From there it was a forty-five-minute drive into Gwadar. The Consulate had served as the residence of a wealthy Omani family prior to the transfer in ‘58. And rather than leave the building unoccupied, the departing Consul gave Jha a large wad of cash, and told him to oversee maintenance, and call in via a scrambled sat phone should “Something interesting occur.”

  It wasn’t a good idea to call very often. But, when the local government announced that Chinese Admiral Yong Chao was going to visit, Jha thought his handler would want to know.

  And Jha was correct. Chao was not only a mover and a shaker in Chinese military circles, but the chief architect of the devastating attacks on Singapore and Okinawa, for which he’d received the August 1 Medal. The highest military decoration the People’s Liberation Army could bestow.

  So, killing Chao would not only be an act of revenge, but a message to the Chinese officer corps at large: “We’re watching. And, when we decide the time is right, we’ll cap you.”

  In roughly forty-eight hours Chao was going to speak at the Gwadar Cricket Stadium, a beautiful facility backed by high cliffs to the south, and adjacent to a plot of desert on which a helicopter could land.

  Not only that, but a pier called Mini Port Gwadar was located less than a mile away, and would serve as the team’s secondary extraction point.

  All of which was quite tidy. So, why was Prakash nervous? Because there were lots of “What ifs,” that’s why.

  What if Jha ratted the team out? That seemed unlikely, given the caretaker’s desire to take his family to the United States, but there were no guarantees.

  What if security was too tight? There was no way to know what the Paks would put in place until the last minute.

  And last, but not least, what if he came up short? What if he let the team down? That was Prakash’s worst fear. And it gnawed at him.

  ***

  Aboard the Tarrada in the Gulf of Oman

  The Tarrada was a large deep-sea dhow, or baggala in Arabic, a word that meant “mule.” Like her ancestors the Tarrada had a curved prow with a stem-head, and an ornately carved stern. She also had two masts, and two lateen sails, both of which snapped in the breeze.

  But unlike dhows of the past, the Tarrada had a steel hull, a powerful engine, and radar. And that was a good thing, because Commander Leo Baxter had never been aboard a sailboat before, and didn’t know what a jib was.

  There was no need for the triangular sails when the engine was running. No need other than to look innocent that is, which would be necessary in order to enter Gwadar’s Mini Port.

  Fortunately, Baxter had a civilian sea captain named Yousuf to handle the dhow, while the Americans prepared to fight. And there would sure as hell be a shootout if the navy failed to extract the SEALS by air. Because, assuming the Tarrada managed to clear the pier and head out to sea, the dhow would have to defend herself long enough for help to arrive.

  Preparations consisted of using fake deck cargo to conceal protective sandbags and heavy machine guns. RPGs, grenade launchers, and Javelin missile launchers were placed where marines could grab them. The personal weapons included M4 carbines and pistols.

  But, Baxter told himself, we’re the backup. So, no problem.

  ***

  Gwadar, Pakistan

  Chinese Agent Feng Qwan was back in Gwadar. His reward for killing renegade Ang was a verbal pat on the head from Mr. Lee. “You’re a good doggie,” Lee said. “So, I’m going to throw you a bone. Admiral Yong Chao is here for an official visit. And I’m going to add you to his security detail.”

  Qwan knew who Chao was. Everybody did. Especially those in the military. But the notion that being a member of the admiral’s security detail would somehow benefit Qwan was total bullshit. “With all due respect Mr. Lee, I’m an agent, not a bodyguard. Plus, I’d like to take a couple of days off.”

  “The gweilo (westerners) have a saying,” Lee replied. “‘There is no rest for the wicked.’ And your presence will add an important layer of security. Most of the people on the admiral’s detail will be Pakistanis. The Paks insist that their personnel have been cleared.

  “But what if an assassin is hiding among them? A Baloch for example … You will dog him out.” Lee couldn’t resist laughing at his own joke.

  So, against his wishes Qwan became a member of Chao’s security detail, and spent three long days following the officer around listening to the same boring speech over and over again.

