And why not? RIB boats weren’t made of steel, and they were too small to trigger an influence mine. So, the fast boats could operate with near impunity.

  Baxter could see the oncoming RIBs by then, bouncing as they came, throwing sheets of spray away from their blunt bows they sought to keep the Allied patrol boats contained. And the strategy was going to work.

  Fortunately, Baxter’s squadron didn’t have to defend the entirety of the strait’s twenty-one-mile width. The sweepers had orders to clear a two-mile-wide path through the minefield. Just enough for the fleet to slip through. A strategy that would enable the sweepers to complete their task quickly.

  As the minesweepers advanced, assuming they did so, the lumbering ships had orders to drop two parallel lines of radio buoys which would guide the destroyers and frigates through the mines. Unfortunately, there was no way to account for the free-floating mines that could, and would, drift into the safe zone from uncleared areas.

  Suddenly all considerations of strategy were washed away as the high-speed combatants made contact, opened fire, and maneuvered for advantage.

  The RIB boats were more agile than the PBs were. But the Allied boats were armored and equipped with 25mm chain guns and fifty caliber machine guns.

  Still, as Baxter had discovered during the battle for the sub tender, the Iranian RPGs could inflict serious damage. “This is Pirate-Six actual,” Baxter said. “Don’t try to out turn them. You can’t. But feel free to run over the bastards. Over.”

  PB-006’s topside coxswain was a petty officer named Miley Morales. She put the joy stick over, and produced a rebel yell, as she steered the PB up and over a RIB.

  That earned an admonition from Master Chief Crawford. “Belay that bullshit, Morales. See me when this is over.”

  Morales laughed and put the boat into a tight turn.

  An experienced sonar tech had been seconded to the 006 and installed in the CIC where he was producing a steady stream of warnings. But the boat was moving so fast that each mine the tech identified was already astern by the time he managed to get the necessary words out of his mouth. We’re living on borrowed time, Baxter thought.

  There was nothing Baxter could do about it as the RIBs disengaged and arrowed toward the minesweepers. Not like a mob, but in groups of ten boats, each headed for a separate ship. Command and control, Baxter thought. They have a leader. Where is he?

  “Black Magic, this is Pirate-Six. Take a look around. The RIBs are being coordinated by someone. Have you got company up there? If so, kill it. Over.”

  “Pirate-Six actual to all boats … Intercept those RIBs! Don’t let them reach the sweepers! Over.”

  The nearest sweeper was the Patriot, and the gunners on the leading RIBs opened fire as they closed the distance.

  The gunners’ mates on the Patriot replied with machine guns but had to break it off as the 006 came up on the Iranian fast boats from the rear.

  The PB’s bow gun opened fire, and geysers of water shot up all around the nearest inflatable, as cannon shells tore it into pieces.

  A second RIB met a similar fate, and Morales ran over a third, before being forced to turn rather than hit the minesweeper.

  Similar battles were taking place around the Champion, the Sentry, and the Hercules. “Cut power by half,” Baxter ordered. “Remain on station. There will be more.”

  ***

  Near Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

  Black Magic, AKA Second Lieutenant Mark Perro, was sitting in an air-conditioned trailer near Riyadh in Saudi Arabia, working his screens. And sure enough … Pirate-Six was correct. There was another drone circling over the strait. It looked similar to his Reaper, but was playing for the other team.

  According to Perro’s sensor operator, Sergeant Cory Duke, they were looking at an Iranian Shahed 129—a single-engine, unmanned combat vehicle. “It can carry bombs,” Duke added, “but that’s all.”

  “Roger that,” Perro replied. “Let’s shoot the fucker down.”

  The recent addition of AIM-9X Sidewinder air-to-air missiles to the Raptor’s loadout was a welcome development. Not for the purpose of engaging fighter planes, so much as intercepting cruise missiles, drones, and helos.

  So, Perro was excited about the chance to splash a Shahed 129, and in a hurry to do so, knowing that the Iranian drone was being used for command and control.

  “Hit the gas!” Duke said. “They made us!”

