The propaganda tapes were on loops and played twenty-four hours a day in hopes that fishermen would hear them. There were three versions. The first was a bitter tirade against the minority government, which in Adebayo’s opinion, should be forced to follow the dictates of the majority.

  The second screed consisted of a detailed attack on colonialism. According to Adebayo, it was responsible for a class of mostly Christian elites.

  The third tape was focused on the many ways in which Islam was superior to Christianity, and why Nigeria should live under sharia law.

  Oddly enough Kabir, who was both an elite and a Christian, agreed with many of Adebayo’s criticisms. But not with the fanatic’s solutions.

  Kabir’s ruminations were interrupted by the clacking sound which signaled Mfon’s arrival. It was pointless to knock on metal so she used a spoon. Kabir liked the Mfon he’d met in Abuja. But not the one on Lake Tiga.

  Hinges squealed as the door opened and Mfon entered. She looked the same as before. But now Kabir knew that Mfon was a Boko fanatic, as well as Adebayo’s third wife. She liked to needle him. “The king has arisen!” Mfon declared loudly. “Spread the word that all might rejoice!”

  Kabir scowled. “Cut the crap, Mfon. It’s your husband who wants to be king.”

  “Men do not rule,” Mfon countered sternly. “Sharia law rules. As it should.”

  Kabir sighed. “Thanks for the food. This conversation is over.”

  “Really?” Mfon inquired, as she put the tray down. “You don’t care what your daughter Sifou is doing?”

  Kabir couldn’t help himself. “Sifou? Is she okay?”

  “Ah,” Mfon said knowingly. “The king has a soft spot for his daughter. That’s a good thing. Sifou is using her television program to find you! Her efforts will fail, but she’s trying, and that’s more than President Pro Tem Sani can say.”

  Kabir felt a surge of affection for his only child, and was reminded of the Nigerian proverb, “A person who has children doesn’t die.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Warri, Nigeria

  The city of Warri was located considerably west of Port Harcourt, but still in the Delta State, and a center of commerce. Especially oil related commerce.

  As befitted a city of its size, Warri boasted a wide variety of businesses, including a successful watercraft dealership with enough inventory to meet the team’s needs.

  With assistance from Martel’s supply officer, Baxter had purchased three Kawasaki Ultra 310LX jet skis, and three less powerful Yamaha FX Cruiser SVHOs. Between them, they could carry eighteen sailors and legionnaires.

  The recommendation to use highspeed water craft to rescue President Kabir had been met with considerable skepticism by Colonel Martel and Admiral Dixon, who initially favored conventional boats. But Baxter argued that it would take too much time to transport Riverine boats and launch them. Plus, any such effort would be noticed.

  “If we go that route, they’ll be waiting for us,” Baxter predicted. “Remember, the area around the lake is within Boko Haram’s home turf. To succeed we need to move our watercraft into position surreptitiously, launch them quickly, and strike without warning.

  “Hopefully, with help from the NRO, we’ll be able to pinpoint where the president is before the raid. The first task will be to take control of that area and defend it until we can remove the president safely. I suggest that we should be ready to take him out by air if necessary.”

  The ensuing discussions continued for some time. But eventually Baxter’s plan was approved. As was the required budget.

  Money that would be well spent if the mission was successful. Because, if the Alliance managed to put Kabir back in office, it would have a good chance of countering China’s influence there. An accomplishment with important implications for the future.

  That’s why Baxter and his handpicked team were loading boxcars in the middle of the night. Once the overall plan was approved, Baxter’s suggestion, that they transport the team and its equipment by train, met with no resistance.

  There weren’t many rail lines in Nigeria. But one ran from Warri to Abuja, and from the capital to cities beyond.

  The town of Paki was not only served by the line, but was located in close proximity to the Tiga Dam, and the lake behind. That was the place where the team would detrain, load their jet skis onto flatbed trucks, and transport them to the launch point.

  Then they would head for the so-called “raft.” All without being spotted by the Boko-friendly locals. Or so Baxter hoped.

