Once concealed Baxter took the opportunity to put the night vision gear on and test it. The radio headset got in the way at first but he was able to tweak it. The locally sourced AWOL bag would be left in the doorway.

  In order to see through smoke, it was necessary to use Forward Looking InfraRed (FLIR) gear which, unlike standard night vision goggles, could generate images from heat rather than light. There was no telling where Kirby had sourced them. But it seemed reasonable to suppose that an NCIS agent could access all sorts of exotic gear.

  Kirby’s voice broke Baxter’s train of thought. “I’m ready. Are you? Over.”

  “Ready, over.”

  “All right. Here goes something. Go when you think the time is right. Over.”

  “Roger that. Over.”

  ***

  Kirby was standing on a flat roof across the street from the Yahya compound. The building was empty, and judging from what she’d seen during her reconnaissance, had been for quite a while. So, after using bolt cutters to cut through the padlock on a side door, the agent replaced it with one of her own.

  The rest was easy. Two Milkor 40mm six-shot grenade launchers were ready at her feet. Two, so that Kirby could fire twelve grenades without reloading. And, thanks to hours of practice on the marine corps range north of Aden, Kirby was could drop the “smokes” wherever she wanted them.

  After bringing one of the launchers up into firing position, Kirby took aim and pulled the trigger. She felt the recoil and heard a hollow pop as the grenade left the barrel. Then she hit the gate again. Smoke billowed and people began to shout.

  ***

  Baxter dashed forward as smoke swirled. “Fire!” he yelled. “The complex is on fire!”

  There was no way to know how many, if any, of the guards understood English, but it was worth a try. The FLIR images weren’t as clear as the night vision stuff that Baxter was accustomed to.

  Yahya’s guests had yellow faces and mostly orange bodies. They jostled each other in the rush to reach the gate. That suggested that Kirby had been able to successfully target the entire compound. Sirens could be heard in the distance as Aden’s fire fighters responded.

  Focus, Baxter thought, as he dodged an oncoming guest. Reach the day care center as quickly as you can.

  The creche was located at the southeast corner of the sprawling complex, and the smoke had started to thin, as Baxter followed a mental image of the map that Kirby had given him. He thumbed the radio. “I need more smoke in the southeast quadrant.”

  Kirby said, “On it,” and a grenade went off nearby.

  Then suddenly a voice shouted, “Stop!” And a man in a black uniform lurched out to block Baxter’s way. He was holding what had to be a pistol, and wearing something on his head. A FLIR device? Hell, yes.

  “Where’s the gate?” Baxter demanded as he continued to close the distance with the man. The knife seemed to leave the sheath on its own, and was in Baxter’s hand when the pistol went off.

  Baxter felt a tug followed by a moment of searing pain as the bullet struck his left arm. Then he was there, only two feet away, swinging the blade like a madman. One chance, that’s all he had, before a second bullet hit him.

  Baxter didn’t know the first thing about knife fighting. But, as the razor-sharp blade slashed across the guard’s face, he dropped the pistol. His hands came up to staunch the bleeding.

  That left the Yemeni’s abdomen open to attack. And even though the curved blade wasn’t designed for stabbing it did the job. A violent upward cut was sufficient to put the man on the ground. The pistol was lying there so Baxter took it.

  I’m running out of time, Baxter thought. What if Miriam arrives at the nursery, grabs her daughter, and leaves? I’ll never find them in the chaos.

  Baxter began to jog. He wasn’t the only one. As smoke grenades continued to detonate other people were running too … Except they were going in the opposite direction.

  Baxter dashed across an inner courtyard, passed through a door, and took a left. He was there. Or should be. But the FLIR imagery made it difficult to be sure. Adults were present, and children as well, suggesting that the little girl could be present.

  Baxter removed the headset and found himself standing among a group of women. They viewed him with alarm. And no wonder … He was bleeding and holding a pistol. “Miriam … Is Miriam here?”

  Heads turned to look at a tall black woman. Miriam? Yes! And a little girl was standing at her side. He lowered the pistol. “Miriam, my name is Anton. I’m here to take you and you daughter out. Stay close. There’s a lot of smoke.”