  Judging from the content the screed had clearly been written by a functionary in the Propaganda Department of the Chinese Communist Party. The same group that produced apps such as the “Party Member eHome,” “Wisely Build the Party,” and the “Party Member’s Little Backpack.”

  And while Chao droned his way through the speech Qwan, who was usually just off stage, could watch as members of the audience fell asleep.

  Now, as Qwan prepared for bed, he had the satisfaction of knowing that Chao would return home the next day, and the torture would end.

  Qwan fell asleep quickly, and was soon dreaming about Jia Han, who was parading around the office naked.

  ***

  It was dark. A Pakistani patrol boat hailed the Tarrada six miles offshore, and demanded the ship’s registration number, cargo manifest and last port of call.

  Captain Yousuf was ready with the answers, plus a seaman holding a pouch filled with 10-rupee coins, waiting to drop one into the RIB boat as it pulled alongside.

  Baxter was below with the marines. So, he didn’t witness the “drop” which, according to what he heard later, was carried out with considerable skill. Permission to enter the Port of Gwadar arrived ten minutes later.

  Baxter felt a sense of relief, but not much. Once the dhow docked in the Mini Port the long wait would begin.

  A navy SH-60 Seahawk was supposed to depart a carrier, and arrive immediately after the assassination, to take the SEALS out. Jet fighters would provide cover.

  Baxter couldn’t think of any reason why the plan wouldn’t work. But the old saying, “If something can go wrong, it will go wrong,” kept looping through his brain.

  ***

  SEAL Team 18-ME got up at 0330, put on Pakistani army uniforms, and ate the breakfast that Mrs. Jha prepared.

  Then it was time to load up. The Indian national’s wife and daughter looked frightened. Because of weight restrictions, they couldn’t take anything more than the clothes on their backs, and small carry-ons.

  Mother and daughter entered the Rover through the rear hatch and assumed the fetal position. Jha threw a tarp over them before going forward to take the wheel. Because of Pakistan’s history as a British colony, it was on the right.

  There were three seats up front. Petty Officer Malik Darwish sat in the center with Lieutenant JG Prakash on the left.

  CPO Salmani and Petty Officer Habib occupied the second row, with Yassin and Mustaf sitting in the third.

  Would the official looking vehicle be stopped? That seemed unlikely. But Jha had a cover story prepared just in case.

  He kept the Rover’s speed down as he followed a major arterial to the vicinity of the Gwadar Cricket Stadium. Then Jha turned off onto a dirt road that took them east and north before stopping in a turn-around. “This is as far as we can go,” Jha told the SEALS. “You’ll have to walk from here.”

  Yassin was the designated sniper. Habib’s role was to provide security and act as spotter.

  Yassin was armed with a Russian SVD sniper rifle and Habib was carrying an M4 carbine with grenade launcher. Both SEALS wore packs loaded with climbing gear, spotting scopes, and bottles of water.

  Prakash knew better than to hand out advice or to wish them luck. “Try not to embarrass me. I’ll see you on the helo.”

  Habib grinned. His teeth were very white. “It’s too late, sir … Yassin is wearing boxers with little red hearts on them. What if he’s captured?”

  “Hey,” Yassin put in. “My girlfriend gave me those … She loves my package.”

  Prakash laughed. “That’s enough you two … Get your butts in gear.”

  The snipers disappeared into the murk. A ribbon of pink light was visible in the east, as the Land Rover traveled to the main arterial, and from there to the cricket stadium.

  The cricket field was awash in bright light. At least two dozen vehicles were parked on the west side of the road, most of which were vans and trucks. A police car was present with lights flashing, and a cop raised a hand.

  Jha braked and rolled the window down. “Who are you?” the policeman demanded. “And why are you here?”

  Prakash was seated in the center seat with a suppressed pistol held low. He leaned forward so the cop could see his face and uniform. “I’m Doctor Fazi, and these men are medics. We have orders to standby in case of a medical emergency.”

  The cop frowned. “An ambulance is parked over there.”

  Prakash nodded. “Yes, this is a joint civilian-military effort.”

  The policeman shrugged. “Okay, park next to the ambulance.”

