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

  “The USS Conover doesn’t exist,” Cogan grated. “As we speak an intense air-sea search is underway. That includes fighters, a Hawkeye, and two destroyers.”

  Baxter looked from Cogan to Delgado and back. “Yes, ma’am. So how does my squadron fit in?”

  Cogan nodded. “That’s the right question. The grid search will find the raider if it’s at sea. But what if it’s holed up somewhere? Inshore, where our larger vessels can’t go? We want you to take Patrol Boat-001 out and examine the nooks and crannies of the Socotra archipelago.”

  “All of the ships that disappeared did so between the island of Socotra, Yemen and Oman,” Delgado added. “And, if you get lucky, you’ll need more than a tug or an LCAC to deal with the raider.”

  Baxter wasn’t sure that a run-in with an enemy commerce raider could be described as “lucky.” But the mission made sense, as did the decision to send the PB-001. “Roger that, sir. Fortunately, the ‘One’ is in port. Is there anything else?”

  “Yes,” Admiral Cogan replied. “Good hunting.”

  ***

  The Gulf of Aden

  The Gulf of Aden was part of the all-important shipping route that connected the Mediterranean Sea with the Suez Canal, the Arabian Sea, and the Indian Ocean. And according to Baxter’s research more than twenty-one thousand ships crossed the gulf every year.

  Now, because the route was used to transport Persian Gulf oil once again, it played a significant role in the world economy.

  Despite a lack of large-scale, commercial fishing facilities, the islands of the Socotra archipelago were home to dozens of isolated fishing towns and villages that harvested sardines, fish, turtles and lobsters.

  Could a raider be hiding among their small fishing boats? No. That was impossible. But there was a lot of coastlines to inspect, and perhaps the enemy had a hidey hole that the NSA’s analysts had missed.

  Socotra was about six hundred miles due east of Aden. And that meant it would take Patrol Boat-001 about seventeen hours to reach the island.

  Baxter had spent very little time aboard the Chamsuri-class patrol boat since assuming command of Squadron 7. But notwithstanding the boat’s age, he liked her. The “One” was powered by two diesel engines and carried a crew of twenty-five.

  According to Neely the Koreans referred to the Chamsuri-class boats as “Patrol Killer Medium boats.” And that was a reasonable description.

  But for a medium sized boat, the One packed some serious throw weight. That included a 40mm/60 Bofors in a fully enclosed mount, two turreted single 20mm Vulcan Gatlings, and a pair of 12.7mm machine guns. Never mind Stingers and small arms.

  Baxter was standing on the flying bridge. Sunlight sparkled off the sea, a gentle breeze caressed his face, and white clouds scudded across the sky. It felt good to be alive.

  ***

  Aden, Yemen

  Doctor Hadi had been tortured to death. That much was obvious. But by who? And for what reason? Hadi had written the answer to both questions in blood. His blood.

  Kirby had returned to the convenience store after receiving a text from Hadi. The message was short and anything but sweet. “I’m at the store. People watching. Need help.”

  It took Kirby twenty minutes to break free of a meeting and dash across town. That was fast—all things considered. But not fast enough.

  A “Closed” sign was displayed in the window. But the door was unlocked. And the store’s owner lay dead on the floor. The door to the back room, where Hadi saw patients, was ajar. Kirby entered with pistol in hand. But the killers were gone. Hadi was there though … Lying in a pool of thickening blood. Flies buzzed and Kirby waved them off.

  Hadi’s face was bruised and swollen and he was naked from the waist up. Six of his fingers had been amputated and lay scattered on the floor.

  Six, Kirby thought. Why six? And not seven? Because Hadi couldn’t take anymore. He told them what they wanted to know after the loss of his sixth finger. Then they shot him. Not in the head, and not in the heart. Which meant Hadi had a couple of minutes of life in him after his assailants left.

  That was when Kirby noticed the one-word message Hadi had written on his chest. Though right side up for him, the name was upside down for Kirby, who had to turn in order to read it. “Yaya.” Not Yahya, but that didn’t matter. Yaya was close enough. As for the why, that was obvious. Yahya was after Baxter.