  Miriam nodded, took the little girl by a hand, and followed Baxter as he led them back the way he’d come. “I have them,” Baxter said into the mike. “We’re coming out.”

  “They closed the main gate,” Kirby replied. “Go to the side gate located to the east. That’s your best bet.”

  Kirby’s voice was tense and Baxter knew the agent was worried. “Roger that,” Baxter said, and turned to Miriam. “We need to use the east gate! Lead me there!”

  Miriam plucked the girl off the floor and led the way.

  The smoke had begun to dissipate. Baxter followed with the FLIR rig in his left hand and the pistol in his right. His arm ached and he knew he was bleeding. A little? Or a lot? He couldn’t stop to find out.

  The east gate was a few yards ahead of them. But, as Baxter looked past Miriam, he saw a guard move to bar her way. Baxter shot him, swiveled to the left, and shot another guard as well. Both went down.

  “No one will be harmed,” Baxter thought as he stepped over a body. That’s what Kirby told me, and I was stupid enough to believe it. Or did I want to believe it?

  Miriam opened the gate. “I see you,” Kirby said. “I’m at twelve o’clock.”

  Baxter could see the Rover on the far side of the street and urged Miriam forward. “The Land Rover! Run!”

  Miriam couldn’t run with the child in her arms, but did the best she could. Baxter was right beside her and hurried to open the SUV’s rear passenger door. Once mother and daughter were inside, he circled around to sit next to Kirby. “Hit it.”

  Tires screeched, and the Rover took off. Kirby took the first right, and continued to keep an eye on her rearview mirrors, until they were half a mile away from the compound. She glanced at Baxter. “You’re bleeding.”

  “No,” Baxter replied. “I refuse to bleed.” Then he passed out.

  ***

  The sun was rising in the east by the time Yahya’s major domo, El Omry, got rid of the police and the fire department. The dinner party had been a disaster. Three guests had been injured during the stampede, three guards had been killed, and Yahya had lost a great deal of what the Chinese called mianzi (face). The very thing he’d been after.

  Yahya was seated behind an ornate desk. El Omry was standing at attention in front of him. His forehead was shiny with sweat. “Tell me your story,” Yahya said, as he toyed with a flintlock pistol. “What the fuck happened?”

  El Omry knew the best course of action was to stick to the facts. “As guests continued to arrive someone fired at least a dozen smoke grenades into the compound.”

  “Why?”

  “To sow confusion and enable a black man to enter. He was equipped with an FLIR device.”

  “And you know this because?”

  El Omry stared at a spot six inches above Yahya’s head. “We know this because the security cameras captured everything he did. The smoke got in the way but some of the footage is quite clear.”

  “And what did the black man do?”

  “He abducted a slave along with her daughter.”

  “Which slave?”

  “Miriam Omar.”

  Yahya frowned. “But why? She’s pretty. But there’s more where she came from.”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  Yahya put the pistol down, opened his lap drawer, and removed a coin from the tray he kept there. “Here,” Yahya said, as he pushed the Saudi Arabian gold guinea toward his servant. “You did well.”

  “Thank you, sir,” El Omry said, as he hurried to collect his reward. “Is there anything else I can do?”

  “Yes,” Yahya replied. “Find the black man and kill him.”

  ***

  “Ouch!” The Yemeni wasn’t a doctor, although he referred to himself as one, but he did know how to close a wound. Even if the room behind a convenience store wasn’t that clean. His name was Hadi, Doctor Hadi, the way he told it, because he planned to finish medical school after the war.

  “Don’t be such a baby,” Kirby said unsympathetically, as Hadi made use of an instrument to pull the curved needle out through Baxter’s skin.

  “What you meant to say was ‘Don’t be such a baby, sir,’ ” Baxter replied.

  “My bad,” Kirby said. “Sir.”

  Baxter winced as another stitch went in. “So, where’s Miriam?”

  “On her way to Eritrea,” Kirby replied. “Her brother is waiting to meet her.”

