Qwan saw the glint in the guard’s eye and knew the bastard was going to feel him up. And sure enough, during the head to toe search the Pak managed to squeeze Chi’s foam breasts, and grope her crotch. That was the most dangerous moment of all.

  But Qwan was wearing a specially designed appliance which not only covered his genitalia, but pressed his package flat, albeit in an uncomfortable way.

  It seemed that the guard felt what he wanted to feel. Because there was a smirk on his face when he completed the search. “She’s clean.”

  Qwan felt an enormous sense of relief as he followed Hayat into a dead garden. A wooden bridge spanned a dry pond. The desiccated skeletons of shrubs and trees harkened back to the previous owner. Not much cover, Qwan thought.

  A serpentine walkway led to the sprawling one-story, mud brick house, which had lots of windows, and more doors than seemed necessary.

  Three guards were visible. They were in motion, eyes scanning, as they patrolled the area. Fives, Qwan decided. The best of the best. A real threat. Especially since there’s bound to be more of the bastards on the opposite side of the house.

  The main door appeared to be new. It was made of steel and painted red. In case of a Pakistani helicopter assault, Qwan concluded. It isn’t easy being a fake Rajah.

  The door was opened by a comely woman wearing traditional garb. A servant? A concubine? Or both? There was no way to tell.

  As Hayat led Qwan deeper into the house it quickly became apparent that all of Ang’s staff were female. And not simply for sex, Qwan surmised, although that may play a role. No, Mr. Ang doesn’t want men to be around him day and night. Men who might try to assassinate him. That’s smart, but it might cut my way.

  The Rajah’s study was located at the end of a short hall. Copies of Buddhist statues flanked the entrance, dating back to a time when Buddhism was the dominant religion in much of Pakistan, and evoking Chinese culture as well.

  Ang’s study, if that was the right word, was decorated in what Qwan thought of as nineteenth century warlord, complete with framed maps, black and white photos, and racks of antique weapons. Whether the decor had been that way to begin with, or was Ang’s doing, wasn’t clear.

  Ang rose from behind an enormous desk to circle around and shake Chi’s hand. Qwan was careful to deliver a weak handshake, even as Hayat withdrew. The door produced a click as it closed. Ang will never be closer, Qwan decided. Act now!

  “I’m Shui Ang,” the renegade said, as he released Chun’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to … ”

  That was when Qwan threw a punch aimed at Ang’s Adam’s apple. The blow crushed the renegade’s windpipe, and was intended to kill the renegade and silence him at the same time.

  Ang’s eyes opened wide as he fell back onto the desk, his hands clawed at his neck, and his chest heaved. Then the “bad dog” slid to the floor.

  A brass replica of an Indian cobra sat on the desk. Qwan wrapped his fingers around the snake and brought it down on Ang’s head. The Chinese Rajah went limp. All in less than thirty seconds. Qwan put the snake back on the desk and paused to listen. Nothing. Good.

  Qwan paused to check Ang’s pulse before snapping a series of photos with Chi’s cellphone.

  The next step was to arm himself. And there were plenty of options. Qwan chose the Chinese Type 67 pistol, with an integral sound suppressor that Ang kept in his lap drawer. There were two spare magazines as well. Just the thing for a young woman on the go.

  Qwan hurried to shove the magazines into Chi’s bra while he scanned the room. The last thing he wanted to do was to depart through the door. Fortunately, there were two windows, both open.

  That’s as far as Qwan got before the door opened to admit a tea cart and one of Ang’s female servants. She saw the body, plus a man with a gun, and screamed. Then she turned and ran. So much for a clean escape.

  An AK-15 was leaning in a corner. Qwan grabbed the weapon, checked to ensure that it was loaded, and pushed a window fully open. The rifle went through first and was waiting when Qwan landed. “There she is!” a voice shouted. “Kill her!”

  A burst of bullets hit the side of the house. Qwan saw one of the “fives” to his right, turned, and fired three shots. Blood flew, the guard went down, and Qwan began to run.

  The wall. He had to climb the wall, reach the other side, and disappear into the maze of streets beyond. An assault weapon started to chatter. Geysers of dirt shot up all around Qwan as he neared the wall. The AK-15 was a burden so he dropped it.

