Chao could make it back in time, but just barely, and why? What should he expect? Good news? Bad news? Or something boring?

  Chao’s thoughts were interrupted by the Chairman of Gwadar Port Authority, who was there to introduce him. “And so,” the functionary said, “it is my privilege to introduce Admiral Yong Chao!”

  Chao stepped in behind the podium. He didn’t want to be there. But in order to construct China’s future, it was necessary to lay stone upon stone, just like the Great Wall, and do so without regard to his personal wishes.

  Thus chastised, Chao launched into his speech. The sun felt warm on the side of his face, the air smelled of the sea, and the applause lifted his spirits. Then the bullet smashed into his forehead and he was gone.

  ***

  Feng Qwan was the first to respond. Chao had been hit. And he knew what would happen next. The sniper would shoot the admiral again just to make sure.

  Qwan threw himself forward, and was about to land on Chao’s body when the second slug hit him. No, Qwan thought. I’m too young. Blackness claimed him.

  The third shot struck Chao’s already dead body and caused it to flinch. Then all hell broke loose.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Lieutenant Prakash’s medical bag was open. All he had to do was reach in and remove the 5.7x28mm submachine gun. The weapon had been chosen because it was light, easy to use, and could accept 50-round magazines.

  Salmani, Darwish, and Mustaf had identical weapons and orders. “Kill as many soldiers as you can.” The purpose of the attack was to buy time, so that for Habib and Yassin could rappel down the cliff.

  Civilians were screaming and running every which way. A Pakistani noncom began to shout orders. Yassin nailed him from the top of the cliff.

  Down on the ground Prakash opened fire on a group of soldiers. They jerked spastically and fell.

  ***

  Salmani, Darwish and Mustaf were firing aimed bursts at anyone in a uniform. That sent people rushing back toward the field house located at the base of the cliffs.

  Mr. Lee was one of them. And he was terrified. Chao was dead. Qwan was dead. Pakistanis were dead. So, the people in Beijing would need someone to blame, and Lee knew he was the obvious choice.

  A group of senior officers were just ahead, pistols out, firing at the sniper up on the cliff. Semi-auto fire lashed down, dropping three of them.

  Lee took a dive with the intention of burrowing under a Pakistani body. Then a better idea occurred to him.

  A pistol lay inches from a dead man’s hand. Lee took it, aimed at his left thigh, and steeled himself. Try for a flesh wound. Avoid the bone.

  The Dog Master jerked the trigger, heard the report, and felt a terrible searing pain. Then he screamed. Lee was bleeding, but by using his tie as a tourniquet, he managed to staunch the flow. Would the wound be enough to save him?

  ***

  Yassin and Habib were repelling down the cliff, and Mustaf was providing cover fire, when an incoming round struck his throat. Blood spurted as he went to his knees before falling face down.

  Prakash killed the Pakistani who was responsible for the shot, and turned, in hopes of providing first aid. Darwish was kneeling next to Mustaf. He felt for a pulse and shook his head.

  Prakash swore. He wanted to take the body out. But as the Rover arrived, and skidded to a stop, bullets kicked up dirt all around. Any sort of delay would cost more lives. As Habib and Yassin arrived Prakash shouted, “In, in, in!”

  Jha hit the gas the moment all the SEALS were in the vehicle. Tires spun and dirt flew. “Break the windows out!” Prakash ordered. “And hang onto your panties.”

  ***

  Commander Leo Baxter faced a difficult choice. Plan A was out, Plan B was on, and the SEALS were headed his way. Should he order the marines to secure the dock and hold it? Or to venture out further? In case the SEALS needed help?

  Second Lieutenant Mara Jones was in charge of the marine detachment. The leathernecks were on deck and ready to go. Jones looked like a cheerleader in camos. “Sir?”

  “Take the pier and establish a checkpoint a thousand yards beyond. No further than that. Do you read me?”

  Jones nodded. “Five by five, sir. Marines! Follow me!”

  ***

  Mr. Jha turned left onto the main arterial, and followed a Y to the right, which put the Rover on the street leading to the pier. There was a soccer field to the left, and a residential neighborhood to the right.

