The cab left the curb, cycled through a roundabout, and entered heavy traffic. “Sorry, sah,” the driver said. “The traffic is always bad. They promise to fix it, but they never do. But who knows? Mr. Kabir is president now. Maybe he’ll do what Mr. Dauda couldn’t.”

  Baxter had no idea who Kabir and Dauda were and didn’t care. His attention was on his phone and Google maps which, much to his surprise, worked.

  According to what he’d been told Nigerian criminals were known to use cabs as a way to kidnap visitors and hold them for ransom. So, if the driver veered too far off the shortest route, Baxter planned to pull his nine and “request” a change of course.

  Fortunately, the driver kept to the recommended route, with only a single deviation caused by roadwork. Due to heavy traffic the fifteen-minute trip took half an hour. So, when Baxter wasn’t looking at his phone, there was time for some sightseeing.

  Though crowded, the streets were broad and lined by a variety of food carts, vegetable stands, and people selling goods out of their cars.

  Beyond the street vendors all manner of buildings stood shoulder-to shoulder, most of which were two or three stories tall, and of differing architectural lineages.

  The traffic thinned out a bit, and metal-roofed warehouses appeared, as the cab neared the harbor. When the car stopped, it was in front of a colonial era building complete with a portico, columns, and a grand entrance. Carefully kept grounds were all around.

  No nonsense French Foreign Legionnaires were on duty at the front gate, and took what seemed like an inordinate amount of time checking the car and Baxter’s ID.

  Then, and only then, was the driver allowed to proceed up the driveway and under a portico where uniformed civilians stood waiting. The cab came to a stop in front of a well-guarded door. Baxter paid the driver in U.S. currency, including a large tip.

  Then Baxter had to go through another security check and surrender his weapons, before being allowed to enter the lobby beyond. A stone-faced civilian was seated behind the fortress-like reception desk. “Good afternoon, sir. How can I help you?”

  “I’m Commander Leo Baxter. I have orders to report to Colonel Henri Martel.”

  “Colonel Martel is offsite at a meeting,” the receptionist said. “I expect him back in an hour or so … Would you like to wait?”

  Baxter had no choice. So, he answered, “Yes, thank you.”

  Four leather chairs surrounded a coffee table. Baxter chose one of them, leaned back, and closed his eyes. He wasn’t very good at sleeping on planes. Or any kind of chair for that matter. But he was dog tired. The plan was to grab fifteen minutes of shuteye.

  Baxter awoke to the sound of his name. “Commander Baxter … I’m Colonel Martel. Welcome to Port Harcourt.”

  Baxter’s eyes flew open and he stood. “Sorry, sir … I’m running on empty.”

  “No apologies needed,” Martel replied, as they shook hands.

  Martel was shorter than Baxter, wore rimless glasses, and sported some well-manicured stubble. He smiled. “To paraphrase Wellington, soldiers should sleep when they can. Come, let’s adjourn to my office. I’ll give you a quick briefing, and save the rest for tomorrow, when we can spend more time together.”

  Martel’s office had two tall windows, wood paneling, and an antique desk. French Foreign Legion memorabilia was all about. The most notable of which was an epic painting, or more likely a print, of the fight in 1863 at Hacienda Cameron, Mexico.

  “Capitaine Danjou and his men were very brave,” Baxter observed. “Vive la Legion.”

  “An officer who knows military history,” Martel observed, as both men took seats at a conference table. “We’ll get along well, you and I. And that brings me to the present situation.

  “This is a combined arms battalion consisting of an element of the 2nd Foreign Infantry Regiment and a Riverine Squadron supplied by the U.S. Navy. Your squadron.

  “Your predecessor was very ill. That made it impossible for him to fulfill all his duties. Those included matters pertaining to fitness, training, and morale.

  “As a result, you’re about to assume command of a group of men and women who, on average, underperform.

  “But all is not lost. You will inherit a lieutenant who shows potential, plus an excellent master chief, neither of whom were able to set things right without adequate support from above. It’s my hope that you’ll provide that.”

  “I’ll do my best, sir.”

