“There’s a backup screen in the turret,” Ducey replied. “It isn’t as sophisticated as the controls in the CIC. But it’s good enough for government work. And the target will be damned close to us.”

  Thanks to the fact that the sea was lapping up onto the main deck it was easy to land the RIB, pile out, and hurry forward. “You’re in charge, Chief,” Baxter said. “Tell us what to do.”

  The first task was to test fire the gun. There was a loud bang and a puff of gray smoke as a round hit the cliff near where the missile launcher had been.

  Then came the process of disconnecting the gun mount from the hydraulics which normally controlled it. That consumed an agonizing three minutes.

  Once freed two men were required to train the weapon—in accordance with orders issued by Ducey and relayed by the cook. “Three degrees right! Too much. Back one. That’s it. Stand by for a ranging shot.”

  The ranging shot was high. Way too high … And Ducey was cranking the barrel down as the raider nosed its way out of the narrow passageway.

  Baxter wanted to say something. Or do something. But he was little more than an observer at that point. Ducey fired a short burst. Bang! Bang! Bang!

  One of the shells was a tracer and Baxter watched it pass just in front of the raider’s bow. A less experienced gunner might have called for a traverse to port. But Ducey knew there was no need for a correction. All he had to do was keep firing and allow the enemy vessel to enter the line of fire.

  The gunfire was constant by then and Baxter saw flash after flash as 40mm shells stitched a line the full length of the raider’s hull. However, the Iranian vessel had a bow gun too … And it was turning to fire on PB-001.

  But, before the Iranians could fire, an armor piercing round found the patrol boat’s main magazine—and triggered a massive explosion. The blast wave was strong enough to blow the cook’s hat off.

  Chunks of steel rose as if weightless, whirled through the air, and fell into the flames below. Most of the enemy vessel’s hull was intact, but the interior was home to a raging fire. Flames found bins of machine-gun ammo and belts of bullets cooked off like firecrackers on the 4th of July. Then, as the patrol boat settled into its grave, a vast cloud of steam rose and hung like a shroud over the wreck.

  The ET was standing two feet away so Baxter heard the voice loud and clear. “Slider to Pirate-Six. We are two F-5s inbound with missiles, bombs, and guns. Do you read me?”

  Baxter smiled. The navy pilot could see the cloud of smoke and steam. Were the good guys alive? It would be hard to tell from ten thousand feet.

  “This is Pirate-Six actual. I read you five-by-five. Your target was destroyed. And no need to thank us. You’re welcome. Over.”

  Baxter heard what might have been a laugh. “Roger that, Pirate-Six. I’m told that a tin can is inbound to pick you up. Over.”

  Baxter allowed himself to relax a little. There was work to be done before help arrived. But the worst was over, or was it? The raider had been neutralized. But an American ship had been lost along with two lives. And that was no small thing. How would Cogan, Delgado and Fenton react? Baxter would have to wait and see.

  As for his own reaction, Baxter felt a deep sense of sorrow and shame. The decisions had been his, and could never be expunged.

  ***

  Aden, Yemen

  Two weeks had passed since the battle with the Iranian raider. Two of the worst weeks in Baxter’s life. Were the deaths the result of that negligence? And, if so, was it simple negligence? Or criminal negligence? The kind that could send him to prison.

  The suspense was hard to take. Baxter tried to contact Kirby in hopes that the NCIS agent could obtain a readout, but was told that the agent had gone stateside. And they weren’t allowed to release her contact information.

  That left Baxter to stew, fill out endless interrogatories, and meet with Lieutenant JG Janet Pesko—a JAG officer barely out of law school. She was eager though … And, after reading Baxter’s after-action report, clearly shocked.

  “This is absurd! You were ordered to demand a surrender … That order forced you to take the PB-001 in close to shore. I’m going to do everything I can to convince the investigating officer that your case falls short of what’s required for an Article 32 hearing.”

  This was what Baxter hoped to hear. But could the newbie pull it off? That was far from certain.

  Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the big day arrived. Baxter didn’t know what to expect, and neither did Pesko. The meeting was held in a conference room at the Allied HQ building in Aden. The presiding officer was a navy captain named Oliver.

  He sat at one end of a long table with Baxter at the other. Pesko to his right. Delgado, Fenton, and Neely were present as well.

  After convening the meeting, and reading out loud some legal mumbo jumbo about the purpose of the “inquiry,” Oliver got down to business. “All of us are busy, so I’m going to cut to the chase. After reading everything there is to read, and interviewing witnesses like Lieutenant Commander Neely, two things popped out at me.

  “The first is that, while not explicit, the nature of the orders that Commander Baxter received from Captain Fenton were what caused him to take his ship inshore, where he planned to enter Aomak Bay and demand a surrender.

  “However,” Oliver continued. “A case can be made that Commander Baxter’s decision to proceed without thoroughly investigating the possibility of a shore battery was reckless if not negligent.

  “That reality is somewhat mitigated by the fact that he couldn’t reasonably be expected to anticipate the presence of a Javelin missile launcher. A weapon not normally encountered during a naval action. Especially one involving the Iranians.

  “Nonetheless a less hurried approach, and more extensive use of the patrol boat’s drone, might have revealed the danger.

  “All of which leads me to the following conclusion,” Oliver said. “In light of the information at hand, and taking Commander Baxter’s sterling record into account, I see no reason to proceed to an Article 32 hearing unless the commander and his attorney want to request one.

  “Be it understood however, that a letter of censure will be entered into Commander Baxter’s file. Lieutenant Pesko? Your thoughts?”

  “May I consult with my client?”

  “Of course. The rest of us will adjourn for fifteen minutes.”

  Fenton tried to make eye contact as he stood but Baxter looked away. He felt empty. Captain Oliver’s observations were on point. And the letter of censure would effectively end any possibility of promotion. He could remain in the navy but would never make captain.

  And that was just. Two men were dead. And, had he been more attentive, they would be alive.

  Sure, all sorts of things were going on at the time. But that was the job. Or had been the job. Because he’d be sent somewhere else. To process paperwork for the big navy? Probably. But only until the end of the war. Then he would retire.

  All of those thoughts passed through Baxter’s mind in a matter of seconds. “So,” Pesko said. “What do you think? We could insist on a 32 in hopes of a full exoneration.”

  “I don’t deserve an exoneration,” Baxter replied flatly.

  “Are you sure?” Pesko inquired. “I’m told that a letter of censure could impact your career.” There was sympathy in her eyes. Or was it pity?

  “I know that,” Baxter replied. “I’ll take the deal.”

  And that’s how it went down. Once the meeting was adjourned Delgado took Baxter aside. “I’m sorry, Leo. I opposed the letter, for whatever that’s worth.”

  “Thank you, sir. I hope you’ll put Commander Neely in command of the squadron. She’s a damned fine officer. “

  Delgado nodded. “I won’t have the final say. But I’m pushing for Neely. And, if you need a reference, you can count on me.”

  Baxter thanked Delgado, paused to have a final word with Pesko, and left by himself. It would have been the perfect moment to stop off at a bar. But there weren’t any bars. Not legitimate ones anyway.

  So, Baxter made his way back to the Homeplate, confiscated some ice from the galley, and took it to his cabin where a bottle of gin was waiting. Tonic water was widely available—thank God. As was his laptop. So, the least Baxter could do was clear his emails.

  But rather than the usual thirty or forty messages in his inbox there was just one. And it was an invitation to attend church on Friday. The word was out. Baxter was a nonentity. He poured a second drink.

  ***

  Baxter awoke at 0500, remembered that he was unemployed, and went back to sleep. Then, at 0734 someone banged on the door, and kept banging on the door, until Baxter went to open it. And there was Fenton. Baxter frowned. “What the fuck do you want?”

  “Like I told you before,” Fenton said, as he brushed past. “That’s ‘what the fuck do you want, sir.’ You’re still in the navy Leo. So, act like it. You look like hell by the way … Some clothes would be nice.”

  “Like I said,” Baxter grated. “Why are you here?”