  “Good. How much trouble are we in?”

  “None that I’m aware of,” Kirby replied.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Baxter said. “No offense, but I never want to see you again.”

  “I’m hurt,” Kirby responded. “I really am. But, before we part company, let me say this … What you did was awesome. Thank you.

  “Here,” Kirby added. “Miriam asked me to give you this. It’s a charm. If someone gives you the evil eye it will reflect their intentions back at them.

  “They’re very common in Africa and the Middle East. It’s worth two or three cents. But it’s the only piece of jewelry Miriam owned.”

  The object consisted of a cobalt blue disk featuring a white eye and a black pupil set in a brass surround. It dangled from a cheap chain.

  Miriam had given him everything she had, and Baxter was moved. He closed his fist around it. “Thanks for letting me know. And thanks for caring.”

  Kirby stood. “Watch your six Leo … This war isn’t over yet.” A siren could be heard in the distance as she left.

  ***

  The Gulf of Aden, north of Socotra Island

  It was nighttime, the stars were out, and the moonlight seemed to undulate in concert with the waves. Nakhoda Sevvom (Lieutenant Commander) Abas Heydari was sipping sweet tea, when a disembodied voice came through the overhead speaker. “This is the CIC (Combat Information Center). A target is closing on the bait.”

  Heydari touched a button. “Very well. Keep me advised.”

  Heydari turned to his XO, Lieutenant Nazari. “Sound battle stations. Match the target’s speed.”

  Nazari was in no way surprised. Heydari was a monster, but a clever one. After the Bahram (Mars) was damaged during the second battle for the Strait of Hormuz, Heydari had taken his boat to sea and motored west.

  The little ninety-foot-long, Kaivan-class patrol boat, would have been easy pickings for an Allied plane. But the same luck that had prevailed during the battle for the Strait continued to hold, and Heydari managed to con his vessel through the tight entrance of a tiny bay on the south coast of Socotra Island. There it was concealed under layers of fish nets purchased from local fishermen.

  It would have been impossible to enter the harbor if it hadn’t been for the efforts of a prewar developer who had used heavy equipment to cut a passageway through the obstructing sandbar.

  So it was there, in the crystal-clear waters of the bay, that Bahram’s crew spent weeks making repairs to their boat, and eventually managed to restore it to service. And “service” meant waging war on the Allies.

  Nazari thumbed a button. “General Quarters, General Quarters. Man your battle stations.”

  Most of the crew was at their battle stations, so the announcement was something of a formality, and a signal to pay attention.

  The Bahram’s armament consisted of a twin-barreled 23mm cannon in the bow, and four machine guns, two of which had been looted from Allied vessels.

  The crew had two RPGs as well, plus a small arsenal of automatic rifles and pistols.

  But, because the Bahram couldn’t reach Iranian ports for supplies, Heydari did everything he could to conserve ammo. And that included the use of subterfuge. The centerpiece of which was the use of “bait boats.” In this case the bait boat was a rubber raft equipped with jury-rigged radar reflectors and a radio.

  The prerecorded messages varied. Some were in English. Some were in Arabic. But all shared the same type of content. “Our vessel is sinking! We need help! Please hurry.”

  And it worked nearly every time because, even though the Allies had to be aware that some distress calls were false, they didn’t know which ones. So, they were forced to respond.

  Nazari felt sick to his stomach. How many times had he fingered his sidearm, and wished that he had the courage to do the right thing? At least a dozen. And now, as nav lights appeared in the distance, another war crime was about to be committed.

  “Make the call,” Heydari ordered as he put his mug down. “It will be interesting to see what sort of gift Allah sent us.”

  Nazari’s throat was dry. It took a conscious effort to speak English. “Vessel in distress, this is the USS Conover. Your status please. Over.”

  The reply came from the responding vessel. The radio operator had an Indian accent. “USS Conover, this is the Jaffna Skiat. We are a skoot (shallow-hulled ship) responding to a distress call. But the signal appears to be originating from a rubber raft, equipped with a mast and radar reflector. Over.”