  Prakash felt a sense of relief as Jha pulled away. So far, so good. Would the ambulance attendants question the team’s presence?

  It turned out the paramedics were thrilled to have a doctor on site, just in case an onlooker had a heart attack, or Allah forbid, Admiral Chao fell ill.

  Jha and Prakash made a show out of removing green duffle bags from the Land Rover. Each satchel was green with a prominent white cross. “I’m going to take a stroll,” Prakash said, holding a radio up for the others to see.

  A platform had been established on the pitch at the center of the field, and as Prakash watched, two men placed a podium on it. Bullet proof? No, Prakash didn’t think so. Not that Habib and Yassin would attempt to shoot through the lectern.

  Prakash turned to look at the cliffs that backed the field to the west. They were lit for night matches and Prakash could see why. The ghostly white cliffs made for a dramatic backdrop.

  Were the snipers up top somewhere? Scoping the field? Prakash raised the radio knowing that his words would be encrypted. “Neptune.”

  There was a slight pause, followed by the sound of Habib’s voice. “Salacia.”

  “Status.”

  “Good to go.”

  “Neptune out.”

  Bleachers were being bolted together between the center of the field and the cliffs. Judging from what Prakash could see the final structure would seat about a hundred people.

  Not the public, Prakash concluded. This is going to be a VIP event. Senior military officers, business types, and government functionaries.

  The sun topped the cliffs as Prakash returned to the Land Rover. Was that the last sunrise he’d see? Cut the defeatist crap, Prakash told himself. You’re gonna die in bed.

  ***

  Yassin heard rocks rattle and watched three dimly seen men pass the hide. His right elbow made contact with Habib. The SEAL woke with a start. “What’s up?” The words were a whisper.

  “They’re here,” Yassin replied. “A day late and a dollar short.”

  Habib understood. “They” were Pakistani counter snipers who’d been sent to make sure that Baloch rebels didn’t kill Admiral Chao. The fact that they were so late was nothing less than a stain on the profession. “Which way?”

  “To our left somewhere.”

  Habib was busy removing his boots. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Don’t shoot yourself in the foot. Again.”

  “Hey! Accidents can happen to anyone.”

  Yassin chuckled as Habib disappeared into the murk.

  ***

  Habib was wearing moccasins. The SEAL lowered his center of gravity by assuming a crouch. Each step involved placing his weight on the outside edge of the foot prior to rolling it into position and landing his heel. The SAS called it the Fox Walk.

  Habib heard the Paks before he saw them. They were talking in low tones but talking nevertheless. Habib saw them as he rounded an outcropping of rock. One was on his feet glassing the cricket field. The others were moving stones to create a flat spot. Perfect.

  Habib was armed with an H&K Mark 23 pistol with a suppressor attached. He took careful aim, shot the spotter first, and nailed the second sniper while the first body was falling. The third member of the team heard the pop-pop noise, and was turning, when Habib fired.

  The bullet struck him in the forehead. Another hit his chest.

  Then, just to make sure, Habib shot the others all over again. “If they’re worth one they’re worth two.” That’s what one of Habib’s instructors had told him.

  Habib’s final act was to grab the spotter’s radio. Problem solved.

  ***

  Admiral Yong Chao was a runner. And that meant his security detail had to run too. An activity that Agent Feng Qwan didn’t relish because he preferred to lift weights.

  But Qwan could run when he had to, albeit more slowly than the rest, which was why he was the last man in a column led by two members of the Pakistan’s Special Service Group, or SSG.

  They were followed by Chao with an SSG soldier to the left and right of him, and a column of lesser beings, with Qwan as “tail gunner.”

  Today is the last day, Qwan assured himself, as he pounded along. All I have to do is stay awake at the cricket field, wait for Chao’s motorcade to whisk him away, and I’ll get two days off.

  Not only that, but Jia agreed to a dinner out, and who knows? Maybe something more as well.

  The three-mile run left Qwan winded and in dire need of a shower. So, once Chao was back in his heavily guarded hotel suite, the agent took the opportunity to hurry home and clean up. An hour later he was in front of Chao’s hotel waiting for the admiral to emerge. And much to Qwan’s surprise, Chao paused to speak with him.