  The loading process went smoothly except for a close call when a forklift operator almost dropped a Kawasaki. Fortunately, he managed to correct the error just in time.

  To make sure that the team would be able to unload without difficulty, the forklifts were put aboard the freight cars, along with fuel, weapons and the food.

  Lieutenant Dupont was second in command. And once his headcount was complete the train departed. It was fifteen cars long—three of which were being used by the team.

  The trip began with a jerk, followed by a sense of motion, plus a lot of groaning and clacking. Baxter was riding in the so-called “crew car,” along with members of the team who weren’t serving as guards on the other boxcars.

  And guards were a necessity, lest thieves board the train during an uphill stretch, and steal whatever they could.

  It took a while for the freight train to attain its top speed of thirty-five miles per hour. Baxter was lying on a piece of cardboard by then with his left arm as a pillow. The monotonous clickety-clack of the train’s wheels put him to sleep.

  There were stops, half a dozen of them. And it was impossible to ignore the urgent blare of the train’s air horn, followed by the screech of brakes, and a sudden stop.

  But each time Baxter awoke, he went back to sleep without difficulty. When it was finally time for him to get up, it was to discover that the air was cool, and that a scratchy blanket had been thrown over him.

  Baxter stood and made his way toward the sliding door. It was dark and would remain so for three hours. Master Chief Riley was sitting on an upside-down bucket smoking his pipe. “Good morning, sir … Some advice if I may … Don’t piss into the wind. And remember, one hand for the ship.”

  Baxter laughed. “Thanks, Master Chief. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Peeing out through the door on a swaying boxcar turned out to be a challenge. And Riley was correct, it was necessary to hang on, or risk a fall.

  After completing that evolution Baxter went looking for Dupont. “Good morning, Lieutenant. Where the hell are we?”

  “We just passed Makarfi, sir. That means we’re right about here.”

  A road map was taped to the wall. A grimy forefinger jabbed a point just short of Paki. “The men are eating breakfast and prepping their gear,” the legionnaire added.

  “Thank you,” Baxter said. “Remember, if I fall, complete the mission.”

  Both men knew the Boko Haram fighters on the raft would be heavily armed, mindlessly fanatical, and eager to reach Jannah (Paradise). Dupont nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  The train pulled into Paki shortly thereafter. And, in keeping with the agreement hammered out in advance, the team’s boxcars were shunted onto a siding where ramps would facilitate unloading. That was the good news. Unfortunately, in spite of all the efforts to ensure that the flatbed trucks were on time, they were nowhere to be seen.

  Dupont placed a series of calls, learned that the flatbeds were fifteen minutes out, and produced a long string of gallic swear words.

  But what was, was. And once the trucks arrived, loading went smoothly. The flatbeds, plus the school bus carrying the team members, departed twenty minutes later.

  A horizontal ribbon of pink light was visible in the east, but soon vanished, as the orange sun poked its head up over the horizon. The sky was clear, and there was very little wind, which was a blessing since heavy wave action would have presented a challenge to the heavily loaded jet skis.

  A paved two-lane highway led to Lake Tiga, which supported about a thousand local fishermen, and was used for recreational purposes as well.

  The boat launch was home to a stone jetty and protected anchorage. The process of driving the first truck out onto the jetty, and employing its fold-up crane to swing a jet ski out over the water, didn’t go as smoothly as Baxter had hoped.

  That was Master Chief Riley’s cue to wade in and straighten things out—which he did. Baxter eyed his watch. The plan called for boarding the raft at dawn, when most of the Boko Haram fighters would still be in bed. But the team was running half an hour late.

  It couldn’t be helped however. All Baxter could do was hope that the raid would still catch Adebayo and his posse by surprise.

  There was a certain amount of milling around, splashing, and swearing as team members mounted their assigned craft and started their engines.

  Dupont spoke to them over the team frequency. “You will follow Commander Baxter in the assigned order. Remember your individual missions. Unit One will capture and defend the cargo container.

  “Unit Two will attack the raft’s command module and kill Adebayo if possible.