  Kirby felt a stab of guilt. I thought the smoke would be thick enough to blind the security cameras. I was wrong. And Yahya wants revenge.

  Hadi’s death is my fault. And, unless I come up with a way to kill Yahya, Baxter will be next.

  ***

  The island of Socotra, the Socotra archipelago

  Viewed on a chart, the island of Socotra resembled a misshapen potato. Because Socotra constituted ninety-five percent of the archipelago’s land mass, and was home to most of its population, it was the obvious place to start the search.

  Baxter wasn’t naïve enough to think that he’d find the Iranian patrol boat anchored off the main town of Hadiboh. But he might be able to gather some Intel there. Neely’s only choice was to drop anchor because Hadiboh didn’t have a harbor or a jetty.

  Neely dropped the hook well offshore as Baxter, a Yemeni translator, and four sailors prepared to go ashore in a RIB boat.

  Meanwhile a loud armada of youngsters in tiny boats had arrived to circle the warship in an attempt to sell trinkets to the crew. Sea shell necklaces mostly, and cones of deep-fried shrimp.

  It was no small job to keep the entrepreneurs at bay, but a necessity in a world where IEDs were an ever-present threat, and at least half of the Yemenis hated the United States.

  The translator’s name was Akilah Farhan. She’d been cleared by the staff at Central Command, and was attractive in a bookish sort of way.

  More importantly Farhan was said to be fluent in the Socotri language as well as Mehri, Shehri, Bathari, Harsusi, and Hobyot, all of which were Modern South Arabian languages.

  After passing through the cordon of boats that surrounded PB-001, the RIB arrowed toward the beach and the town of Hadiboh beyond. Outside of five scattered minarets, and a single radio tower, there was nothing to break the skyline.

  Low lying vegetation could be seen off to the left where a river emptied into the Gulf of Aden. And, as was the custom throughout the region, fishing boats were secured by pulling them up onto the beach. They had high, pointy bows and hulls that swooped back to equally elevated sterns. A design that would be helpful in heavy seas.

  The coxswain brought the motor up, the RIB’s bow slid onto the sand, and two sailors went over the side to keep the stern straight into the waves. Then, once the rest of the passengers were ashore, everyone other than Farhan pitched in to pull the RIB up higher onto the beach.

  An armed sailor was left to guard the boat. She had a radio and could contact Baxter or the ship if necessary. Baxter took a moment to speak with Farhan. “You know the kind of information we need. Who should we speak with?”

  “Fishermen,” she said simply. “It’s safe to assume that if a strange vessel is using Socotra as a base, everyone knows about it. Then, if that fails, we’ll speak with an Imam (religious leader).”

  “That sounds good,” Baxter allowed. “But how about the politics of the situation? Iran has been supplying the Houthis with arms. So, would the locals lie to protect the Iranians?”

  “I honestly don’t know,” Farhan replied. “The island is a very insular place. I imagine the locals are not only poorly informed but somewhat apolitical. But that’s a supposition.”

  “Understood,” Baxter said. “Thank you for being forthright. Okay, lead the way.”

  The others followed at a distance as Farhan made her way up the sandy slope to the dirt road that fronted the beach. Thatched umbrellas threw patches of shade down onto the ground. After spotting three old men the interpreter went to speak with them.

  Baxter understood Farhan’s logic. If anyone knew what was going on, it would be old fishermen with nothing to do but shoot the shit. The locals watched warily as the young woman approached.

  Baxter motioned for the sailors to take advantage of the shade provided by a neighboring umbrella and found an overturned bucket to sit on. “Don’t watch Farhan,” he admonished them. “Maintain situational awareness. And, if you see something, say something.”

  Baxter took his own advice be scanning the low-lying structures that fronted the beach. Nearly all of them had flat roofs that would be ideal for use by snipers or mortar crews. Either of which could erase his tiny force in a matter of seconds.

  Yes, Neely would exact some sort of revenge with the ship’s Bofors cannon. But that would provide very little satisfaction to the dead sailors. Fortunately, so far as Baxter could tell, there were no Houthis on duty in downtown Hadiboh.

