The ship was settling fast. But the water was shallow. And as waves lapped over the main deck the keel hit bottom.

  Baxter grabbed a mike. “Standby to abandon ship! This is not a drill. Grab water, food and personal weapons. I want a casualty report ASAP.”

  Neely stared at him. “What the fuck happened?”

  Baxter shrugged. “I get the feeling that the captain of the commerce raider doesn’t want to surrender.”

  He turned to the ET. “Waterproof your radio. It looks like we’re going for a swim.”

  That was when a second missile slammed into the ship. A sailor began to scream.

  ***

  When the Bahram was “in port,” Captain Heydari insisted on posting lookouts near the entrance to the bay, and more than that, defensive weaponry. That consisted of RPGs at first.

  But, after capturing two Javelin missile launchers, the shore battery had been improved. And Master Chief Zamani was jumping up and down like a fan at a soccer game. “We did it! We sank the American ship with their own missiles! Allah be praised!”

  Though not designed for use on ships, the FGM-148 Javelin was perfect for the job, so long as the target was no more than a mile and a half away. And, since the Javelin was a self-guided, fire-and-forget weapon system, just about anyone could fire one.

  But making a wonderful thing even better was the use of the top-attack mode, in which the missile could go high and attack downwards, striking tank armor where it was the thinnest.

  Because modern navy ships didn’t have any armor, the attack was equivalent to attacking a slab of butter with a steak knife.

  A radio was perched on a rock. Zamani heard a burst of static. “This is the captain. Kill the survivors. Over.”

  ***

  Near Aden, Yemen

  The cot was surprisingly comfortable; a thick blanket was proof against the nighttime cold. If it hadn’t been for Saad’s persistent snoring, Kirby would have slept well.

  She awoke before the contractor did, and upon leaving the tent discovered that very few people were up and around. A communal shower for women was located at the center of the cluster and Kirby had the facility to herself.

  Saad was dressed by the time she returned. A coffee and tea service rested on the table. There were pastries too. “It just arrived,” Saad told her. “Help yourself. We can hit the buffet tent once you’re ready.”

  “I’m going to skip breakfast,” Kirby announced. “The opening ceremonies are going to start in an hour or so.”

  Saad frowned. “You aren’t here to take photos, are you?”

  “Nope.”

  “So, this is a hit?”

  “Yup. I was told that you have some experience in that department.”

  “I do,” Saad admitted. “But you failed to include me in the loop. I don’t like that.”

  Kirby shrugged. “I’m sorry. But you know the drill. Tell people what they need to know. Nothing more.”

  “So how is it going to go down? Are you going to join the crowd? And pop someone?”

  “Of course not,” Kirby replied. “I hope to retire one day. I figured that you’d like to survive too. So, I brought a standoff weapon.”

  “What kind of standoff weapon?”

  “A Switchblade drone.”

  Saad produced a low whistle. “Nice! You launch it, watch the video, and select your target. Then the drone turns into a missile.”

  Kirby nodded. “That’s right. So, here’s the drill … We’re going to cut a hole in the top of the tent, launch the drone through it, and let the Switchblade loiter over the crowd. When the moment is right, I’ll send it in.”

  “Smart … We can launch without being seen. Who’s the target?”

  Kirby didn’t want to tell him. But it only seemed fair. “The target is a crime boss named Yahya. He’s going to deliver the opening remarks. ‘Welcome to the races’, ‘have a good time’, that sort of shit.

  “Once the deed is done, we pack up, stroll out to the Rover and depart. Lots of other people will do likewise. You can count on that.”

  “Okay, I’m in,” Saad said.

  “Good. Lift me up onto to your shoulders and I’ll cut the hole.” Kirby’s knife made a ripping sound as it cut through the canvas. A shaft of early morning sunlight splashed the deep pile rug as a circular piece of canvas fluttered to the floor.

  “There,” Kirby said, as she jumped free. “We’re open for business.”

  The next step was to retrieve the innocuous looking tube from her duffle bag. The cylinder was two feet long and weighed a scant six pounds. There was a newer, heavier version in the Alliance’s armory, but Kirby didn’t need the additional capabilities.