  “I’m sure you will,” Martel said, as he rose from his chair. “My duty driver will take you to the officer’s quarters. They’re located nearby.”

  Baxter stood. “Thank you, Colonel … But, given the circumstances, I would prefer to bunk with my unit.”

  Martel nodded. “We’re off to a good start, Commander. Your presence will make an important difference.

  “Please meet me here at 0900 in the morning. And please feel free to bring Lieutenant Mason and Master Chief Riley with you. Your predecessor had a tendency to exclude them, to his own detriment.”

  “Thank you, sir. I will.”

  A camo-clad Peugeot P4 utility vehicle was waiting under the portico when Baxter emerged from the building. After helping Baxter to load his gear, the driver drove the P4 through winding streets down to the waterfront, where a gate and razor-wire topped fence barred further progress.

  After clearing security, the legionnaire delivered Baxter to the front of an unremarkable two-story building. An American flag drooped from the aluminum flag pole out front, and Baxter could hear the thump, thump of bass, as he climbed a short flight of wood stairs and dropped his gear.

  The front door was open and the earthy odor of cannabis was floating in the air as Baxter entered. The common room was a mess. The floor was dirty. A chair lay on its side. Empty beer bottles were strewn about. His eyes were drawn to the bra dangling from the slowly turning ceiling fan. Flies buzzed.

  About a dozen people were lounging about and, in one case, dancing to the music emanating from a boom box. Heads turned as Baxter entered, made his way over to the boom box, and pulled the plug. A sailor was sitting with two chair legs off the floor. He squinted. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “I’m your commanding officer,” Baxter replied. “You will come to attention when an officer enters the room.”

  The sailor remained where he was. Baxter nodded, walked over, and kicked the chair out from under the man. The sailor landed hard, jumped to his feet, and pulled a fist back.

  “Yes, please,” Baxter said. “Hit me. I would like that very much.”

  The enlisted man appeared to think it over and allowed his hand drop. “Asshole.”

  Baxter looked around. “Which one of you scumbags is in charge?”

  All eyes turned to a man in a Hawaiian shirt. “That would be Petty Officer Hicks,” a female sailor said.

  “On your feet Hicks,” Baxter ordered. “Take this collection of idiots outside and line them up. Once that’s accomplished make a list and put your name up top.

  “You will then charge everyone on the list with dereliction of duty, disrespect for an officer, drinking while on duty, and all the rest of it. And don’t forget to mention smoking weed.

  “Once you’re done you will submit your recommendations to me for review.

  “Then you and your friends will clean every square inch of this shithole, and do so by 1700. I will inspect the building at that time. If it fails to meet my standards, you will clean it again. Where are Lieutenant Mason and Master Chief Riley?”

  “Out on patrol,” Hicks mumbled.

  “Out on patrol, sir,” Baxter grated.

  “Out on patrol, sir,” Hicks replied grudgingly.

  “Take your people outside and get to it,” Baxter ordered.

  Once the sailors had filed out, Baxter inspected the rest of the barracks. Most of it was reasonably clean. During the tour Baxter met six sailors who’d been in their cubes minding their own business while their shipmates got shitfaced. Baxter introduced himself, shook hands, and took their names.

  During the tour Baxter came across a room full of extra furniture and moved it out into the corridor. Then he went looking for Hicks, found the 2nd class petty officer in the common room, and ordered him to send a sailor up to mop what was about to become his quarters.

  “Oh,” Baxter added. “Have someone put a hasp on the outside of the door, and a sliding bolt on the inside. I don’t trust you and your friends.”

  Hicks was mostly sober by then. And, judging from the look in the PO’s eyes, the last comment hit home. Slowly but surely, Hicks was coming to realize that he was going to lose E-5, and possibly E-4 as well. Pay included. His wife would be pissed.

  Hicks and his swabbies didn’t even come close to passing inspection at 1700. And they were still at work when Mason and Riley returned from patrol.

  It was dark by then, and Baxter was making his bed, when he heard knuckles rap on the door. “Lieutenant Mason, sir … I’m sorry about all this.”