  “Unit Three will act as a fast reaction force and provide support as needed. Maintain situational awareness at all times.

  “Oh, and try to avoid collateral damage. There are women and children aboard. ‘Vive la Legion!’ ”

  Roughly half of the team responded with, “Camerone!” The rest produced a variety of war cries including, “Go navy!” “Fuck Boko!” and a couple of “Hoo-Yahs!”

  Then they were off. Baxter was driving a Kawasaki with two sailors slotted in behind him. All were wearing swim gear and special operations tactical vests which included self-righting floatation cells.

  Weapons consisted of knives, pistols, and submachine guns along with some M-79 grenade launchers. In addition, each team member carried a special tool. The list included small blocks of C-4, bolt cutters, crowbars, and hand sledges.

  Baxter had a GPS device taped to the dash in front of him, but didn’t need it. The officer knew approximately where the raft was, but more importantly, he could see a flashing red light in the distance, and knew it was sitting atop the Boko Haram radio mast.

  A sailor named Kinney was seated immediately behind Baxter, and leaned forward to yell in his ear. “Up ahead, sir! We’ve been busted!”

  That caused Baxter to refocus—and sure enough—two airboats were racing his way! The flat-bottomed watercraft were propelled by aircraft style propellers, and perfect for negotiating the swampy areas along the lake’s margins.

  “Puma-Two, this is Six. Use the fast reaction force to attack the incoming airboats. Kill them quickly if you can … And get to the raft. Over.”

  ***

  Dupont ordered his second jet ski to follow him, and went after the enemy. Variables flickered through his mind. His jet skis were fast. But so were the airboats. So, no advantage there.

  But Dupont had ridden in airboats during his time in South America, and knew that the jet skis could turn tighter circles than the prop-driven boats, and was determined to take advantage of that.

  “Pirate Six, this is Two … They can’t fire weapons from the back of their boats. So, we’ll use our speed and maneuverability to attack them from behind. Once we kill their engines, the rest will be easy. Over.”

  Except it wasn’t easy. Both airboats were armed with Russian made, 7.2mm light machine guns captured during firefights with Nigerian soldiers. The muzzles winked red as the weapons chattered.

  The air boats were charging straight at Dupont’s skis. The legionnaire in control of the second watercraft jerked as a bullet struck him between the eyes. The projectile passed through his skull and killed the man behind him.

  As the driver toppled into the water the cut-off lanyard connected to his right wrist pulled free, and caused the engine to stop.

  That forced the third legionnaire, a man named Avery, to go in after the first body and the all-important key. Unfortunately, Avery didn’t know how to swim.

  ***

  Dupont was only dimly aware of the other jet ski’s fate as a hail of bullets threw up geysers of water all around his Kawasaki. The firing stopped as the opposing watercraft whipped past each other.

  That was when Dupont put his ski into a tight turn and accelerated. Conte was seated immediately behind him and knew what to do.

  With Dupont’s right shoulder as a gun rest, Conte opened fire. The submachine gun was inches away from Dupont’s right ear, and the noise threatened to deafen him.

  Mon Dieu, Dupont thought. That never occurred to me.

  The bullets had no visible effect and Dupont knew why. The fucking airboat was out of range! He opened the throttle as Conte paused to reload and felt the Kawasaki surge ahead.

  The airboat was jinking from side-to-side in an effort to shake its pursuer. Then, when the jet ski was about fifty feet away, Conte opened fire again.

  A steady stream of bullets tore the wooden propellor apart. A flying splinter struck the driver between the shoulder blades and killed him.

  The loss of the prop caused the enemy boat to slew sideways and come to a rocking halt. The Boko gunner was turning, trying to bring his gun to bear, when Dupont’s second passenger shot him. One airboat down, and one to go.

  ***

  Avery felt the flotation system built into his Tac vest automatically inflate as he hit the water. A good thing too, since he didn’t know how to swim, and was carrying a hand sledge in addition to his weapons. Avery allowed the hammer to sink as he splashed his way over to Favro’s body.

