Baxter nodded. “We’ll place our boats accordingly. Have some more coffee.”

  ***

  Based on Ikande’s suggestion Baxter chose to position the “sneakers” upstream, where they could blend in, while the heavily armed RCB waited downstream.

  The theory was that the boat’s presence there would be so notable that word of its presence would spread via what Ikande referred to as “the fish net.” Meaning instant messages exchanged via the cell phones that most fishermen carried.

  Assuming that Attah’s people monitored that net, they would try to spirit their leader upriver should he opt for the water route. And the sneakers would be waiting.

  But, should the crime boss choose to head south, the RCB would nab him.

  Such were Baxter’s thoughts as he stood in Sneaker One’s stern, along with Ikande, and the coxswain. All three wore civilian clothes. Not so for the legionnaires hidden within the low-slung cabin. They were dressed in full battle-rattle and ready to fight.

  The sun was starting to rise in the east and lit the land with a pale glow. Early though it was, there were pirogues traveling in both directions. Many were propelled by outboards.

  But, while some of the boatmen employed long poles and paddles, Baxter didn’t notice any oars. He wondered why.

  As for cargos the pirogues carried animals and other goods. Baxter saw a shipment of firewood glide by which, according to Ikande, was quite valuable because most people had to use it for cooking. One of the larger vessels was loaded with six gray donkeys, presumably on their way to a riverside farmer’s market, where they would be sold.

  And there were passenger boats too, many equipped with canvas roofs and putt, putt engines. Some trailed blue smoke.

  The riverbanks teemed with life. The houses were one-story affairs with flat roofs and open windows. People bathed in the river. Cookfires sent tendrils of smoke spiraling into the sky. Roosters crowed, dogs barked, and snatches of music floated across the water.

  A few homes, those located closer to the water, were perched on wooden stilts to protect them from flooding. That served to remind Baxter of where he was, which was on a brown colored river, rather than a deep blue sea. Something he’d do well to remember.

  War fighting on rivers was vastly different from what he’d experienced in the Sea of Oman, or the Gulf of Aden.

  Shallows were common along with sand bars.

  Going up stream required more power.

  Currents could be fickle.

  Narrow passageways were perfect for ambushes.

  Bridges could be used to drop IEDs on passing boats.

  The bad guys could hide among the locals.

  And, just to make things even more interesting, there were substantial numbers of West African crocodiles in Nigeria’s rivers and lakes. So, anyone who fell overboard in the wrong spot might suffer a very unpleasant death. Ikande broke Baxter’s train of thought. “There, on the east bank, that land belongs to Attah.”

  The first thing that drew Baxter’s attention was a well-maintained wall running parallel to the river. Roofed guard towers stood at regular intervals. Each structure was equipped with a spotlight and manned by armed guards. “Attah isn’t shy, is he? The fort looks like a fort,” Baxter observed.

  “It does,” Ikande agreed. “But, given the crime level in this area, such precautions aren’t unusual for those who can afford them.

  “Please continue upstream to the point where the wall ends. That should prevent Attah from getting past us if he uses the river route.”

  Baxter relayed the order to the coxswain, and to Master Chief Riley, who was in command of Sneaker Two.

  It took less than five minutes to reach a spot opposite the end of the wall. “You know what to do,” Baxter said to the helmsman.

  And the sailor did. After putting the wheel over, and running the bow up onto some mud, the sailor brought the port motor up out of the water, and began to fiddle with it. A common scene on the river.

  In the meantime, Sneaker Two had an anchor out, and was bow into the current on the other side of the river. There two dark skinned legionnaires were heating water on a tiny stove.

  Baxter glanced at his watch. It was 0636. The waiting began.

  Time seemed to crawl by. Finally, when 0710 rolled around, Baxter turned to Ikande. “What’s going on? Have you heard anything over your radio?”

  Ikande shook his head. “Sadly, schedules mean very little in Nigeria. Even the police department runs on what many people refer to as ‘African time.’