  “Roger that,” Nazari replied. “Standby and prepare to be boarded. Please have your papers ready for inspection. This won’t take long. Over.”

  Nazari could imagine the consternation, not to mention frustration, on the Jaffna’s bridge. Here they were, on a humanitarian mission, and the fucking Americans were about to jerk them around. But what choice did they have? The foreigners could sink the Jaffna if they wanted to. So, all the ship’s officers could do was grit their teeth and comply.

  The Bahram’s crew were experts at launching their twin RIB boats by then, pulling up alongside all manner of vessels, and going aboard.

  Thankfully, from his point of view, Nazari wasn’t expected to lead the boarding party. That fell to a Master Chief Petty Officer named Zamani. A brute who enjoyed every aspect of his job—including murder. And that’s what Heydari expected of Zamani, and the rest of the boarding party as well, to ensure that not a single witness survived.

  The slaughter always worked the same way. Zamani and two handpicked sailors would visit the bridge and kill everyone there. Then after putting an Iranian on the helm, the boarding party would systematically search the ship, killing every crewperson they encountered.

  Did some manage to hide? Probably. But if so, they would die when the ship sank. Prior to that, the Bahram would go alongside and siphon diesel from the doomed vessel.

  As that took place scroungers were dispatched to search for money, food, and medical supplies. Plus anything else that might be useful.

  Nazari could hear occasional shots while the ships were conjoined, and struggled to ignore them, knowing what they signified.

  The whole process took about half an hour. And that included removing two American made FGM-148 Javelin missile launchers from the cargo, and bringing them aboard the Bahram.

  Then, once the patrol boat was a safe distance away, it was a simple matter to trigger the charges that Master Chief Zamani’s men had placed in the Jaffna’s main hold.

  A series of explosions rippled the length of the Indian skoot, and culminated with a massive BOOM, as the freighter broke in half. The stern sank first. Soon followed by the bow, which left nothing other than flotsam to mark the spot where two dozen mariners had died. Heydari was pleased.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Aden, Yemen

  Baxter’s arm felt sore as he lowered himself into the launch, returned the coxswain’s salute, and took a seat. It was a nice day. The early morning sun felt good on his face, white water splashed away from the bow, and he was in a relatively good mood.

  But for how long? The message had been succinct. “Meeting with Admiral Cogan 1000. Be there. Delgado.”

  Baxter’s initial reaction was a stab of fear. Had his role in the raid on Yahya’s compound come to light somehow?

  No, Baxter decided. Had that been the case the MPs would have hauled him off to the brig. So, it was something else. A mission for the LCACs most likely. If so, that was fine.

  But, once Baxter was aboard the McKinley, it soon became clear that Cogan and Delgado had a very different type of assignment in mind. They were seated at Cogan’s conference table. “Take a look at this,” the admiral said, as she pushed a photo over to Baxter.

  The black and white photo was grainy. The freighter was unremarkable. And it was hard to tell how large she was without anything to use as a reference. “That is, or was, an Indian merchant vessel called the Jaffna Skiat. The last time her company heard from her was when she altered course to respond to a distress signal.”

  “A fake signal,” Cogan added bitterly. “And not the first. During the last thirty days seven vessels have been lost this way. The Intel people believe that some sort of commerce raider is at work. An Iranian ship most likely … Although the Paks are a possibility as well.”

  “Whoever it is uses a distress signal as bait,” Delgado explained. “Then, when a ship shows up, they sink her.”

  “That’s bad enough,” Cogan said darkly. “But there hasn’t been a single survivor so far. Imagine that Commander, seven vessels, and not a single person lived to tell what happened.”

  “We believe the crews were systematically murdered before their ships were sunk,” Delgado added. “As for how the bastards get aboard, listen to this snippet, courtesy of the National Security Agency.” A recorder was sitting on the table. Delgado pressed, “Play.”

  “Vessel in distress, this is the USS Conover. Your status please. Over.”

  “USS Conover, this is the Jaffna Skiat. We are a skoot responding to a distress call. But the signal is coming from a rubber raft equipped with a short mast and a radar reflector. Over.”