  Baxter turned to find a young officer standing in the doorway. He was dressed in camos and wearing a tac vest. Baxter went forward to shake hands. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lieutenant. Colonel Martel spoke highly of you.”

  That wasn’t exactly true, since Martel referred to Mason as having “potential,” rather than any actual accomplishments. Still, this was an opportunity to build Mason up, and Baxter wanted to take advantage of it.

  Mason looked downcast. “I ordered Hicks to keep things under control. And he didn’t, so that’s on me, sir.”

  “Yes, it is,” Baxter agreed. “It’s a hard lesson to learn, but one you won’t forget.

  “However, according to the colonel, you received very little support from your previous CO. That’s about to change. Do what needs to be done, and do it in a competent manner, and I’ll back you to the hilt.

  “By the way, since the LCDR slot is empty, you’re the XO. I expect you to take the job seriously. Any questions?”

  Mason shook his head and managed a wan smile. “Welcome to the Deuce, sir … Our motto is: Qui me tangit, moritur. He who touches me dies.”

  “I like it,” Baxter said. “Do we have a unit flag with our motto on it?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Have a flag made for each boat. Put an American eagle over the words.”

  Mason grinned. “Aye, aye, sir!”

  Baxter watched Mason leave. Had he been that enthusiastic back when? Yes, he had.

  The next day dawned bright and clear. An excellent breakfast was prepared by a team of local civilians. That was a good thing. But what about security? The cooks had access to the building, and to the docks beyond. Baxter made a note.

  Then Baxter ordered the duty driver to take him back to the HQ building where he submitted a dozen names for disciplinary action, starting with that of 2nd Class Petty Officer Hicks.

  With that chore out of the way Baxter returned to the Riverine barracks where Mason and Riley had the squadron mustered for inspection. Master Chief Riley was tall, thin, and occasionally referred to as “the scarecrow” due to his forbidding countenance.

  Riley took two paces forward and snapped to attention. “Master Chief Riley, sir … I would like to apologize on behalf of the men and women of Riverine Squadron 2. We failed you, and we failed ourselves, it won’t happen again.”

  Baxter offered his hand. “Thank you, Master Chief … This is day one for the new Deuce. Please introduce me to the sailors of what will soon be the finest Riverine squadron in the United States Navy.”

  Though significantly under strength, the Deuce included sixty-eight people, including their CO. Baxter paused to inspect each man or woman, made an effort to memorize their names, and to find out where they were from.

  Once the inspection was over the sailors were dismissed and Baxter accompanied Mason and Riley on a tour of what the master chief jokingly referred to as “the fleet.”

  The slips were a short walk away, down a flight of stairs, and out along a floating dock. Two legionnaires were on sentry duty there, and saluted the officers as they arrived.

  “Sentries are a must,” Mason commented, “otherwise the boats would be gone by this time tomorrow.”

  “The boats” consisted of a Riverine Command Boat (RCB), Riverine Assault Boat (RAB), and a World War II era Landing Craft Mechanized (LCM). Plus, two armed RIBs.

  “We use the LCM for transporting French army vehicles,” Riley explained. “That’s what they issue to the Legion. And part of the local combined forces agreement requires us to move them up or down river if Colonel Martel requests it.”

  That was news to Baxter, and a responsibility that could get in the way of his primary mission which was to suppress piracy in Niger River Delta. But what was, was.

  Finally, there were two brightly painted “sneakers,” as Mason referred to them. At first glance the pirogues looked a lot like the slender fishing boats which were motoring back and forth two hundred feet from the dock.

  But while similar, Mason pointed out that the sneakers were larger, mounted two outboards rather than one, and had low-slung deckhouses large enough to conceal a light machine gun and six legionnaires. “Plus, they have aluminum hulls and watertight compartments,” Riley added. “They’re quite useful.”

  “Really?” Baxter inquired skeptically. “We have what? Ten or twelve African Americans in the squadron? So, when the bad boys see a boatload of white guys coming their way, aren’t they suspicious?”

  “They would be,” Mason conceded, “except that at least a third of the legionnaires are black. So, no problem.”