  “President Dauda hoped to change that our aspect of our culture. But he’s dead now. I don’t know what Vice President Kabir will do.”

  Another fifteen minutes passed. Then, without warning, a loud explosion was heard. Bursts of gunfire rattled in the distance.

  Ikande offered a play-by-play while holding a radio to his ear. “They blew the front gate.”

  “Attah’s men are firing on police.”

  “Two officers are down.”

  “They’re closing in on the house.”

  That announcement was followed by more gunfire, and a second explosion. “They’re in the house,” Ikande proclaimed. “They’ll have Attah soon.”

  Baxter was watching the estate through binoculars. And as he panned from left to right, he saw a gate swing open. As it did, two columns of men appeared, carrying a lime green pirogue between them. Baxter pointed. “Look at that!”

  “They’re trying to escape,” Ikande proclaimed. “Order your second boat to take action. Let’s get over there.”

  Master Chief Riley was quick to swoop in and put legionnaires ashore. None of the would-be escapees were armed so far as Baxter could tell, and no shots were fired.

  “They’re workers,” Ikande concluded. “Field hands. It’s my guess that Attah is still in the house. Or in a tunnel.”

  It didn’t take long to back Sneaker One off the mud and cross the river. Fortunately, the navy coxswain managed to run the boat up far enough onto the beach to a point where the legionnaires could disembark without slogging through the mud. Baxter and Ikande followed.

  There were sixteen men, all lined up facing the river, heads down. All of them were dressed in faded tee shirts, baggy shorts, and flip flops.

  “We’ll interrogate them,” Ikande promised. “But I don’t expect to learn much: ‘Mr. Attah comes in a fancy car.’ ‘Mr. Attah leaves in a fancy car.’ That sort of thing.”

  Baxter was inclined to agree, until he noticed a glint of reflected sunlight, which led him over to one of the workers. It soon became apparent that a diamond ring was responsible for the glint of light. A ring embedded in a fleshy finger.

  “Check this out,” Baxter said. “That’s a very flashy ring for a field worker.”

  “Flashy, but cheap,” Ikande said dismissively. “You can buy fake rings for a thousand Naira ($2.41 U.S.)”

  Baxter put a hand under the worker’s chin and pushed the man’s head up. He had a pudgy face and dark eyes. “Please mister! I don’t know anything.”

  Baxter brought the photo out and held it up next to the worker’s countenance. A match? No, not so far as the American could tell.

  Baxter took hold of the worker’s wrist so as to examine the ring more closely. And that was when the officer noticed something unexpected.

  “Inspector Ikande, take a look at this. His hands are soft! And he has clear polish on his nails. That’s unusual for a laborer, isn’t it?”

  Ikande bent over to look. “Well, I’ll be damned! You’re right! This man is either Attah, or someone high up. Well done!”

  As it turned out the man wasn’t Attah, who had managed to escape via a tunnel, and immediately took off on a motor scooter.

  But thanks to information provided by the man with the ring, Attah was arrested a week later. Baxter’s reward was a commendation from the Nigerian Inspector General, and an attaboy from Colonel Martel.

  More importantly from Baxter’s perspective was the impact the mission had on his command. Thanks to the success, as well as the decision to send Hicks and two other troublemakers to the United States for possible disciplinary action, morale was high. And, for the first time in months, Baxter could sleep for a full eight hours each night.

  ***

  The Niger River Delta

  The abandoned dredge consisted of a barge that supported a structure the size and shape of a railroad car, topped by a box-shaped office/control station. And that’s where William Eze was sitting.

  The dredge had originally been used by an oil company to cut channels through the delta’s swampy land. Now it served as a place for Eze to hang his handmade Panama hat. And to rest up between “ventures.”

  There were two kinds of ventures. “Primary ventures,” which involved taking control of coastal freighters and holding the crew hostage, and “secondary ventures,” which consisted of stealing hostages from another pirate. And, since secondary ventures were easier—yet equally profitable—Eze preferred them.