  The sensor operator was correct. The 129 was taking evasive action and running like hell. Perro smiled. “No prob. A 9X can catch it.”

  Perro fired. The Sidewinder jumped off a rail, took off, and was doing Mach 2.5 when its infrared homing system achieved lock on. There was no audio. Just a silent explosion and a large puff of smoke. The Iranian RIB boats were on their own.

  ***

  “Black Magic to Pirate-Six. Enemy drone down. Over.”

  “Well done,” Baxter replied, as he surveyed the scene around him. The enemy’s previously well-disciplined force had already started to rush every which way. A positive development indeed.

  But, before Baxter could savor the moment, an Iranian torpedo hit the Hercules. The blast sent pieces of metal up into the air, flames appeared, and the minesweeper began to break in two.

  There wasn’t enough time to lower life boats. Baxter watched in horror as tiny figures jumped off the burning ship and into the sea where islands of flaming fuel waited to cook them alive. “The Iranians are going in!” Pawley warned. “They’re firing on people in the water!”

  Baxter turned to Morales. “Get us there!”

  Baxter felt the boat jump as Morales applied full power, put the PB-006 into a turn, and triggered a mine. The force of the explosion threw the bow up and propelled Baxter, Pawley, and Morales high into the air. Then they started to fall.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Gwadar, Pakistan

  The city was windy, hence the name Gwadar, or “Door of Air.”

  It was also relatively small, with a population of ninety thousand people, most of whom lived in modest homes of one or two stories.

  The structure that housed the Chinese Economic Development Agency had been an Omani government building before control of Gwadar was transferred to Pakistan in 1958. The entrance was framed by a striking keyhole arch, and flanked by two wings of office space, both of which were two stories tall.

  Large windows echoed the shape of the entrance. And each corner of the building was anchored by a minaret-like tower.

  Though listed as headquarters for the Economic Development Agency, the facility was also home to an assortment of other organizations, including the Intelligence Bureau of the Joint Staff Department of the Central Military Commission. AKA “the Bureau.”

  To access the building, Qwan had to show his ID to a Pakistani policeman, then to a Chinese guard.

  Once inside the agent followed a hall back to a locked door where he had to submit to a face scan, and enter a PIN number, before stepping into the maze of cubes better known as “the jungle.” That’s where the Bureau’s analysts, drone operators, and support staff worked.

  As for Mr. Lee, his office was somewhere else. Qwan didn’t know where.

  After stopping by his desk Qwan went looking for a tech named Jia Han. She was about his age, attractive in a bookish way, and extremely good at what she did. And that was image analysis. When Qwan found Han, she was standing behind a drone operator, watching surveillance footage of a fishing dhow. “A fishing dhow should carry nets,” Han observed. “Where are they?”

  “Beats me,” the operator said.

  “Okay,” Han said. “I’ll write it up. Thanks.”

  Qwan was waiting when she turned. “Hi, Jia … Can I borrow you for a few minutes?”

  Something flickered in her eyes. Interest? Or was that too much to hope for?

  “Of course,” Han replied. “What do you need?”

  “Mr. Lee tells me that we have imagery of a town called Darra Adam Khel.”

  “We do,” Han replied. “Please follow me.”

  Han’s work station consisted of a tower computer, three screens, and a hot plate with a tea kettle on it. “Please have a seat,” Han said, as she gestured towards her guest chair. “It’ll take a minute to pull the imagery up.”

  Qwan was sitting close enough to enjoy the scent Han wore, and admire her hands. They were delicate and well kept. He liked that.

  “Here it is,” Han said. “This is the high-altitude view.”

  Qwan felt his spirits sink. Darra Adam Khel was located at the west end of a narrow valley, with mountains looming to the north and south. Access was limited to a single road that angled in from the southwest to the northeast.

  I can get in, Qwan thought. But how will I get out? If Ang’s bodyguards are looking for me?

  “Take me down,” Qwan told her. “I want to see how things are laid out.”

  Han eyed him. “You plan to go there?”

  “Maybe,” Qwan said evasively.