  The dead man’s flotation system prevented him from sinking. Waves caused Favro’s body to bob up and down as Avery struggled to get a grip on the dead man’s wrist and pull the cut-off lanyard free.

  The elastic band came loose just as the enemy airboat arrived. The legionnaire took a deep breath and dove, knowing the floatation system would force him back to the surface. But maybe, just maybe, he could fight back.

  Avery could see the bottom of the barge-shaped boat, and hear the distorted roar of its engine, as he kicked his feet. Up, up, and up!

  The grenade was ready as Avery surfaced. He managed to toss the bomb into the flat-bottomed airboat, and ducked.

  The explosion was muffled. But there was no doubt as to what it was. And when Avery came to the surface again the boat was sinking. Two bodies were floating face down in Lake Tiga.

  Avery felt a sense of exhilaration. He was alive! Then reality came flooding back. He had to reach the jet ski, and drive it to the raft, or Dupont would be pissed. Arms flailed as Avery swam.

  ***

  Was President Kabir alive? Or dead? The raid was running late, and the people on the raft knew the jet skis were coming, so Kabir might have been murdered out of spite. If so, it’s my fault, Baxter thought. I was in command.

  Baxter pushed the concern aside as the remaining jet skis split into pairs and sped toward the raft from different directions. Divide their fire … The oldest trick in the book.

  The raft was a motley collection of barges and boats which were moored to one another in no particular order. And, as the long gentle waves rolled under the floatables, the whole assemblage rose and fell.

  Something exploded a hundred yards in front of Baxter and threw a column of water up into the air. A cannon? Did the fucking tangos have a cannon?

  More explosions followed, two of which bracketed Baxter, and drenched him with water. That was when he realized that rather than cannons, the Boko Haram fighters were using small mortars. Baxter yelled into his boom mike. “Take evasive action! Over.”

  It takes time to adjust a mortar. So, by zigging and zagging, the jet skis could escape the falling bombs—and they did. But in addition to the mortars the defenders had light machine guns and small arms. At least a dozen weapons opened fire.

  Fortunately, the same unpredictable movements that rendered the mortars ineffective offered some protection from the guns as well. But one of them, a sniper firing from an elevated gun tub, managed to kill a sailor.

  The impact threw the American off the back end of his jet ski and into the water.

  Baxter’s attention was on the south side of the raft where he was determined to board. That’s where the NRO analysts believed that Kabir was being held.

  Baxter fired the HK MP7 with his left hand while steering with his right. His targets were grouped around the boat ramp that led from the water up to a point not far from the cargo container. A man went down as Baxter killed the engine. He realized his timing was off, and swore as the Kawasaki roared up the ramp!

  The ski hit a Boko fighter and threw him onto his back. Baxter shot him as his passengers deassed the Kawasaki. They fired on the other guards.

  “Assholes down,” a sailor said, as the second man fell.

  “Secure the cargo container,” Baxter ordered. “And open the door.”

  The men from the second jet ski had arrived by then. “Cover all the approaches,” Baxter ordered. “And keep your eyes peeled.”

  Baxter could hear the rattle of automatic fire from the other side of the raft, where Riley and his team were creating a diversion, and trying to find Adebayo.

  “Hold your fire!” a noncom shouted, and Baxter could see why. A young woman wearing a cotton dress was coming their way with a baby cradled in her arms.

  “Don’t shoot!” she said. “My name is Mfon! I’m a prisoner!”

  The noncom rose from hiding and went forward to search her. That’s when Mfon triggered an explosive vest. The blast killed her, the baby, and the sergeant. Several men were wounded.

  Baxter swore as a group of Boko fighters surged forward, intent on seizing the moment. He shouted, “Kill them!” and opened fire.

  Others did likewise, and the Boko Haram fighters seemed to wilt, as the fusillade of bullets cut them down. Bodies were stacked on bodies when Baxter ordered his men to stop firing. “Reload! Conserve ammo! Apply first aid.”

  Baxter’s words were followed by a loud bang, as a block of C-4 went off, and smoke swirled. “We’re in!” a legionnaire reported. “And the president is alive!”