  Moreover, primary venture opportunities were few and far between, because primary operators were well aware of the dangers posed by criminals like William Eze, and took defensive measures.

  Due to Eze’s extensive intelligence network, he was presently aware of what could be a very profitable secondary venture. Another pirate, an oyinbo (white man) named Pedro Costa, had successfully boarded a ship called the African Moon, and kidnapped her crew.

  Like Eze, Costa had a hideout deep in the maze of tributaries, channels, and ponds that constituted the delta. And, like Eze, Costa went to great lengths to keep the location of his ile (home) secret.

  But thanks to a tip, Eze knew the general area in which the hideout was located, and had the means to find it. The key to the heist was a ten-thousand-dollar drone equipped with GPS and a thermal camera. A device which could pinpoint Costa’s camp at night when the drone would be nearly impossible to spot.

  Eze lit a cigarillo as the sun started to set. The rest, Eze thought, will be easy.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Port Harcourt, Nigeria

  After being summoned to Colonel Martel’s office, Baxter had to wait for a meeting to conclude before being welcomed inside. Martel gestured to the conference table. “Good morning, Commander … Have a seat. Would you like some coffee?”

  Baxter shook his head. “No, sir. I’m full up.”

  “Okay,” Martel said, as he sat down. “Let’s get to work. I have an urgent assignment for you. A group of pirates, led by a man named Costa, managed to board a freighter and kidnap seven members of the ship’s crew. He took them into the Niger Delta and disappeared.

  “Shortly thereafter the company that owns the African Moon received a ransom demand for five-hundred-thousand dollars per crew member, all cash, to be paid within five days.”

  Martel paused. “Piracy is a real problem in this area. And, because of the war, it’s getting worse. More ships—traveling with less protection—equals more attacks. There have been thirty-two incidents during the last twelve months, with one hundred and four seafarers being kidnapped, and more than fifty million in ransoms being paid.

  “But this attack is different in a couple of ways. First, Costa is a foreign national. Most pirates are Nigerians. And second, before the company could respond to Costa’s demand, a second group attacked Costa’s men, killed twelve, and took the hostages.

  “They call themselves ‘Venture 1,’ and are believed to be led by this man.”

  The photo that Martel pushed across the table was that of a strikingly handsome black man. His head was shaved, his features were even, and his chin beard was trimmed. The pale blue suit fit him perfectly, and the pocket square matched his tie.

  “His name is William Eze,” Martel said. “He was a male model, and a parttime actor prior to the war. Then, for reasons unknown, he turned to a life of crime. And he’s good at it. That’s because he’s smart. Your job is to find his hideout and rescue the hostages.

  “Eze upped the ransom to one million per crew member, to be paid in bitcoin, not later than seven days from now.”

  Baxter’s eyebrows rose. “Or else?”

  “Or else he will kill his prisoners. And the last time Eze made that threat, two people died.”

  “So why not pay the ransom?”

  Martel offered a Gallic shrug. “Paying ransoms leads to more kidnappings and more ransoms. This company knows that. And the Nigerian government agrees.”

  “What about the police?” Baxter inquired.

  “They will provide all the help they can,” Martel replied. “Inspector Ikande has been assigned to the case. But there are certain constraints. Ask him. He’ll tell you.”

  “Ikande is a good man,” Baxter said. “Do we know where to look?”

  Martel offered a crooked smile. “Sure. Look for him in the Niger River Delta.”

  After departing Martel’s office Baxter used his phone to go online. He saw that the Niger delta consisted of fourteen-thousand square miles of braided streams, marshes and lakes.

  Could the Deuce search fourteen-thousand square miles? No, of course not. He placed a call to Ikande, who agreed to meet at police headquarters. Then Baxter ordered the duty driver to take him there.

  The building turned out to be large, modern, and imposing. After passing through security, and identifying himself at the front desk, Baxter was shown onto an elevator which whisked him up to the third floor. Ikande was waiting. “Good morning, Commander … We can use your help.”

