“I’m the only person in my squadron who knows how,” Baxter replied. “My dad taught me. And, based on what I’ve heard, we’d have to wait for a week before going alongside a fleet repair ship.”

  “You heard correctly,” Fenton replied. “Grab whatever you need, and jump in.”

  ***

  Baxter knew an order when he heard one. And Fenton had staff officer written all over him. That didn’t bode well. Especially if Fenton was a bean counter. Because like most squadron commanders, Baxter had to do some fancy footwork in order to obtain the supplies that his boats required.

  Plus, some of the supplies, like the beer flown in by the chair force, were often listed as something else. “Hydration kits,” was Baxter’s favorite.

  Baxter had no choice but to go below and grab a shirt, sunglasses, and his sidearm. The notebook was an afterthought.

  Once on deck Baxter paused to inform Ensign Pawley that he was going ashore. She was the boat’s CO for the moment, and likely to remain in that position for a while. Lieutenants were nearly impossible to replace.

  The taxi rocked slightly as Baxter dropped into it. The launch left a white wake as it curved toward a beach lined with shabby umbrellas. Most had beer logos on them, which seemed strange in an Islamic country, but that’s how the world was: weird.

  Fenton made no attempt to talk on the way in, so Baxter didn’t either.

  The boatman killed power, pulled the outboard up, and allowed the bow to run up onto the sand. Fenton paid him and led the way up the sloping beach to the kiosks on the street beyond.

  Meanwhile, two jets took off from RAFO airport, thundered the length of the island, and disappeared. The woman behind the counter didn’t seem to notice. “Yes, sirs, what would you like today? Iced tea? Or Diet Coke?”

  Fenton chose iced tea, “with lots of ice,” and Baxter opted for a can of Diet Coke. Fenton paid, took a look around, and chose a table well away from the rest.

  Baxter had changed his mind by then. Fenton wasn’t a bean counter. No, he was something else. What remained to be seen.

  They sat across from each other. Fenton smiled. “I’m from Central Command. And I’m here to help.”

  It was joke and Baxter produced a grin. “Yes, sir. So, what’s up?”

  “I’m a strategic planner. Don’t laugh … There is a plan. And it’s called Operation Long Sword. The plan’s goal is to open the Strait of Hormuz, enter the Persian Gulf, and exterminate the rest of the Iranian navy. And your squadron has been chosen to lead the way.”

  Baxter stared at him. “You must be shitting me. That’s what destroyers and frigates are for.”

  Fenton shook his head. “I understand the logic. A door is locked, you lack a key, so you grab the nearest sledge hammer.

  “And that’s exactly what the Iranians expect us to do. That’s why they dumped hundreds of mines into the strait. If we send large warships through first, my staff estimates that we’ll lose half of them.”

  “I still don’t see how my patrol boats make sense,” Baxter objected.

  “You will,” Fenton promised. “Our planes own the sky. So, we’ll use air power to clear the way. Iranian SAMs (surface to air missiles) will take a toll. But each time a battery fires, we’ll note its location, and drop a missile on it. Or a cluster of smart bombs. Whatever makes sense.

  “Meanwhile four Allied minesweepers will enter the strait, and do what minesweepers do, which is to neutralize mines. Unfortunately, minesweepers are virtually defenseless. Especially while doing their jobs. So, we’ve got to protect them.”

  Baxter felt a rising sense of anger. “Don’t tell me, let me guess. I take my squadron in, Iranian fast boats swarm us, and we attempt to destroy them. But, as we maneuver, we run into mines. Then, roughly twenty minutes later, all of us are dead.”

  “No,” Fenton said, as he took another sip of tea. “Planners are cold blooded. But we aren’t that cold blooded.

  “Please allow me to offer a refresher course on mines. The Iranians prefer to use influence mines, which are triggered by the influence of a ship or submarine, rather than by direct contact.

  “Such mines typically have magnetic, acoustic, or displacement sensors. And big ships, like frigates, are vulnerable to all three.”

  “Okay,” Baxter said skeptically. “And I should feel better because?”

  Fenton smiled. “You should feel better because, like the Israeli Shaldag MK IIs, your MK VI patrol boats have aluminum hulls. And aluminum, as you know, isn’t magnetic.