  “I’m here to apologize. Captain Oliver was right to call me out yesterday. It was wrong to put so much emphasis on a surrender.”

  “Apology accepted,” Baxter said. “Now get the hell out of my cabin. Sir.”

  Fenton sat down. “You have to go somewhere Leo. So, I took it upon myself to chat with BUPERS, and they gave me permission to offer you a couple of potential assignments.

  “The first is a slot teaching small unit tactics at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina. Imagine that, Leo! A regular schedule, no one shooting at you, and plenty of women! What more could a single man want?

  “The second is to take command of Riverine Squadron 2 on the west coast of Africa. The Deuce is headquartered in Port Harcourt, Nigeria. And, I’ll be honest with you, the country is lousy with rebels, terrorists and pirates. Not to mention wild animals and tropical diseases.

  “Oh, and the Chinese are there too, trying to shape the government in a way that will benefit them after the Axis wins the war.

  “On top of that, Squadron 2 has a lousy record and a significant morale problem. So, you’d have to be an idiot to request that assignment.”

  “I’ll take it,” Baxter replied.

  Fenton smiled. “I knew you would.”

  ***

  Abuja, Nigeria

  Chinese agent Ru Lee was in the city of Abuja for the purpose of assassinating President Amobi Dauda. But that didn’t mean the Dog Master couldn’t enjoy the sights and sounds of Nigeria’s capital city, while limping toward Ceddi Plaza, which was located in Abuja’s Central Business District (CBD).

  Ironically, the permanent limp was associated with another assassination, the one that had been carried out by United States Navy SEALS in Gwadar, Pakistan. Lee remembered the scene vividly. Civilians were screaming and running every which way. And a man in a Pakistani uniform was shouting orders to soldiers who fired on real Pakistani soldiers.

  That sent people scurrying toward safety, or what they perceived to be safety, at the base of the cliffs. Lee was one of them. Admiral Chao was dead. Agent Qwan was dead. And numerous Pakistanis were dead. That meant people in Beijing would need someone to blame, and since Lee was in charge of security, he was the obvious choice.

  A group of senior officers were just ahead, pistols out, firing at a sniper up on the cliff. Semi-auto fire lashed down, killing three of them. Lee took a dive in hopes that he could squirm under a Pakistani body. Then a better idea occurred to him.

  A pistol lay just inches from a dead man’s hand. Lee took it, aimed at his left thigh, and pulled the trigger. The Dog Master felt the recoil, heard the report, and experienced a searing pain.

  He was bleeding. But by using his tie as a tourniquet, Lee managed to staunch the flow. Would the wound be sufficient to save him?

  It had been, just barely. Security was his responsibility. And security had failed.

  But rather than kill Lee, the Central Military Commission sent him to Nigeria, where a fellow supervisor told him, “They hope you’ll die of a tropical disease.”

  Well, I haven’t died of a tropical disease, Lee thought. And don’t plan to.

  The thought cheered Lee as did the festive atmosphere around him. Nigeria was four times larger than the UK and home to 250 ethnic groups, the most influential being the Hausa-Fulani, the Yoruba, the Igbo, the Ijaw, the Kanuri, the Ibibio, and the Tiv—in that order.

  Taken together the peoples of Nigeria spoke more than five hundred tongues, with English as the official language.

  All of that was on display in Abuja, the capital and eighth largest city in Nigeria. Abuja was located at the center of the country. Most of its infrastructure had been constructed during the 1980s, based on a master plan devised by Japanese architect Kenzo Tange.

  At the moment the annual Calabar Carnival was underway. The event was known as “Nigeria’s largest street party,” and lasted for a full month.

  Because the event was so important, President Amobi Dauda, and Vice President Abeo Kabir were slated to attend on that very day. And not just attend, but arrive aboard Dauda’s private helicopter, with him at the controls. A surefire way to get more media attention and show off. Something the ex-air force pilot loved to do.

  A large crowd was on hand to greet the president, music blared, and vendors hawked their wares. The seductive odors of street food wafted through the air.