  She was cradling the drone, and preparing to turn, when Saad wrapped his arms around her from behind. Kirby thought: Shit. I should have known.

  Kirby jerked her head back, felt her skull connect with something, and stomped a bare foot. Saad uttered a yelp of pain and let go.

  Kirby whirled, elbow up, and ready to strike. But Saad ducked and the blow passed over his head. He stood. Blood flowed from his nose. “I’m going to sell your ass to Yahya, bitch … And laugh all the way to the bank.”

  The last few words were uttered while charging straight at her.

  Kirby tried to sidestep but wasn’t fast enough. Saad’s considerable weight bowled her over. Suddenly Kirby was on her back looking up at him. A drop of warm blood landed on her cheek. A fist followed. It hurt.

  Kirby reached across Saad’s chest with her left hand, grabbed his collar, and took hold of his left wrist with her other hand.

  Saad’s left arm was effectively neutralized as Kirby put her left foot down, used it to push off, and brought her knee up across Saad’s body. Then her right leg swept in to roll him over. All in a matter of seconds.

  Now Kirby was on top. Saad tried to buck her off, and would have succeeded, had it not been for the drone which lay within easy reach.

  Kirby got a grip on the tube and raised it high. The one-handed blow struck his forehead but failed to knock the contractor out.

  As Saad’s hands came up to throttle Kirby, she managed to get a two-handed grip, and brought the drone down hard. The tube rose and fell like a hatchet splitting wood.

  Then, after half a dozen blows, Saad’s hands fell away from her throat, and the light vanished from his eyes.

  Kirby felt for a pulse. There was none. Good. But what about the drone? Was it intact? A quick check confirmed that it was.

  The agent glanced at her watch. Yahya was scheduled to speak in twelve minutes!

  Kirby had rehearsed the setup procedure so many times that it was like second nature by then. It wasn’t complex: Deploy two legs for the drone to lean on. Make sure the tube was angled properly. And push the power button on the tablet computer.

  Once the automated system check was complete, and the tablet was linked to the computer, all the agent had to do was place her left hand on the launch tube to steady it. The trigger mechanism in her right hand. Kirby pulled the trigger.

  The tube jerked as the drone shot up through the newly created hole and began a steep climb towards its maximum altitude of ten thousand feet. An elevation at which the tiny weapon was unlikely to be detected.

  Kirby’s mouth felt dry. Was the opening ceremony running on time? Had Yahya begged off for some reason? No, the video was clear. Yahya was standing next to the platform waiting to be introduced.

  Selecting the target was a simple matter, and once accomplished, the Switchblade would take care of the rest. Kirby could kill Yahya right where he stood. But the idea of nailing the bastard while he was behind the podium appealed to her.

  The introduction seemed to take forever. Finally, with only a minute thirty to spare, Yahya climbed two steps up onto the speaker’s platform and waved to the cheering crowd.

  “So long, asshole,” Kirby said, as she pressed “enter.”

  The missile went in for the kill.

  The explosion blew Yahya and the podium to smithereens. And Kirby was able to hear the thump from half a mile away.

  Okay, Kirby thought, as she stood. That was for you Doctor Hadi … And for you Leo. Wherever you are. I’m out of here.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Aomak Bay, Socotra Island, Yemen

  A missile? Yes, Baxter thought so, as a second explosion rocked Patrol Boat-001. The Korean made vessel was resting on the bottom, roughly a hundred yards short of the passageway into Aomak Bay. She had a slight tilt to port.

  Baxter had no choice. He thumbed the mike. “Abandon ship! Launch rafts. Wounded first … Then the rest of the crew.”

  As Baxter and Neely made the rounds, they soon discovered that two members of the twenty-four-person crew had been killed, and three had been wounded—one seriously.

  They stopped to help lower the wounded sailor into a RIB. The ship’s hospital corpsman was working to stem the flow of blood and establish an IV.

  Meanwhile Baxter was waiting for the third missile. The one that would land right on top of him. Then the bow-mounted Bofors cannon began to fire!

  A cook arrived. His eyes were alight with excitement. “Chief Ducey spotted the enemy position! It’s up on that cliff. A gunner’s mate is with him, and they’re going to kill the bastards!”