  “The Iranians don’t want to destroy fishing boats, so they use pressure settings appropriate for large vessels, and your boats don’t qualify.”

  Baxter frowned. “Are the minesweepers large enough to trigger the mines?”

  “Yes,” Fenton replied. “They are. On the other hand, the minesweepers are equipped to detect the mines, and hopefully avoid them.”

  “That leaves acoustic sensors,” Baxter said. “Each of our boats is equipped with two diesels. They run at about 2,450 rpm.”

  Fenton nodded. “Yes, I know. And that could be a problem. So, I suggest that you throttle them back or, if you have to speed up, use sonar to detect threats.

  “We’ll assign an experienced sonar tech to each of your aluminum boats. The Swedish Tappers have steel hulls so they’ll remain behind.”

  Baxter would have responded with a firm “No way,” had Fenton asked him to volunteer.

  But no such offer had been made, and the situation was clear. Squadron 12 was going to enter the Strait of Hormuz and protect the minesweepers regardless of what Baxter wanted.

  Some of Baxter’s emotions must have been visible on his face because Fenton tried to make him feel better. “General Langston was more than a little impressed by your actions two days ago, Commander.

  “And you might be interested to learn that the man you captured was none other Nakhoda Dovom (Commander) Caspar Agha, the officer in charge of the Iranian Ghadir flotilla based in Pakistan. I wouldn’t be surprised if some sort of decoration will come your way.”

  Baxter drained the can. “Is there anything else?”

  “Yes,” Fenton replied. “Please remember that Operation Long Sword is highly classified. Prepare your squadron for sea, but don’t reveal any of what I told you, until you’re specifically authorized to do so.”

  Baxter stood, tossed a salute, and received one in return. Then he did an about face and marched away.

  ***

  Gwadar, Pakistan

  The city of Gwadar was situated on the Arabian sea, opposite Oman. And that location influenced Gwadar’s architecture, culture, and gene pool.

  For a longtime the city’s main industrial activities had been limited to artisanal fishing, processing fish, and producing salt from seawater.

  But in 1954 Gwadar was identified as a suitable site for a deep-water port. That remained little more than a dream until 2007, when the first phase of work began. Even so, a lack of investment, security concerns, and government red tape prevented the port from reaching anything like its full potential for a long time.

  Then the Chinese arrived. And in April of 2015 Pakistan and China announced their intention to create a forty-six-billion-dollar, China-Pakistan Economic Corridor (CPEC), which would become part of China’s ambitious Belt and Road Initiative (BRI). The BRI was an infrastructure and investment project, and was seen as integral to China’s plan to expand its global influence.

  A strategy intended to give China a leadership role in world affairs commensurate with what it saw as its rising power and status.

  So, it was no wonder that Pakistan was forced to accept the presence of hundreds of Chinese “advisors” in Gwadar—at least ten percent of which were Intel operatives—representing The Chinese Ministry of State Security (MSS), and its military counterpart, the Intelligence Bureau of the Joint Staff Department of the Central Military Commission. An unwieldy moniker which agents like Feng Qwan therefore referred to as the “Bureau.”

  Qwan’s cover was a job as an Economic Advisor. A position which gave him the freedom necessary to carry out his real duties, which was killing people.

  And since China was at war, and Pakistan was home to all sorts of foreign agents, rebel groups, and religious fanatics, Qwan had plenty of targets.

  In response to a summons from his supervisor Mr. Ru Lee, Qwan was headed for a restaurant called the Pakistan Coast Guard Officers’ Mess. A pleasant eatery located on a sandy beach. Though crowded prior to the war, the restaurant was nearly deserted as Qwan entered. Mr. Lee was seated at a corner table. Just one of the reasons why he was still alive.

  Lee was a small man of indeterminate age who was wearing a straw hat with a black band, rimless glasses, and a black suit. He sat with his hands folded as if in prayer. His eyes were focused on Qwan. “Good morning, Mr. Qwan.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Lee.”

  Most of the Bureau’s agents were commissioned military officers. Even if they rarely wore a uniform. Qwan was a shang wei (captain). So, what was Lee? A major? A colonel? No one knew.