  Then it was a matter of jumping as high as he could, securing a handhold, and scrabbling with his feet. They found traction and propelled him up and over.

  Qwan landed in a heap. He struggled to stand and felt for the pistol as he ran. A shadowy side passage offered a place to lie in wait. Qwan was ready when the guards appeared. There were two of them, and both fell, as Qwan fired the pistol.

  Then it was time to peek around the corner and assure himself that no other Balochs were in sight. They weren’t.

  Qwan forced himself to walk at a normal pace as he entered the labyrinth of shops. What he needed was a fresh “look.”

  But, due to the concentration of gun shops, Qwan had to walk for the better part of five minutes before spotting a clothing store. Then, with the pistol hidden under Chi’s jacket, he entered.

  A bell jingled as Qwan opened the door. The lighting was dim. Racks of clothes lined the walls. One side for men, the other for women. There weren’t any customers, and that was a good thing. The shop owner was there to greet Qwan. “Good evening, ma’am. How can I help you?”

  Were the city’s citizens friendly with the Balochs? That seemed unlikely. Especially since the residents were virtual slaves.

  Qwan had some gold coins hidden in Chi’s clothing, and offered one to the shopkeeper. “You never saw me and you will provide me a set of male clothing.”

  The man’s eyes widened at the sight of the coin and the unexpected sound of a male voice. Little did the merchant know that his life depended on the answer he provided.

  “Of course,” the shop owner said, as he accepted the gold Rupee. “Please enter the changing room in the back. I will bring what you need.”

  It took twenty minutes to fit Qwan with a full set of clothes.

  Each time the doorbell jingled, Qwan would peek between the curtains, pistol at the ready. There were three visitors in all, and none of them stayed.

  Was the store keeper selling the agent out? If so, he’ll be the first to die, Qwan decided.

  The final outfit consisted of a skull cap, kurta pajamas, and a pair of sturdy sandals.

  Qwan felt much better at that point, and was about to depart, when the shop owner placed the gold Rupee in his hand. “Thanks to Allah, the Rajah is dead. May peace follow you home.”

  Qwan stepped out into the street. Gunfire could be heard as the Balochs tried to keep what they had stolen, and the locals fought to take it back.

  The sun had gone down by then, lights glowed here and there, and the shadows took Qwan in. His mission was complete. The Dog Master would be pleased.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Karun River, Iran

  The Tenacious motored straight into the trap. The first indication that something was wrong came when the patrol boat’s bow rammed the net stretched across a narrow section of the Karun River.

  The impact pushed the center of the net downstream for about twenty feet. Once the slack was removed the net held fast. And no wonder, since each end was hooked to a winch mounted on a Toofan armored vehicle.

  Because the Tenacious couldn’t proceed downstream, the current turned the boat sideways. Baxter was in the pilot house standing next to the helmsman. “Shit! Apply power, turn, and take her upriver.”

  At that point the navy officer was expecting to be shelled by shore batteries, machine-gunned by highly maneuverable fast boats, or attacked from the air.

  Baxter’s mind was racing, trying to come up with a plan to break through the barrier, when the top edge of a second net popped out of the water upstream!

  A quick check with his binoculars confirmed that yes, the second net was connected to trucks, both of which were backing away from the river.

  The good news was that the Iranians clearly believed that Morpheus was aboard the Tenacious. They didn’t open fire, Baxter realized. And that’s because they want to take Morpheus alive. And what choice do I have? We can fire at the MRAPs, but won’t be able to make much of an impression with machine guns.

  Baxter turned to the radio tech seated behind him. “Get Pirate-Three on the horn … Tell him that we’re trapped, and to complete his part of the mission.

  “Then raise Central and request air support.”

  “Aye, aye sir.”

  One or more planes could put the hurts on the MRAPs, while we try to cut the downstream net, Baxter thought. Then we’ll run for it.

  That was when a Russian made Mil Mi-17 with Iranian markings clattered overhead. Ropes fell from above, soldiers slid down them like beads on a string, and were onboard within seconds. Baxter grabbed a mike. “This is the captain! Put your weapons down and raise your hands! That’s an order.”