  A full fifteen minutes passed before Farhan returned with her report. “So,” Baxter said. “What did you learn?”

  “The people who live here fish in the Gulf of Aden for the most part,” the interpreter explained. “And rarely frequent the south coast. But there are rumors of a strange vessel there. A ship which, according to what I was told, sails only at night and is covered with fishing nets during the day. None of the men I spoke to had seen it with their own eyes.

  “But, if they’re correct, the vessel is anchored in Aomak Bay,” Farhan finished. “Flanked by a beautiful beach to the east and west.”

  Baxter could hardly believe his good fortune. In less than an hour they’d been able to get a lead on what had to be the Iranian raider.

  Should he seek confirmation? No, Baxter decided. The PB-001 would have to visit Aomak Bay regardless of what other sources told them.

  Baxter stood. “Well done, Miss Farhan. You’re about to visit the south coast of Socotra.”

  ***

  Near Aden, Yemen

  There were those, westerners mostly, who felt that to hold a camel race during WWIII would be unseemly and possibly immoral.

  Then there were those like Fakhir Yahya, and his wealthy associates, who argued that camel races were not only an important aspect of Yemeni culture, but a much-needed diversion during a time of worldwide pain. And because royals, entrepreneurs, and oligarchs were willing to pay for the event—they won out.

  None of which was lost on Kirby who, along with a CIA contractor named Maurice Saad, was on her way to take part in the huge gathering associated with the races.

  The upper crust of Yemeni society would be there, yes, but so would more than a thousand commoners who would put up tents, service sani-cans, prepare feasts, park SUVS, sell souvenirs, and clean up after the al hejin (racing camels).

  There would also be hundreds of spectators. And that was the group that Kirby and Saad planned to blend with.

  Saad was driving and Kirby, like the eahira (whore) that she purported to be, was decked out in upscale clothes and fake jewels. The cost of which, Saad’s fee included, was going to be borne by Kirby. A price the agent was happy to pay to protect Baxter.

  “The security checkpoint is up ahead,” Kirby said as she eyed the map provided by organizers. “Remember, the cover story … You are a wealthy businessman. I’m your play pretty.”

  “And you are pretty,” Saad said. “Sleep with me and I’ll cancel the fee.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks,” Kirby replied. “I’m married.”

  Saad glanced her way. “Really? To who?”

  “A woman named Carrie,” Kirby answered. That was a lie. But a useful one.

  “Oh,” Saad said. “Sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “Of course, you didn’t,” Kirby said. “Now you can focus all your attention on the mission.”

  The checkpoint was manned by Yemini army soldiers. In order to enter the sprawling race area, it was necessary to have an official invitation complete with a QR code, and two forms of ID.

  Both Kirby and Saad had high quality fake IDs which were quickly approved. That left the Land Rover which, like all incoming vehicles, had to be searched. And that was the scary part. Because underneath the SUV, next to the muffler, was a cylindrical container that wasn’t part of the exhaust system. Or any system for that matter. An item that Saad was unaware of. Why? Because the contractor didn’t need to know, that’s why. Not yet anyway.

  Kirby held her breath as a soldier slid the pole-mounted inspection mirror in under the Land Rover. He was looking for IEDs or anything else that might pose a threat.

  Was he knowledgeable enough to identify the grime covered cylinder as being extraneous to the vehicle’s exhaust system? Or would the soldier assume it was legit?

  Kirby felt a tremendous sense of relief as the man withdrew the mirror and turned to inspect the next car in line. Meanwhile a second soldier completed his search of the Rover’s interior.

  After reentering the SUV, they drove away. “Well, that was a pain in the ass,” Saad commented. “Where to?”

  “Our tent is in the blue sector,” Kirby replied. “Just follow the color-coded arrows. We’re out on the very edge of tent city. That’s where latecomers and poor people have to stay. But even paupers have to pony up a thou per night. In advance.

  “And our crib is half a mile from the stands and racetrack. The rich and famous get golf carts. We’ll have to hoof it.”

  “The story of my life,” Saad replied, as he took a left. “So, is there anything I have to do while you’re taking photos of Mr. Yahya and his friends?”