  “I have an assignment for you,” Lee said. “A problem which must be solved.”

  “I live to serve the people,” Qwan replied.

  “Serve the people” was the People’s Liberation Army motto. And a safe touchstone.

  “The problem is a dog named Shui Ang,” Lee said.

  In spite of the fact that calling someone a gou (dog) was a serious insult in China, Lee always referred to his agents as dogs, which he insisted was a term of affection.

  Lee’s subordinates thought otherwise, and called their supervisor “Gou zhuren,” (the Dog Master) behind his back.

  “I see,” Qwan replied. Even though he didn’t. “What crime did Mr. Ang commit?”

  “He ran away,” Lee answered. “And he went into business for himself. That makes him a bad dog.”

  “What sort of business?” Qwan inquired.

  A waiter arrived at that point, took their orders, and left.

  Lee formed a steeple with his fingers. “There is a town named Darra Adam Khel. Perhaps you’ve heard of it. It’s home to dozens of gunsmiths and arms merchants, and has been for more than 150 years. All manner of weapons are made by craftsmen using techniques handed down from father to son.

  “A ‘Darra copy’ of an American M16 can be had for a price between 300 and 800 U.S. dollars. A ‘Darra copy’ of a Glock can be purchased for less than 350. And Mr. Ang managed to seize control of the town.”

  Qwan frowned. “How in the world did Mr. Ang do that?”

  “He had assistance,” Lee replied simply. “Ang was able to convince the Balochistan Liberation Army that he could help them achieve independence.”

  Qwan knew that the region of Pakistan called Balochistan was home to an ethnic minority that had been fighting a low-grade insurgency since1948. The rebels had been more active recently based on the premise that the Paks were too busy fighting India to focus on them.

  And, just to make things even more complicated, the Indians were funneling resources to the Balochs as a way to harass Pakistan.

  The waiter arrived with two orders of Fish Masala. Lee insisted on green tea despite the heat. The conversation resumed after the waiter left. “Why,” Qwan inquired, “do the rebels believe that Mr. Ang can help them?”

  Lee shrugged. “According to my sources Ang convinced the fools that—because of his relationships—he can get India and the rest of the Allies to recognize their government in waiting. Thus, opening the way for the rebels to take control if we lose the war.

  “That’s absurd, since we’re bound to win, but the Balochs appear to be quite gullible. In the meantime, Mr. Ang and his army of idealists are in control of Darra Adam Khel. And the Balochs are forcing the weapon makers to work for them.

  “The Balochs call Ang the Chinese Rajah,” Lee added. “And we can’t have that, can we? Plus, the Paks told our ambassador to take care of the problem—and to do it quickly.

  “So, it’s like I always say … Send a dog to kill a dog. And you, Mr. Qwan, are the dog I have in mind.”

  ***

  The Strait of Hormuz

  Operation Long Sword began with a standoff attack on Iran’s Bandar Abbas naval base. Most of the complex had been leveled during the first Battle of Hormuz.

  But Bandar Abbas was still home to a few ships, and the kind of fast attack boats that would swarm the minesweepers if given a chance.

  American and British submarines fired Tomahawk missiles at the naval facility from a thousand miles away. All of them landed within a few feet of their targets. SAM launchers were destroyed. The new radio tower collapsed. And the ruins of the already demolished headquarters building took more hits.

  Less than a minute later ship-fired Harpoon missiles began to sleet in from positions to the south of Bandar Abbas where Allied destroyers, frigates and cruisers were gathered, waiting to take part in the second battle of the Hormuz Strait.

  Meanwhile missiles fell on the relatively new Shaheed Rahbari naval base as well, located near the eastern entrance to the Strait of Hormuz.

  Explosions marched across the base, docks vanished, and a maintenance facility went up in flames. All without the loss of a single Allied plane.

  Immediately thereafter the Saudi navy attacked the Iranian bases at Bushehr and Khark. Not because they were in a position to block access to the strait, but to prevent the units stationed there from opposing the Allied vessels.

  At the same time, in the Persian Gulf, two Iranian Moudge class frigates, a Bayandor class corvette, and a dozen patrol boats turned to face the onslaught.