  Jha put his foot down, swerved to pass a truck loaded with fishing nets, and was forced to slow for a right-hand curve. Prakash was riding shotgun in the front. “Vehicles ahead!”

  The enemy trucks came to a halt, soldiers poured out over the sides, and immediately spread out. An RPG exploded in front of the Rover, and shattered the windshield, which caused Jha to stand on the brakes. “Get out!” Prakash ordered. “Get the civilians to cover!”

  Jha hurried to assist his wife and daughter as bullets pinged the vehicle and a grenade went bang!

  That was when Prakash heard a female voice over his headset. “Neptune, this is Bravo-Two. Put your heads down and standby. The marines have landed. Over.”

  Prakash couldn’t help but grin. “Roger that, Two.”

  ***

  Jones had two squads to work with. She left Platoon Sergeant Samek and Squad 1 at the head of the pier, and led the other unit toward the Paks.

  It soon became apparent that the enemy soldiers were so focused on killing the SEALS that none were guarding the unit’s six. That was a mistake.

  “Hold your fire,” Jones ordered, as she brought her marines forward. “Bravo-One-Zero will pitch the first ball. Over.”

  Some concrete traffic barriers offered cover and Jones waved her people in behind them. “Aim for the trucks, One-Zero. Three each. Over.”

  One-Zero was a private named Cortez who, to hear him tell it, was “the best fucking launcher jockey in the fucking corps.” And here was his chance to prove it.

  The M32 MGL 40mm 6-shot revolver-type launcher was named Grendel, and produced a chugging sound, as it sent three grenades arcing into the air. They fell on and around a truck with an LMG mounted behind the cab.

  The machine gun, as well as the cab, vanished in the overlapping explosions along with half a dozen soldiers. Then Cortez switched his aim to an SUV style combat vehicle, and the Paks crouched around it.

  The first grenade produced a secondary explosion as the vehicle’s gas tank went up. The others were largely unnecessary. Bodies surrounded the wreck like petals on a black flower.

  “Fire at will,” Jones ordered. “But be careful … We have five swabbies and three civilians out there.”

  The remaining Pakistanis were cut down by fire from two directions. “Hold your fire Bravo-Two,” Prakash ordered. “We’re almost there.”

  Jha and his family led the way. The SEALS followed with Prakash walking drag. Then, once the SEALS were headed for the pier, Jones ordered Squad 2 to fallback. Both groups were aboard the Tarrada three minutes later.

  ***

  The Tarrada’s lines were singled up and ready to pull in. Captain Yousuf ordered the helmsman to take the dhow out as the dripping lines came up over the side.

  Baxter was frustrated by the Tarrada’s stately pace. What were they doing? Twenty? Something like that.

  There was an upside however. It seemed likely that the Paks knew the SEALS had escaped on a boat. But which one? Lots of vessels were coming and going. With the exception of Baxter, the Americans were below deck. And, since the dhow didn’t look threatening, perhaps it would be allowed to proceed unchallenged.

  The plan was to circle out around the breakwater, enter the Gulf of Oman, and head west. And, if push came to shove, Baxter’s patrol boats were just over the horizon. A distance of roughly three miles. With any luck at all, the navy would provide air cover.

  The dhow curtseyed as it rounded the breakwater and met the rollers arriving from the west. That was when Baxter spotted the elderly Jalalat class missile boat that was positioned broadside to them!

  The warship had a gun in the bow, and launchers in the stern. And, as Baxter peered through his binoculars, the gun swiveled his way. A puff of smoke was visible, as a fountain of water shot up out of the water off the Tarrada’s starboard bow, and a dull thump was heard.

  Yousuf appeared. “They are ordering us to heave to, and stand by to receive a boarding party.”

  “Tell them that we’ll comply,” Baxter replied. Then he went below, ordered Jones to kill the Pak boarding party if they tried to come aboard, and told his ET to contact the squadron. Once Baxter heard Lieutenant Nilsson’s voice, he took the mike.

  “Pirate-Seven, this is Six. A Pakistani missile boat ordered us to heave to, and that’s rude. Please teach them some manners.”

  “Roger that, Six. We’re on the way. Over.”

  “We’ll request air support,” Baxter added. “Over.”

  Nilsson clicked his mike twice by way of a response.