  Han started to say something, apparently thought better of it, and turned back to the screens. The ground came up as her fingers tapped a series of keys.

  Darra Adam Khel was a small town. That helped explain how the Balochs had been able to seize and hold it. The homes and stores were laid out in a haphazard fashion that predated urban planning. As a result, the streets were narrow and vehicle access would be limited.

  The imagery began to blur as Han increased the magnification. “Here,” the analyst said, as she pointed a delicate finger at the screen. “And here, and here. There are at least two dozen guards.”

  Han was correct. Qwan could see something else too. A significant number of the troops were positioned to protect a building with a white roof and an inner courtyard.

  “What information, if any, do you have regarding the building with the white roof?” Qwan inquired.

  “Somebody important lives there,” Han responded.

  And that, Qwan figured, was all the analyst was supposed to know. But given the concern in her eyes, Qwan got the feeling that Han knew about Ang.

  “Thank you,” Qwan said, as he stood. “You’ve been very helpful.”

  “You’re welcome,” Han replied, as she blanked her face. “Have a nice day.”

  Qwan felt depressed as he left the headquarters building. Ang knew that Lee would send a dog and the bastard was ready. He could turn the highway on and off at will. There was no overlook from which to target the house with a rifle. And the paths that led to Ang’s residence were patrolled. So, what the fuck was Qwan supposed to do?

  A targeted missile strike would be best. That’s what the Americans would do. Qwan assumed the option had been discussed and rejected.

  Why? Maybe the Chinese government didn’t want to generate the kind of attention an airstrike would bring. Or maybe anything.

  So, what did that leave? A woman, Qwan decided. Ang likes the ladies. So why didn’t Lee choose a female agent? Because there were no female agents on station. That’s why. And, the Dog Master couldn’t request one, since he was expected to make do.

  That was when the idea came to Qwan. What if he dressed as a woman? Every agent received training on how to alter their appearance. A tactic that was of more importance now that each corner was equipped with a camera. And the better part of a week of Qwan’s training had been spent on disguises.

  The idea triggered a combination of excitement and fear. Excitement because Qwan believed the idea would work, and fear because he was, according to one of his instructors, “the ugliest girl in China.”

  But ugly or not, Qwan’s mind was made up. He turned, retraced his steps to the Chinese Economic Development Agency’s building, and entered. The rest of the day was spent creating an alter ego called Chun Chi.

  Finally with help from a female specialist Qwan stared at himself in a full-length mirror. I have the clothes, Qwan thought. But can I act the part?

  There was no clear answer since he’d never tried. It will be Chun Chi’s first outing, Qwan decided. And it might be my last.

  ***

  Jubail, Saudi Arabia

  Jubail was an industrial city on the east coast of Saudi Arabia which, until days earlier, had been subject to Iranian missile attacks.

  Now, after battling their way through the Strait of Hormuz, the Allies had the upper hand. All the Iranian navy had left were a few commerce raiders in the Gulf of Oman and beyond. A ragtag force of ships and submarines which would eventually be located and sunk.

  Iran was in a box. And Allied commanders agreed that it would be stupid to use the planes and troops required to invade and pacify Iran, when they had already taken the country off the military chess board, and weakened the Axis.

  After losing PB-003 with all hands, as well as three of the sailors on PB-006, Squadron 12 had been sent to Jubail. The city had two seaports. The Jubail Commercial Seaport, and the King Fahd Industrial Seaport.

  The squadron had been ordered to tie up at King Fahd’s General Cargo Terminal, along with a motley collection of other Allied vessels, leaving four terminals open to conduct regular business. Very important business. Because now that the strait was open, much needed oil was flowing again. And petroleum products were critical to the war effort.

  The squadron had been assigned a corner of a stuffy warehouse in which to eat and sleep. It was equipped with two sani-cans, a refrigerator, and three pallets of bottled water.

  Baxter’s desk consisted of a piece of plywood resting on sawhorses. He felt lucky to be alive. The explosion that had propelled him, Pawley, and Morales through the air, also destroyed the boat’s bow.