  “Tell the chief I owe him a bottle of his favorite hootch. And tell him to get over the side as soon as possible. That goes for you too.”

  “The chief needs me,” the cook said proudly. “I have to go.” And with that he ran forward.

  Before going over the side Baxter stopped by his cabin to grab his tac vest. Once back on deck, he accepted an M4 carbine from a gunner’s mate, and joined Neely at the rail. “How’s the head count?”

  “All present or accounted for,” she replied.

  Baxter was about to respond when a loud explosion sounded, chunks of rock flew up into the air from a point near the top of the cliff, and black smoke billowed upwards. “Ducey hit some sort of ammo supply!” Baxter exclaimed.

  Someone uttered a war cry, and the One groaned, as the deck tilted a little more.

  “She could roll!” Neely warned. “Everyone into the water!”

  Baxter waited for the gun crew to enter the water, paused for a final look around, and went over the side. There was no need to jump. The waters of the Arabian Sea were sloshing onto the deck. Fortunately, the beach was no more than two-hundred feet away, and the water was warm. But due to Baxter’s failure to grab a PFD, and the weight of his gear, it was difficult to swim.

  Then the surf took hold of Baxter’s body, lifted him up, and sent him rushing toward the beach. Baxter went under at one point, and was held there for a moment, before his right foot found the bottom. That was all the encouragement the naval officer needed.

  Baxter was sucking air as he stumbled up the slope, tripped, and fell face down in the snow-white sand. Hands took hold of his vest and lifted him up.

  Baxter found his feet then realized that Farhan and Ducey were the ones who had assisted him. “Nice form, sir,” Ducey said. “What’s the name of that stroke anyway?”

  “It’s called the fuck you,” Baxter replied with a grin. “Nice work on the Bofors, Chief … I won’t forget. In the meantime, round up some sailors, and put a security screen in place.”

  Ducey said, “Aye, aye sir,” and left at a trot.

  “Miss Farhan … Sorry about this. I suggest that you request combat pay.

  “Okay, where’s our ET?” Baxter added. “We need air support.”

  “I’m here,” the sailor answered, as he appeared next to Baxter. His radio was wrapped in layers of plastic. “Shall I raise CENTCOM?”

  “Yes,” Baxter replied. “Ask for the duty officer.”

  Baxter turned to Neely. Her hair was wet and straggly. “Send a couple of scouts to spy on the raider. Give them a radio if we have one. Tell them to maintain a low profile. I want regular reports. Copy?”

  “I copy,” Neely replied. “I’ll go, and take a sailor with me.”

  “Even better,” Baxter said, “I’ll join you after I finish talking to CENTCOM.”

  Predictably enough the nature of Baxter’s report caused the duty officer to buck the matter up to a major, who passed it on to a colonel, who turned the crises over to Captain Fenton. The navy officer listened without interrupting.

  Then, once Baxter was finished, Fenton chimed in. “I don’t know why you’re such a shit magnet Pirate-Six, but you sure as hell are! Two F-35s are headed your way. They’ll take care of the situation if the enemy refuses to surrender.”

  Baxter couldn’t believe his ears. “Refuses to surrender? You’re joking, right?”

  “No,” Fenton answered smoothly. “I’m serious. Naval intelligence wants to have a sit-down with the commanding officer and his crew.

  “Then, once that process is over, we’ll charge every damned one of the bastards with war crimes. Over.”

  “I’ll try,” Baxter replied reluctantly. “But the last time I told this guy to surrender, he sank the ship I was standing on. Over.”

  “Try, try again,” Fenton said cheerfully. “That’s the key to success.”

  “What’s the ETA on the fighters?” Baxter inquired.

  “An hour—give or take,” Fenton responded. “Keep me in the loop. Over.”

  And that was that.

  Baxter took a look around, saw Ducey, and went over to talk. “Hey Master Chief … How many effectives do we have on hand?”

  “Sixteen, sir. Not counting your observers, Doc, and of course his patient and the people who were killed.”

  “Okay, round them up, and follow me.”

  Ducey’s eyebrows rose. “Can I ask what we’re going to do?”