  What felt like lead filled Baxter’s stomach. Surrender. The worst possibility there was. And without firing a single shot! First there was the shame of it. Quickly followed by fear. The Iranians were known to torture prisoners or, in some cases, shoot them.

  I was wrong, Baxter decided. It would have been better to die fighting.

  But the decision was made, and there was nothing Baxter could do but follow his own orders, as Iranian soldiers entered the pilot house with assault rifles leveled.

  The next hour was the worst of Baxter’s life. Rifle butts connected with heads. Wrists were secured. Then the crew was loaded onto RIB boats and taken ashore. The shop owner was separated from the Americans and was likely abused while he struggled to prove his identity.

  From the river bank it was a short journey to the cluster of army tents that were set up in a grove of date palms. The POWs were ordered to get off the truck and stand shoulder-to-shoulder.

  That was when an officer appeared. There was a sneer on his face. “My name is Captain Babak Sadiq. You will not speak unless spoken to. If spoken to, you will obey orders, provide truthful answers and maintain a respectful tone. Failure to follow these rules will result in death.

  “The officer in charge will step forward.”

  Baxter took a step forward.

  Sadiq nodded. “You are the man who was sent to capture Commander Caspar Agha, the officer in charge of the glorious Ghadir flotilla. You will tell us how the cowardly attack was planned and carried out. Take him away.”

  Soldiers stepped in to seize Baxter’s arms and hustle him off. Baxter heard Nilsson object, followed by a grunt of pain.

  A tent was waiting to receive Baxter, as was a folding chair, to which he was secured.

  What seemed like twenty or thirty minutes passed before Sadiq arrived. Plenty of time for Baxter to wonder how the Iranians knew he’d been in command of the squadron that captured Agha. Had his name been released to the press? Or was there a leak somewhere?

  Once Sadiq arrived, things went the way Baxter expected them to go, which was poorly. Sadiq asked questions, Baxter refused to answer them, and the guards beat the shit out of him.

  Peace arrived when a roundhouse right hit the left side of Baxter’s head and knocked him unconscious. He awoke on the canvas floor still taped to the chair. Free yourself, Baxter thought. Hurry.

  And that’s where Baxter was, face down in his own blood, trying to work his way free, when a helicopter roared overhead. It’s the Russian helo, Baxter concluded. I need to get the hell out of here.

  Then Baxter heard a series of explosions, the chatter of automatic weapons, and a good deal of yelling. All in Persian. Holy shit, Baxter thought, as he managed to free his right hand. They came for us.

  Then he heard a male voice with a British accent. “Are you Commander Baxter? Of course, you are. Captain Reggie Peabody at your service. Please allow me to help.”

  Once freed Baxter managed to stand with some assistance from Peabody. The Brit was wearing a maroon beret and a wireless headset. “Thank you. SAS (Special Air Service) perhaps?”

  “We are,” Peabody acknowledged. “I’ll get you on the helo.”

  “No,” Baxter replied. “We need to free my crew. Give me a gun.”

  “Take this,” the British officer replied, as he gave Baxter a Glock 17. “There’s one up the spout. The safety is on. Follow me.”

  That was easier said than done. There was pain. Lots of pain. And it was a struggle to keep up with the Brit who, along with a noncom, was headed for the vehicle park. “The Iranians are holding your chaps hostage,” Peabody commented. “But they can’t escape.”

  And that was true. A Westland Apache was circling the area, making it impossible for the Russian Mil Mi-17 to take off. And there, holding a pistol to Lieutenant Nilsson’s head, was none other than CIA agent Mike Murphy! Sadiq stood next to him.

  Murphy spotted Baxter and grinned. “What happened, sailor boy? Did you fall down and go boom? I have to hand it to you though … The shopkeeper thing worked.

  “But now the Swede and I are going to board my helo and go bye-bye. The Apache can blow us out of the air. But if it does, Nilsson dies too.”

  That was when Nilsson dropped straight down. What happened next came naturally. Baxter brought the Glock up and fired. Fifteen times. Both Murphy and Sadiq fell.

  “You’re a good marksman for a naval officer,” Peabody observed. “If you’re finished, please return my pistol.”