  “Nope,” Kirby replied. “All you have to do is look pretty.”

  “I have that covered,” Saad said with a smile. “It’s too bad you play for the other team.”

  “Into each life some rain must fall,” Kirby responded primly. “Even in the desert.”

  The sprawling encampment was extremely well organized. Snow white tents sat in numbered clusters. Each was equipped with a striped awning plus two chairs, a small table, and a cooler.

  Red carpet runners led from the clusters in toward the distant racetrack like spokes on a gigantic wheel. That necessitated endless sweeping by an army of red hats, each wielding a broom, as they did battle with the desert sand.

  After parking the Rover in the Blue Sector’s lot, the twosome carried their bags to tent seven, cluster four. I’ll send Saad for ice, Kirby decided. And use the time to retrieve the package from the Rover. After that I’ll rest up, have a nice dinner, and get some sleep. Then, immediately after breakfast, I’ll kill Fakhir Yahya.

  ***

  Off Socotra Island, the Socotra archipelago

  A stiff breeze was blowing from the west. And, as Patrol Boat-001 cruised east along Socotra’s southern coast, Baxter could feel a slight surge every time a roller lifted the stern.

  They were only a mile offshore, which meant Baxter could see a great deal through his binoculars. The land was dry at best, and frequently interrupted by fingers of desert which pointed at the sea.

  Arid though the landscape was, Baxter noticed a touch of green here and there. The most spectacular bits were the toadstool shaped, dragon’s blood trees, and the flowering cucumber trees, each with multiple elephant leg-like trunks.

  Closer in, and even more spectacular, were the white sand beaches, which put tourist attractions like Waikiki to shame. Each was a windblown piece of art.

  As fascinating as such sights were, Baxter wanted to see something else, and that was the narrow passage into Aomak Bay—the tiny harbor where the Iranian raider might be hiding. They were close, very close, and likely to spot the opening soon.

  But the call, when it came, was from the ship’s CIC, rather than one of the lookouts. “The Stalker is over the bay now, and a ship is anchored there.”

  “I’m coming down,” Baxter replied. The Lockheed Martin Stalker was a hand-launched, electrically-powered, unmanned aerial vehicle, originally developed for use by special operations personnel.

  Since the beginning of the war the fifteen-pound drone had been pressed into service for all sorts of missions, including use by the Riverines. And Baxter was eager to see the real-time video feed that the UAV was sending back.

  A chief petty officer named Ducey was in charge of CIC. “Here you go sir,” Ducey said as he stood. “Have a seat.”

  Once in front of the monitor Baxter immediately wished it was larger. But something beat the hell out of nothing.

  The Stalker was circling near its maximum ceiling of fifteen thousand feet in order to avoid detection. Even so, Baxter could see the camouflaged ship—of course he knew what to look for. A luxury the people at the NRO didn’t have. And, the fishing nets did an excellent job of softening the patrol boat’s hard edges and smothering its reflections.

  Baxter’s heart beat a little faster at the sight of it. Had it been left to him he would have ordered PB-001 into the harbor with guns blazing.

  But he was under orders to call for a surrender which, if successful, would lead to an Intel hotwash—followed by a war crimes trial.

  Besides, Baxter told himself, what sort of defenses have been put in place? The bastards can’t get out unless you let them out. So, take your time.

  The passage into Aomak Bay was in sight by the time Baxter returned to the flying bridge. It was flanked by rocky cliffs.

  Baxter turned to the duty ET. “Dial up the Iranian navy’s favorite frequency. Let me know when you’re ready.”

  It took the sailor a couple of minutes to comply. “Sorry about the wait, sir. I’m ready.”

  Baxter accepted the mike. “Commerce Raider, this is the commander of U.S. Navy Riverine Squadron 7. Surrender your ship or we will destroy it. Over.”

  Something dropped out of the sky, landed on the PB-001’s foredeck, and exploded. The shaped charge blew a hole through steel. It then plunged down through the crew’s quarters to puncture the ship’s hull. Seawater rushed in and the “One” began to sink.

  The whole thing happened so quickly that a full ten seconds passed before those on the flying bridge managed to fully process the event and react to it.