”

  Ryder had a FIM-92 Stinger surface-to-air missile launcher resting on her shoulder. “It’s turning!” a noncom warned.

  “Take it down,” Baxter ordered. “Regardless of who that is we have a right to defend ourselves.”

  There was a loud report, followed by a puff of smoke, as the missile took to the air. The chopper was the only heat source around. The missile achieved lock-on and hit the helo. The explosion produced a loud boom, a yellow-orange fireball, and a cloud of metal confetti.

  “Good work, Private,” Baxter said, “Problem solved.”

  Another issue remained however. And that was the shit show up ahead. “Pirate-Six, this is Magic-Man,” the Reaper pilot said. “The latecomers are pulling out. I have two Hellfire missiles on my racks. Please advise. Over.”

  “Wait until the tangos board their trucks,” Baxter said. “Then hit ‘em. Let’s get our money’s worth. Over.”

  “Roger that, Six. Over.”

  Baxter felt certain that the destruction of the trucks wouldn’t go unnoticed by Jok and his men. So, he waited for the twin explosions before trying to contact the smuggler on the radio frequency he favored. “Mr. Jok, this is the U.S. Navy officer in command of the force east of you. You can surrender or die. The choice is up to you. Over.”

  A long minute passed. Then, in a voice that sounded tired, Jok responded. “We will surrender.”

  “A wise decision,” Baxter replied. “Order your fighters to place their weapons on the ground, and walk east with their hands clasped behind their necks. And remember, a drone is watching you from above.”

  It took time to process the prisoners, herd them onto the LCAC, and lock them inside a twenty-foot shipping container that had been modified for the purpose.

  Head-high horizontal slits provided ventilation and gave the marine guards a way to keep an eye on the smugglers. Five-gallon buckets served as porta-potties.

  As for Jok, he was confined in a Stryker where he couldn’t interact with his men, and possibly prep them for the interrogations that would take place in Aden.

  The next step was to set up a security perimeter to ensure that the team couldn’t be surprised by a third group of bad guys.

  It took more than two hours to search all of the dead bodies, collect pocket litter, and load loose ordnance onto the MTVR along with the crates on Jok’s trucks.

  Finally, it was time to depart. Engines roared, the LCAC lifted off, and slid into the sea.

  LCAC-12 was waiting offshore with Ensign Osborn in command. According to Osborn the fleeing dhow ignored two orders to heave to. And, when the occupants failed to respond to a third demand, Osborn ordered a Stryker to shell it. “It took less than half a minute to turn that sucker into kindling,” Osborn announced. “Over.”

  “Take notes,” Baxter replied. “You’ll have to write an after-action report. And Jim … ”

  “Sir?”

  “Well done.”

  ***

  Aden, Yemen

  The navy ‘s bureaucracy swallowed Baxter in a single gulp upon his return to Aden. There were reports to write, debriefings to endure, and a breakfast with Cogan to participate in.

  That, at least, was an excellent opportunity to give Osborn some much deserved facetime with Cogan—and to suggest that a promotion to Lieutenant JG was in order.

  “We’ll see what we can do,” Cogan replied. “I’ll ask Del to work it.

  “As for the mission, to say that Central is pleased, would be an understatement. We can’t stop gun smuggling, but you and your people sure as hell put the brakes on it.

  “And General Langston thought the use of LCACs was brilliant! Who am I to disagree? So, you get to keep the loaners for now. Go forth and take care of business.”

  That’s what Baxter was attempting to do when Lieutenant Kirby appeared two days later. Baxter was sitting in the Homeplate’s mess, drinking coffee and reading his email, when Kirby plopped down across from him. The agent looked tired. “Tonight’s the night,” she announced.

  “Why tonight?” Baxter inquired.

  “Yahya is going to hold a big party,” Kirby explained. “So, when I drop smoke grenades into the complex there will be a lot of confusion. Most people won’t be able to see. That includes the guards at the north gate.

  “But you’ll be wearing night vision gear,” Kirby added. “So, you’ll slide by them, and make your way to the daycare center. That’s where Miriam’s daughter will be.

  “And, when Miriam arrives to check on her, you’ll introduce yourself as Anton. Miriam knows that a man named Anton will contact her at some point, but isn’t aware of our plan, and can’t share what she doesn’t know.

  “Escort them out through the main gate. I’ll be waiting in a tan Land Rover. Arrangements have been made to get them to Eritrea. Any questions?”

  “Yeah. Where am I supposed to get night vision gear?”

  “It’s waiting in your cabin.”

  Baxter sighed. “I need a lock.”

  Kirby smiled serenely. “It wouldn’t make any difference.”

  “Take this,” she said, and gave Baxter two pieces of paper. One consisted of a hand drawn map. “I’ll meet you at 2000. Memorize the floor plan. You’ll get lost if you don’t.”

  Baxter stared at her. “Why are you doing this?”

  “To right a wrong. That’s why I became an NCIS agent. To right wrongs.”

  “No offense, but you’re batshit crazy.”

  Kirby smiled beatifically. “Look who’s talking.”

  ***

  Baxter had a lot of work to get done. But, the prospect of invading a crime boss’s inner sanctuary and stealing two slaves, worried him. And no matter how many times Baxter dismissed his concerns, they always came creeping back.

  So, by the time darkness fell, Baxter was eager to get the rescue over with. Anything to rid himself of the nagging uncertainty. He went ashore in civilian clothes with an AWOL bag clutched in his right hand. Then he hailed a taxi, and gave Kirby’s map to the driver.

  The cab made a series of turns prior to arriving at a nondescript intersection.

  Baxter paid the fare with local currency, got out, and saw that a tan Land Rover was parked on the other side of the street. Kirby was behind the wheel. Baxter got in. She looked at him. “You brought the night vison gear?”

  “It’s in the bag.”

  “Take this,” Kirby said, as she gave him a knife. “Just in case.”

  It was a Saudi knife in a sheath. “You said there wouldn’t be any violence,” Baxter said accusingly, as he examined the blade. It had a wicked curve to it. “There won’t be violence unless there is,” Kirby replied enigmatically.

  “And a knife is better than a pistol in this situation. It’s quiet for one thing … And you won’t have to worry about collateral damage.”

  Baxter stuck the knife into his waistband. Why had he agreed to participate in Kirby’s rescue mission anyway? Because Miriam was beautiful? Because of the horror she’d been subjected to? Of course. And, Baxter concluded, you’re an idiot.

  Yahya’s walled retreat was ten minutes away. Kirby drove past so Baxter could catch a glimpse of it. There were lights, lots of them, plus guards in black uniforms. They were collecting invitations as a steady stream of well-dressed men and women passed through the open gate.

  “Be sure to put smoke on the gate,” Baxter advised, as Kirby pulled over. “Not somewhere nearby, but right on it.”

  “I will,” Kirby said soothingly. “Here’s a radio and a radio headset. I preset the frequency so don’t mess with it.”

  Baxter put the headset on, ran a check, and got out. “Break a leg,” Kirby told him. “I’ll see you shortly.”

  Baxter hoped that would be the case as he closed the door, turned, and made his way back to the complex. Baxter heard the steady boom, boom, boom of bass before he saw the lights.

  His first task was to find a place to lurk. A spot close to the gate, but hidden from the guards. A heavily shadowed doorway met his needs.