  For his part all Baxter could see was the water, smudges of land to port and starboard, and columns of black smoke rising from the Bandar Abbas and the Shaheed Rahbari naval bases.

  ***

  Ensign Pawley was standing next to Baxter. Though technically the PB-006’s CO, she knew Baxter would take the con, and felt thankful for that. Especially given the number of blips visible on the radar repeater to her right. The enemy was waiting for them and she didn’t want to fail. Especially when others would pay the price.

  ***

  A following wind caused the boat to pitch forward and back as they waited for the final seconds to tick off the clock. Two F/A-18E/F Super Hornets screamed overhead and fired AGM-65 Maverick air-to-surface missiles at the Iranian ships arrayed beyond the mine field.

  Meanwhile French and British fighters were flying high air cover in case the Iranians still had a few fighters and decided to put them up. An unlikely scenario, but General Langston was a cautious man, especially after losing the previous battle.

  Baxter brought the mike to his lips. “This is Pirate-Six actual to Squadron Twelve. Attack! Over.”

  The helmsman pushed the throttles ahead, the bow rose, and the Six threw water in both directions. There were five patrol boats in all. Two were American and three were Israeli. The steel-hulled Tappers were back with the fleet.

  The boats were in a line abreast. And Baxter felt a sense of pride as he looked to port and starboard. When was the last time that such an attack had taken place? In the Pacific perhaps … During World War II.

  Baxter knew that any effort to control the squadron while maneuvering in a huge mine field and fighting attack boats was bound to fail. So, each skipper had been given a minesweeper to defend and instructions to fight their ships as they saw fit. And the sweepers were just ahead.

  The official name for the American ships was “Avenger-class mine countermeasures ships.” A moniker that only a committee of staff officers could create and impose on the world.

  The vessels were 224 feet long, capable of doing 16 miles-per-hour on a good day, and armed with four .50 caliber machine guns each.

  All of which meant the vessels were vulnerable. Yet there they were, a mile ahead, steaming into the mouth of hell. If that didn’t take balls, Baxter didn’t know what did.

  The patrol boats came up on the lumbering sweepers at fifty miles per hour, passed between them, and sped ahead. “We’re in it,” Pawley said, referring to the minefield, and crossed herself.

  “Yes, we are,” Baxter agreed, meaning deep shit.

  “Message from the Sentry,” Diggs said. “‘Tally ho! Good hunting.’ ”

  Baxter smiled grimly. “Message to the Sentry … We’re in good company.”

  Baxter turned to Pawley. “I’m going up to the flying bridge. Visibility will be important.”

  “Aye, aye sir,” Pawley replied. “I’ll be right behind you.”

  ***

  Pawley followed Baxter but didn’t want to. The flying bridge was where Coxswain Brody and Lieutenant Weller had been killed. Would that be her fate as well?

  Accept it, Pawley thought. Accept the fact that you’re going to die. It will be easier that way.

  That made Pawley feel better until she arrived on the flying bridge, saw the fresh paint, and the stains that showed through. Don’t cry, she told herself. Officers don’t cry.

  ***

  The shattered windscreen hadn’t been replaced. And probably wouldn’t be for a long time. Parts like that were scarce. Air buffeted Baxter’s face, sunlight glittered off the water, and the boat heaved as it cut through a wave.

  The Iranian fleet grew steadily larger as the squadron continued to forge ahead. We’re going fast enough to trigger a mine, Baxter mused. But what the fuck are we supposed to do? Fight attack boats at twenty miles an hour?

  But if we’re fast enough, and lucky enough, maybe we can blow through the mine field and engage the bastards on the other side of it. The area that isn’t mined. It’s worth a try.

  A voice came through Baxter’s headset. “Pirate-Six, this is Black-Magic. I have an MQ-Reaper circling over your position. Be advised that enemy vessels to the west are launching armed RIB boats. Dozens of them. Should I engage? Over.”

  “This is Pirate-Six,” Baxter replied. “Thanks for the sitrep. No, save your ordnance. Let’s see what the zoomies can accomplish. Over.”

  “Roger that,” Black-Magic replied. “Prepare to receive visitors. Over.”

  That was when Baxter realized that while he was trying to reach the other side of the mine field, the Iranians were striving to keep his squadron in it.