  “Thank you for taking care of the Ang situation, Agent Qwan. You’ll be happy to know that our government is pleased, as are the Paks, and some formal recognition will come your way. Keep up the good work.” Then Chao entered his Mercedes.

  Qwan felt his spirits soar. Jia would be proud.

  ***

  Commander Leo Baxter was in a reasonably good mood. Both he, his Omani sailors, and twenty-two U.S. marines were aboard a dhow moored to the Mini Port pier in Gwadar, Pakistan.

  Captain Yousuf was in charge of communicating with the harbormaster and his minions. And, according to the story Yousuf told them, the Tarrada was in need of an engine part that could only be obtained from a company in China. And it was on the way.

  But so long as Yousuf paid the pricey moorage fee, the harbormaster was happy to have what he called a “barnacle” clinging to his pier.

  Hopefully a helo would drop in to pull the SEALs out, the operation would go smoothly, and the Tarrada would slip into the night. Mission accomplished.

  Meanwhile, just in case things didn’t go smoothly, Second Lieutenant Mara Jones was keeping her leathernecks busy below decks. There was no AC and the heat was stifling in spite of the open hatches.

  The marines were grumbling about the battle rattle inspection to which Platoon Sergeant Marvin Samek reacted with well calculated scorn.

  “Damn! What’s wrong with you people? What if we have to duke it out with some Paks today? And you forget your TP? Get down and give me twenty.”

  Baxter thought the sergeant’s performance was a bit over the top, but agreed with the underlying idea. The marines would worry less if Samek kept them busy. Baxter eyed his watch. There was less than an hour to go.

  ***

  Admiral Chao was due to arrive any minute. And, when Lieutenant Prakash heard engines, he thought the target was on site. But that wasn’t the case.

  The vehicle that turned into the empty lot across the street was a truck with a dual missile launcher mounted in back. Chinese? Russian? It didn’t matter. Prakash knew he was looking at a mobile SAM (surface-to-air-missile) battery which could, and probably would, blow the incoming Seahawk helicopter out of the air.

  There was only one thing he could do. “Neptune to Sea King … Be advised that a SAM launcher just arrived at my twenty. Over.”

  “This is Sea-King,” a male voice responded. “Hold one. Over.”

  Five minutes passed as the enemy missile battery parked, deployed stabilizers, and was connected to a trailer. “Neptune, this is Sea-King. Go to Plan B. We’ll notify your ride. Over.”

  It was the correct decision. Prakash knew that. He also knew that all chances of a clean extraction were out the window. He went to inform Jha. “We’re going out by sea. Are the keys in the ignition? No? Put them there. There’s no way to know who will drive. And pre-load your family. Do it now.”

  Mr. Jha’s wife and daughter had been allowed to get out of the Range Rover and mingle with the gathering crowd. The civilian hurried off to get them.

  Prakash brought the radio back to his lips. “Salacia, this is Neptune. We’re switching to Plan B. Do some weeding before you rope out. Over.”

  “Roger that,” Habib replied. “Over.”

  Admiral Chao’s motorcade arrived while Prakash briefed the rest of the team. “Don’t worry, it’s a short ride to the pier where a dhow is waiting for us.

  “Now, amble over to the cliffs and prepare to provide Habib and Yassin with covering fire. And one last thing … ”

  “We know,” Mustaf said. “Don’t embarrass you.”

  “Exactly,” Prakash agreed. “Go navy!”

  The SEALS grinned and walked away.

  This shit is getting real, Prakash thought. Mom was right. I should have been a lawyer.

  ***

  Agent Feng Qwan had the honor of leading Admiral Chao and the rest of the security team over to the riser. Most of the bodyguards took up positions around the stage.

  But Qwan, and a single special forces soldier, had orders to mount the platform and stand near Chao.

  ***

  For his part Chao was thinking about things other than his safety. His focus was on the pre-speech jitters, the nagging pain in his stomach, and the message from Chinese President Lau. “Please make time to meet with me at nine o’clock Wednesday morning.”