  Baxter went back on deck and glassed the area ahead. The dhow’s engine was idling, barely keeping the bow into the waves, and its sails were slack.

  A pair of RIB boats were headed for the Tarrada, both loaded with armed sailors.

  Which would arrive first? Baxter wondered. The RIB boats? The Allied patrol boats? Or a pair of jet fighters?

  And would it make any difference to those on board the Tarrada? Because even if the PBs or fighters engaged the Pakistani warship, the men in the RIB boats would still try to board the dhow, and a battle would follow.

  Baxter saw smoke billow as the Pakistani captain launched his missiles. At the incoming patrol boats? Probably. The good news was that it would take the Paks at least fifteen minutes to reload.

  The missiles disappeared and Baxter braced himself for the possibility of bad news. It was as if Lieutenant Nilsson could read his mind. “Pirate-Seven on the horn, sir,” ET Collins said.

  Baxter accepted the handset. “This is Six actual. Go. Over.”

  “We had a near miss which resulted in light damage, one KIA, and two WIAs. The second missile missed. Over.”

  Baxter winced. “Roger that. It looks like the RIBs will arrive before you do. We’ll deal with them. Sink the missile boat.”

  “The RIBs are almost here,” Yousuf confirmed.

  Baxter spoke into the boom mike. “Bravo-Two, this is Six actual. Send your people up to repel boarders. Over.”

  “Aye, aye sir. Over.”

  Baxter drew his pistol, worked the action, and thumbed the safety off. Then he made his way to the port side just in time to see a RIB bump against the dhow’s hull.

  Jones appeared next to him, pulled the pin on a grenade, and dropped it over the side. Baxter jerked his head back, heard a loud bang, followed by screams.

  That was when the enemy ship fired its deck gun again. The shell hit the foredeck, exploded, and sent shrapnel whizzing every which way. A splinter from the wood rail speared an Omani sailor and killed him.

  What the fuck? The Pak captain was firing on his own boarding party! Was it incompetence? Ruthlessness? Or both?

  It didn’t matter as Pakistani grappling hooks caught, sailors swarmed up over the rail, and the marines fired. One of the Paks was wearing an officer’s cap. He was shouting orders in Urdu, and seemingly oblivious to the bullets that buzzed past him. Then he saw Baxter and charged.

  Baxter fired, and kept firing, as another shell landed on the Tarrada, and killed people from both sides. Meanwhile, the officer appeared to trip, and went down with two of Baxter’s bullets in him.

  There was a dull explosion, and Baxter turned just in time to see pieces of the enemy ship cartwheel through the air, as a column of flame shot up from the stern.

  A secondary explosion, Baxter decided. After an armor piecing round found the missile magazine.

  That was when the ET appeared at Baxter’s elbow. “Two Super Hornets are in bound from the west, sir.”

  No sooner had the sailor spoken than a pair of fighters roared overhead. “Ask them to check the area,” Baxter said. “Are there more Pak boats coming our way? Or was that it?”

  Chief Petty Officer Salmani was shouting at the Pakistani sailors, calling on the boarders to place their weapons on the deck, and surrender. “You’ll be treated as prisoners of war,” he assured them in English and Urdu. “And you won’t be harmed.”

  Their ship was sinking. Their officer was dead. The sailors complied. The marines took charge.

  Prakash appeared. “Thank you, sir. That was a hairy extraction.”

  “You’re welcome,” Baxter replied. “Did you lose anyone?”

  “Petty Officer Mustaf. We had to leave his body behind.”

  “I’m sorry,” Baxter said. “And the target?”

  “Dead,” Prakash replied.

  Baxter turned to his radio operator. “Call naval operations and tell them that Operation Long Shot was a success. One team member KIA. A complete casualty list to follow.

  “And get Lieutenant Nilsson on the horn. Tell him that I said, ‘well done,’ and to pass it on.”

  Baxter turned Prakash. “I suspect you need to report in as well. Please feel free to do so.”

  As the SEAL made his report Baxter went forward. Bodies lay sprawled where they had fallen and splotches of coagulating blood stained the deck. Once Baxter arrived in the bow, he put his hands on the rail.