  ***

  Approaching Gwadar, Pakistan on a Xian Y-7 twin turboprop

  Chinese Admiral Yong Chao was suffering from jet lag, the pain associated with a stomach ulcer, and the worry associated with being away from the Yulin Naval Base for so long.

  Politics at the highest levels of the Chinese military were extremely fluid, and even a short absence could provide competitors with an opportunity to whisper something negative into President Lau’s ear.

  But Gwadar was to be the last stop on the “Build the Spirit” tour, conceived of by none other than Lau himself, and subsequently downloaded to a long list of VIPs. All of whom had been ordered to boost morale in countries like Pakistan.

  So, for five long days Chao would be required to give speeches, tour points of interest, and review troops. Then, and only then, could he return to what he thought of as “the real world.”

  There was a thump as the plane touched down at the Gwadar International Airport. The torture had begun.

  ***

  Jubail, Saudi Arabia

  It was illegal to possess or consume alcohol in Saudi Arabia. Had it been otherwise Baxter would have been drunk.

  But the bastards couldn’t prevent him from taking the oxycodone that the Saudi doctor had prescribed, plus a little extra, to help him sleep.

  So there he was, unconscious on a cot inside the vast warehouse, when someone poured half a bottle of warm water on his face. Baxter spluttered and attempted to open his eyes. They were glued shut. That’s how it felt anyway, as Captain Fenton said, “Wakey, wakey … All hands-on deck. That includes you, Commander.”

  Baxter rubbed his eyes and managed to squint. “Fenton? What the fuck?”

  “That’s Captain Fenton to you,” the officer replied. “How did you make commander with such a bad attitude?”

  Baxter managed to swing his boots over and onto the cement floor. “I don’t know. Maybe it was my good looks.”

  “Well, not anymore,” Fenton replied. “The Iranians took care of that. Listen sleepy head, I have a job for you, and you’ll love it.”

  Baxter groaned. “Give me your pistol. I’ll shoot myself now.”

  Fenton sat on a folding chair. “Tch, tch,” Fenton said. “I have it on good authority that you’re depressed.”

  “Who wouldn’t be?” Baxter responded. “I fucked up.”

  “I assume you’re referring to the way in which you surrendered the Tenacious, so as to save lives and stall, thereby giving special forces more time to get there.”

  Baxter stared at him. “Get serious. I surrendered.”

  “I am serious,” Fenton replied. “Try to look at this from General Langston’s perspective. Your plan to use the Tenacious as a decoy worked, Morpheus escaped aboard the police boat, and you capped a rogue CIA agent. He thinks you walk on water.”

  Baxter looked down. “You know better, sir.”

  “Sure,” Fenton replied. “In some other place, and in some other war, questions would be asked. And the investigators would investigate.

  “But we aren’t there. We’re here. Where results count. And matters of theoretical honor don’t mean jack shit. So, you’re disappointed in yourself. Join the fucking club.

  “Meanwhile Central Command handed me a turd—with your name engraved on it.”

  “What kind of a turd?”

  Fenton looked left and right, confirmed that none of Baxter’s sailors were close enough to hear, and turned back. “SEAL Team one-eight is holed up in Gwadar waiting for a Chinese admiral to arrive. Then, when the moment is right, they have orders to smoke him.”

  “And?”

  “And a helo will pick them up,” Fenton explained. “Unless it doesn’t. In that case you will extract them by sea. It’s called Operation Long Shot.”

  Fenton had piercing blue eyes. Baxter attempted to meet the officer’s steely gaze and managed to succeed. “Aye, aye, sir.”

  ***

  Gwadar, Pakistan

  SEAL Team 18-ME was hiding in the mostly empty American Consulate in Gwadar. The letters “ME” stood for “Middle East,” and the team consisted of sailors of Middle Eastern descent who could speak Arabic, Persian, or Farsi.

  Lieutenant JG Avy Prakash was a second generation American and a worried man. As any person in their right mind would be. The operation had gone smoothly thus far. But for how long?

  After swimming ashore from an American sub, SEAL-Team 18 arrived on a deserted beach where Mr. Hunar Jha was waiting to meet them with a five-year-old Land Rover Defender 110. The same model the Pakistani army favored.