  “Yes, you certainly can. We’re going to call upon the raider to surrender.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. Let’s get moving.”

  A winding trail, presumably used by locals for hundreds of years, led away from the beach. The sun was high in the sky, the heat was taking a toll, and Baxter’s arm hurt. Worse yet was the fact that the sailors had very little water to share. We’ll make it, Baxter assured himself. The whole thing will be over in an hour. We’ll deal with the water problem then. I wonder if Fenton sent a ship our way.

  Static crackled and he heard Neely’s voice. “Pirate-Six, this is Pirate-Five. The raider hoisted an Iranian flag. The crew is cutting the fishing nets away, they dropped the shore lines, and it looks like they’re going to weigh anchor. Over.”

  ***

  Two thirds of the Bahram’s crew was assembled on the foredeck. Lieutenant Commander Abas Heydari stood facing them with his hands clasped behind his back. His voice was loud enough to be heard over the sound of the engines. “The enemy called on us to surrender. We sank their ship.

  “Now they’re calling on us to surrender again. And, if we refuse, Allied planes will attack us. If the planes fail, their ships will follow. It doesn’t matter. We will fight to the end—then we will be welcomed into Jannah (paradise).

  “Meanwhile we will send many infidels to their deaths. May Allah curse them.”

  ***

  Lieutenant Nazari knew that the long-delayed moment was upon him. Heydari’s plan wasn’t a plan. The Bahram’s crew was being forced to sign a suicide pact.

  There was no way to atone for the slaughter which he had allowed to take place. But maybe, through one final act, he could prevent more killing.

  Nazari’s hands were shaking and his voice emerged as a loud croak. “Do not listen to Captain Heydari … We can surrender. We should surrender. And no one will blame us. We fought well. I call upon you to ignore the captain and obey my orders.”

  It was as if Heydari had been waiting for that moment as he drew his pistol, raised it up, and shot Nazari in the face. The younger officer’s head jerked and he collapsed.

  “That’s what happens to traitors,” Heydari growled. “Is there anyone who would like to join Nazari in Jahannam (hell)? No? Then go back to work. Dismissed.”

  ***

  The tiny bay was surrounded by rocky outcroppings which, if necessary, would allow the PB-001’s crew to fire down on the Iranian raider.

  Baxter had joined Neely by then and Ducey’s sailors were taking positions among the rocks. The ET had the Iranian frequency dialed in. Baxter accepted the mike. “Commerce Raider, this is the commander of U.S. Navy Riverine Squadron 7. Allied planes are inbound. You will cut power, drop anchor, and assemble your crew on deck. If you fail to do so your vessel will be destroyed. Over.”

  “The ship is underway,” Neely warned.

  And it was true. The enemy patrol boat was creeping forward. In ten minutes, fifteen at most, the raider would enter the open sea. Would the planes find it? Probably. But Baxter’s duty was clear. If he could stop it, he should.

  “Fire on the bridge,” Baxter ordered. “Maybe you’ll get lucky. Chief! Follow me … We’re going to man the Bofors!”

  Baxter ran without looking back. The trail was not only steep, but turned frequently, and required all of his attention if he was to avoid a nasty spill.

  Baxter ran toward the RIB boat. Two sailors raced past him—that was when Baxter realized that Ducey had help—and a good thing too. The RIB was too heavy for two men to handle in the surf.

  The sailors were already turning the boat around when Baxter arrived, followed by Ducey and the teenage cook. “We’re going to blow them out of the water!” the kid exclaimed. “That’ll show them.”

  “It certainly will,” Baxter agreed. “Push!”

  A wave exploded against the RIB as the men muscled it out into the surf where Chief Ducey started the outboard. The sailors took hold of the line that ran around the sides of the boat and used it to pull themselves aboard as Ducey opened the throttle.

  The lightly loaded inflatable slapped the water as it began to pick up speed. Fortunately, Neely’s worst fears hadn’t been realized and the One was mostly vertical.

  “The power will be out!” Ducey shouted over the engine noise. “We’ll have to disconnect the turret and turn it manually.”

  Baxter hadn’t thought of that. It was one more thing to slow them down. “Roger that, Chief … What about targeting?”