  Seawater flooded the forward compartment. But that alone wasn’t enough to sink the PB. So those who remained on the PB battled to keep it afloat.

  Meanwhile Baxter, Pawley and Morales had managed to board a drifting RIB boat.

  It was occupied by two bodies and a wounded Iranian. They gave the sailor what first aid they could, and were fortunate enough to be rescued by one of the Israeli patrol boats, just as Allied warships entered the Persian Gulf through the strait.

  After removing their personal effects from PB-006, and surrendering her to a tug, the crew had been put aboard a Saudi destroyer and taken to Jubail.

  That’s where Baxter was reunited with his laptop and all the paperwork associated with being a squadron commander.

  So there Baxter was, stripped to the waist, laboring away, when Captain Fenton arrived. He had two civilians in tow. A man and a woman. Baxter groaned.

  Fenton grinned. “Shouldn’t you come to attention? And salute?”

  “I don’t have my hat on, so I can’t salute,” Baxter said, as he stood.

  Fenton laughed. “This is Cassie Wilkins … She works for an intelligence agency, as does Mike Murphy.”

  “I don’t like this already,” Baxter said, as he shook hands with what were obviously a couple of CIA agents.

  Fenton took a look around as if to make sure that no one could hear, before going to collect another folding chair to go with the two positioned in front of the makeshift desk.

  “It’s your own fault,” Fenton said, once everyone was seated. “First you captured a sub tender and an important officer. Then you fought a small boat action that played a key role in reopening the Strait of Hormuz. So now General Langston and his staff see you as the go-to Riverine guy. Congratulations.”

  Baxter made a face. “Gee, thanks. How can I make you people go away?”

  “You can do what we want you to do,” Fenton replied.

  “Which is?”

  “Run a boat up the Karun River, board a passenger, and return. Easy-peasy.”

  “That’s bullshit,” Baxter replied, as he looked from face-to-face. “If it was easy, you’d have someone else do it.”

  “He has you there,” Wilkins put in.

  “Yeah,” Murphy agreed.

  Fenton smiled. “What I meant to say is that it could be that easy. And, the last time I heard, you work for the United States Navy. Not the other way around.”

  Murphy smirked. “That’s right, sailor boy.”

  Baxter sighed. “Yes, sir. Lay it on me.”

  “That’s more like it,” Murphy said.

  Wilkins frowned. “Back off Mike.”

  Murphy looked contrite. “Sorry.”

  Maybe he was, and maybe he wasn’t, Baxter thought. But one thing is for sure … Wilkins is in charge.

  “Here’s the situation,” Fenton said. “An Iranian national has been feeding high value information to our government for many years. But this individual has reason to believe that the Iranian Ministry of Intelligence, also known as VAJA, is closing in, and he or she needs to leave in a hurry. What we want you to do is run up the Karun River, pick them up, and bring them out. We hope it will be a boring trip. But, if it isn’t, we know you’ll get the job done anyway.”

  “I have a question,” Baxter replied. “We own the air. That’s what everyone says. So why not send a helo to take the agent out?”

  It was Fenton’s turn to sigh. “The agent’s code name is Morpheus. As in the god of sleep. A fitting name for a sleeper agent.

  “In any case he, or she, is afraid to fly. So much so, that Morpheus prefers a surface extraction. Cross country travel is out of the question. So, that leaves the river.”

  There was no way out. So, Baxter switched from how to avoid the mission, to getting it done. “Okay, but given the importance of security, I need the freedom to plan and execute the mission my way.”

  Fenton looked at Wilkins. She squinted her eyes, seemed to consider the request, and nodded. “You have a track record, Commander. A good one. So go ahead and do it your way. But don’t fuck up.”

  “Wait a minute,” Murphy objected. “I’m the case officer … And I’ll be damned if a jumped-up swabbie is going to run my operation.”

  Wilkins turned to him. “Shut up, Mike. One more word and you won’t be a case officer.”

  Wilkins turned to Baxter. “I apologize on behalf of the agency, Commander. Handle the extraction as you see fit. But bring Morpheus out.”