  “Okay,” Baxter said. “We have people and we have boats. I’ll ask Colonel Martel for a mission.”

  “Be careful what you ask for, sir,” Riley cautioned. “You might get it.”

  And sure enough, Baxter’s request was granted. When Baxter was summoned to Martel’s office, he was given a formal tasking order that directed Riverine Squadron 2 to participate in a raid near the town of Buguma.

  “It’s in the Rivers State,” Martel explained. “Which has the third highest crime rate in the country. The police will conduct the raid, but need our help sealing off potential escape routes. One being by water.

  “Apparently, based on the briefing I attended,” Martel added, “a crime lord named Kenneth Attah may have played a role in President Dauda’s assassination. That’s why they want to interrogate him.

  “That’s easier said than done however, because Attah has a small army on his plantation, and is likely to defy the authorities. So, my men will block key roads while you take up positions up and downstream of the Attah compound. Then you can sit around and sip tea. Or is it coffee?”

  “It’s coffee,” Baxter replied. “Definitely coffee.

  “What are we supposed to do if Attah comes our way?”

  “Detain him.”

  “And if he refuses?”

  “That will be up to the Nigerian police officer who will accompany you.”

  “Good,” Baxter replied. “I won’t have to make the call. I like that. But, just to be clear … If he fires on my sailors, they will smoke him.”

  “Understood,” Martel agreed. “Otherwise, follow the Nigerian’s orders, whatever they may be.”

  “Do we have photos of this guy?”

  “This is all we have,” Martel replied, as he pushed a photo across the table.

  Baxter found himself looking at a blurry black and white image of a man wearing a ball cap and huge sunglasses. He looked up. “You’re joking.”

  Martel shook his head. “No, I’m not. Monsieur Attah has done an excellent job of keeping his appearance secret.”

  “Damn. That makes it even more difficult,” Baxter observed. “When’s the raid?”

  “Tomorrow,” Martel answered. “At 0700. I suggest that you arrive early.”

  “We will,” Baxter assured him. “The early bird gets the turd.”

  ***

  It was dark when Baxter’s alarm went off the next morning. One way or another fully half of his command was going to be involved in the police action. And since Martel insisted that the contract employees had been vetted, they were onsite, and serving a hot breakfast. A morale builder if there ever was one.

  Baxter was seated with the command crew eating pancakes, when a stranger arrived, paused to speak with a sailor, and looked at Baxter. He was tall, slim, and dressed in casual clothing.

  Baxter stood as the man approached the table. Their guide? Baxter thought so. “Are you Inspector Ikande?”

  “Yes, I am,” the Nigerian replied. “And you are Commander Baxter. They told me that you’re black. I’m pleased to discover that it’s true.”

  Baxter smiled. “It was the least I could do. Please join us. Would you like hot cakes? Or scrambled eggs?”

  “Hot cakes,” Ikande replied. “And lots of coffee.”

  Conversation centered on the raid, and Baxter listened carefully, as the police officer briefed him. “President Dauda had promised to crack down on organized crime. And since Kenneth Attah is a crime boss, he has both the motive and the means to plan, and carry out an assassination.”

  Baxter frowned. “What about actual evidence?”

  Ikande shook his head. “There is none that I know of. But, if we arrest Mr. Attah for his potential involvement in the assassination, it’s possible that we will find evidence of other crimes. The inspector general would like that.”

  Though not an attorney, Baxter felt sure that a fishing expedition like the one Ikande had in mind wouldn’t fly in the United States. But he wasn’t in the U.S. “I see. Please describe what you want us to do.”

  “The situation is simple,” Ikande replied. “Attah has three choices: He can surrender. He can fight. Or he can run.

  “If Attah runs, he’ll do so in a wheeled vehicle, or a boat. And that boat could travel up river or down river. So,” Ikande concluded, “we need to be ready for either situation.”

  “Tell me,” Baxter said. “What’s your guess? Would Attah go up river? Or down river?”

  “Up river,” Ikande replied without hesitation. “That would take him north. He’s Hausa, that’s where most of the Hausa tribal members live, and where he might find support.”