  The most popular was Suya, which consisted spicy beef strips roasted over a fire, and sold wrapped in newspaper pages. But Bole’ and Akara were favorites too.

  Lee had to detour around a group of folk dancers to stay on the street that would take him to the square where the president and vice president were going to land. Two for one, Lee thought. Ambassador Ying will be pleased. And who knows? Perhaps my request to be sent home will be honored.

  Baton wielding police were on hand to keep onlookers off the square. Lee’s eyes swept the area looking for his “dogs.” Not Chinese agents this time, but contractors imported from South Sudan, where killing people was a respected profession. And everyone spoke English. A necessity for assassins in Nigeria.

  And there they were. Three dark skinned men all clustered around a push cart loaded with Nigerian flags, scarfs, and autographed photos of President Dauda. Were the signatures authentic? No, of course not.

  The clatter of helicopter rotors was heard, and all eyes went to the sky. And there it was, a modern chariot, descending from the heavens!

  That was the impression Dauda hoped to convey anyway, and it certainly beat the hell out of arriving by car.

  Lee shifted his gaze to the hit team. The next couple of minutes were going to change the history of Nigeria and, if Lee was lucky, earn him a ticket to China.

  To their credit the Sudanese waited until the last possible second before brushing the merchandise off the top of the cart and opening the lid. The man who called himself Olo reached in and brought an American M249 SAW out into the open. Olo’s job was to suppress incoming fire by killing the policemen as quickly as possible.

  Lam and Dut armed themselves with Chinese made RPGs, turned to the landing zone, and prepared to fire. Red smoke billowed up from a flare, a band was playing, and a woman in native attire was trying to sing the national anthem over the roar of the helo’s engine.

  “Arise, O Compatriots, Nigeria›s call obey. To serve our fatherland. With love and strength and faith. The labor of our heroes past, shall never … ”

  Olo’s machine gun began to chatter, and policemen fell as the crowd scattered.

  That was when Dut fired. But in spite of the fact that Dut’s aim was good, President Dauda chose that moment to rotate the helicopter, placing the aircraft’s tail rotor where the cockpit had been. The rocket propelled grenade hit the tail boom and blew it off. There was no need for Lam to fire.

  Lee watched as the right side of the helo hit the ground—leaving the left side undamaged. “La shi! (Shit),” Lee exclaimed, as a brave bystander rushed to climb up, and pull the left door open. That enabled Vice President Kabir to exit the helo, and jump to the ground.

  To his credit Kabir circled around the burning wreckage in a vain attempt to rescue the president. But it was too late. A loud whump was heard, and the helicopter burst into flames.

  Lee turned just in time to see a van with police markings race away, and knew that the Sudanese hit team was in it. That, at least, was consistent with the op plan.

  President Dauda was dead. Would that be enough to satisfy Ambassador Ying? No, of course not. Lee sighed, took one last look at the burning helo, and limped away.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Port Harcourt, Nigeria

  After obtaining one of the last two seats on a British transport out of Aden, Baxter landed in Chad, where he managed to hitch a ride on a westbound C-17. The transport was loaded with military personnel on their way to the U.S.

  Baxter should have felt envious but didn’t. His parents were gone. He was an only child. He wasn’t married. And he didn’t want the job in Camp Lejeune. So, why go back?

  Baxter was the only person to get off at Port Harcourt International Airport in Nigeria. As soon as the C-17 was refueled, the rest of the passengers would continue their journey “back to the world.”

  As he made his way down the rollup stairs, Baxter was carrying a large duffle bag on his back, an M4 carbine in his left hand, and an AWOL bag in his right.

  The terminal building was quite modern. The airport personnel spoke English and were happy to direct Baxter to baggage claim where he would be met. That’s what he’d been told to expect.

  But the only people in sight were two baggage handlers who were smoking cigarettes and shooting the shit. So, Baxter made his way out through double doors to the curb, where a long line of yellow cabs was waiting. The man in the first car jumped out and hurried over to greet him. “Good afternoon, sah! Where can I take you?”

  “To the Allied Military Command for West Africa.”

  “Of course, sah. I will put your bag in back.”