  The dhow was underway again. Spray flew as the vessel’s long pointy bow rose and fell. People were dead. Including a Chinese admiral. Was that a win? Would Chao’s death change the course of the war? Or had the assassination been little more than an act of revenge? A headline for the people back home.

  That’s above my paygrade, Baxter decided. My job is to do or die.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Aden, Yemen

  Commander Leo Baxter looked down onto the city of Aden as the passenger jet prepared to land. According to what he’d read the city had been a “blissful” and “prosperous” place back in the 1st century BC. But that was a long time ago.

  After the collapse of the Ottoman Empire in 1918, North Yemen became an independent republic, while the British continued to rule South Yemen. The Brits left in 1967 in the aftermath of an intense terrorist campaign.

  Subsequent to that, the north and south were unified and became the Republic of Yemen in 1990. But southern separatists demanded independence, which led to the Yemeni Civil War of 1994, and the following South Yemen insurgency that lasted until 2014 when it theoretically came to an end.

  But in 2017 the conflict continued. The Saudi government, along with a coalition of nine countries from West Asia and North Africa, intervened on behalf of President Adbrabbuh Mansur Hadi after the Houthi movement seized control of the south.

  The United States threw its support behind the Saudis, who used U.S. sourced weapons and equipment against the Iranian backed Houthis. And that’s where things stood on the first day of WWIII.

  Unfortunately for the Houthis, their alliance with Iran provided the Allies with the perfect excuse to take control of south Yemen, including the port city of Aden—the natural jumping off point from which to seek control of the Persian Gulf.

  Now, as the plane began its decent into Aden International Airport, Baxter caught a glimpse of the Allied sea power arrayed below. Carriers, cruisers, and destroyers were anchored north of the city. And his vessels were somewhere among them.

  It was, according to Captain Fenton, “a unique opportunity.” And Baxter knew what that meant. Something was seriously fucked up, so General Langston decided to send his favorite one-size-fits-all solution to Aden, with orders to “repair Squadron 7.”

  When asked to elaborate Fenton shook his head. “I think it would be best for you to form your own opinions. There are some unresolved issues related to the previous commanding officer. I’ll leave it at that.”

  The usual announcements were made, the runway came up quickly, and there was a solid thump as the wheels touched down. “Welcome to Aden,” the pilot said.

  “You can drink here,” he added. “But not in public.”

  The passengers cheered and Baxter smiled. Like him, most of the other people on the plane were arriving from Muslim countries where alcohol was illegal, and nearly impossible to obtain.

  It took the better part of fifteen minutes for the ground crew to put the rollup stairs in place so the passengers could disembark. The sky was clear—Baxter judged the temperature to be in the mid-eighties—and the scars left by decades of civil war were visible. The pockmarked buildings being the most obvious signs of past armed conflict.

  Baxter resisted the temptation to duck as a pair of Mirage 2000Ds screamed overhead, quickly turned into dots, and disappeared.

  Baxter had to show ID in order to enter the terminal building. His possessions were crammed into a single duffle bag with pack straps. Baxter was about to follow other travelers outside, when a lieutenant commander wearing a crisp white uniform caught his eye. She was holding a sign that read: “Commander Baxter.”

  Baxter made his way over and returned her salute. “My name’s Baxter, but I wasn’t expecting anyone to meet me.”

  “I’m Jessica Neely,” the other officer said. “I’m your XO.”

  “Thanks for coming,” Baxter replied. “Can I ask a question?”

  Neely nodded. “Of course.”

  “What’s with the white uniform?”

  Neely’s face was expressionless. “Admiral Cogan’s orders, sir. According to the book camo must be worn in tactical and training environments, and when camouflage protection is required. But since it’s summer, and we’re working in a tropical desert environment, we’re to wear whites the rest of the time.”

  “And enlisted personnel? How do they feel about that policy?”

  Something flickered in Neely’s eyes. “They don’t like it, sir. Whites are difficult to maintain.”

  Baxter nodded. “Okay, thanks for the heads up. I don’t have any whites. Where can I get some?”

  “You could submit a req,” Neely replied. “But it might be a month before anyone filled it. So, most of us get our whites from a tailor named Naji. He can produce two sets in twenty-four hours.”