  “And I need yours,” Baxter replied. “How the heck are we going to find this guy?”

  “That problem has been partially solved,” Ikande responded, as he led Baxter into a tidy office. “Mr. Eze has been using a sat phone because cell phones can be tracked. And it appears that he was savvy enough to have the phone’s GPS capability deactivated.

  “But as you may be aware, it’s possible to locate a sat phone using radio frequency emissions. So, thanks to our techs, we have a pretty good idea of where Mr. Eze is at any given time.”

  “How good?”

  “Perhaps one square mile.”

  Baxter felt a sudden surge of hope. “That’s wonderful! So, what do you need us for?”

  Ikande made a face. “Sadly, there is evidence that police personnel are selling secrets to the pirates. An investigation is underway. But until that’s over, it would be reckless to share operational information with police who work in the delta.”

  “Gotcha,” Baxter said. “I noticed the map on the wall. Please show me where the one square mile is.”

  Ikande went over to touch a pink push-pin. “Right here.”

  Baxter produced a low whistle. “Damn … That’s a long way off. In order to get there my command boat would have to sail west into the Gulf of Guinea, north to line up with that part of the delta, then east to enter the search zone. It would take days. Plus, we’d look like what we are: members of the United States Navy.

  “So, how ‘bout helicopters? Can you chopper us in? Along with the pirogues we used before?”

  “Possibly,” Ikande answered hesitantly. “I’ll make some calls.”

  Baxter wondered if that was safe. If the police department had leaks, what about the army? But he had to assume that Ikande knew what was safe, and what wasn’t.

  On the theory that Ikande would obtain the necessary support, Baxter went back to the squadron’s area, where he summoned Mason and Riley.

  Once the briefing was over, they went to work. Baxter was in charge of personnel, Mason had responsibility for prepping the pirogues, and Riley’s job was to assemble all of the essential ammo and gear.

  Selecting who could go on the mission was a delicate matter. The mission was undercover. So common sense dictated that every sailor and legionnaire should be black.

  But navy regs prohibited assigning personnel to tasks based on the color of their skin. And in this case white sailors might object to being left out, and black sailors might object to being over represented on a dangerous mission.

  Baxter’s solution was to call all of the enlisted sailors together and explain the situation. “That’s why I’m going to ask for volunteers,” Baxter concluded. “And I’m going to make the following promise to our light skinned personnel: The next time we have to send people into a dangerous swamp, every single one of them will be white.”

  That produced gales of laughter, just as it was intended to, and Baxter felt a sense of relief. Maybe, just maybe, he had dodged a bullet.

  Legion Lieutenant Dupont made a similar proposal to his people, who guffawed when he got to the punchline, and hurled insults at each other. Which, according to Dupont, was par for the course.

  Time passed. And it wasn’t until 1815 that Baxter got a call from Ikande. “The army will provide us with two Changhe Z-8 transport helicopters,” the police inspector said. “One for our personnel and one for the pirogues.”

  “I’m not familiar with the Z-8,” Baxter replied. “Does it have a rear loading door? For the boats?”

  “Yes,” Ikande responded. “But we’ll have to carry the pirogues aboard by hand.”

  “Not a problem,” Baxter said. “We’ll have plenty of man power. Did you set a day and time?”

  “Tomorrow night,” Ikande answered. “We’ll load at 2000 and depart at 2100. An island has been selected for our basecamp. We’ll start the search at 0600.”

  “That sounds good,” Baxter replied. “And the guides? Did you manage to recruit some?”

  “One per boat,” Ikande said.

  “Nice work,” Baxter remarked. “You’re okay for a cop.”

  “And you’re okay for an American,” Ikande countered. “So far anyway.”

  Both laughed. The mission clock was running.

  ***

  The sky was dark and the air chilly by the time the Chinese-made helicopters took off. It wasn’t Baxter’s first rodeo, so he knew that nighttime operations involved an additional element of risk, no matter who flew them. And in this case, he had no way to evaluate how good the Nigerian pilots were or weren’t.