“That sounds good,” Baxter replied. “Can we stop at Naji’s on the way to wherever we’re going?”

  Neely checked her watch. “Yes, sir. You’re scheduled to meet with the Admiral at 1300, and formally take command at 1500. So, we can make it if we hurry.”

  “Excellent,” Baxter replied. “One question before we go. What happened to my predecessor?”

  “He blew his brains out,” Neely replied. Then she turned and walked away.

  ***

  Over North Yemen

  Capitaine Claude Arpin heard the Mirage’s missile lock-on tone start to beep, and felt a sudden surge of adrenaline. An air launch? No, there weren’t any targets on his radar.

  A SAM then … And totally unexpected. His fighter was at eighteen angels just south of the Empty Quarter in Saudi Arabia. An area which, except for wild camels, was uninhabited.

  A Houthi glissiere (slider) was the most likely possibility, meaning a small unit equipped with shoulder launched missiles, sourced from Iran or Pakistan.

  It should have been easy to escape. But, after losing his port engine, Arpin was flying low and slow—intent on reaching the emergency strip at Bayhan al Qisab.

  The tone turned steady. Merde! Arpin fired chaff and took evasive action. Neither tactic worked. Should he eject? There was no choice. Not if Arpin wanted to live.

  The pilot checked to ensure that he was positioned properly, felt something like 15G’s as the canopy disappeared, and his body was propelled up and out of the plane. That’s when the seat separated, Arpin tumbled, and his chute opened.

  Arpin heard, rather than saw, the explosion as the missile struck the Mirage, and produced a clap of thunder. The desert floor rose quickly. No trees, Arpin thought. Dieu merci. (Thank God.)

  Arpin’s boots hit soft sand, he rolled, and felt the chute collapse on top of him. Run! Hide! Fight! That’s what Arpin was thinking as he battled to escape the folds of fabric.

  But, after the pilot freed himself, he discovered that there was no place to run to. As for fighting, Arpin’s pistol was no match for gun trucks headed his way. You are, as they say in America, “totally fucked,” Arpin concluded. I’ve had better days.

  ***

  Aden, Yemen

  The USS Mount McKinley was the second amphibious command ship (LCC) to the bear the name, and though six hundred and thirty-four feet long, she was dwarfed by the American cruiser anchored nearby, and the British carrier beyond.

  Baxter felt out of place as the launch carrying Lieutenant Commander Neely and himself cut a straight line from shore to the McKinley. He’d served aboard large ships in his younger days, but never enjoyed the experience, and thought of them as “the big navy.” Whereas patrol boats were the “small navy.”

  And while Rear Admiral Cogan was in command of an amphibious group, which included Squadron 7, Baxter knew the Riverines were probably the least consequential part of her command.

  Like nearly all officers of Cogan’s rank, it was safe to say that her interests were aligned with those of the blue water types, most of whom viewed patrol boats as a budget bleeding annoyance.

  The coxswain brought the launch alongside the floating stage with a well calculated flourish which, when combined with a touch of reverse, guided the boat to a complete stop.

  “Well done,” Baxter commented, as he prepared to step off the boat and onto a floating stage. The sailor grinned. He, in his own way, was small navy.

  Upon reaching the accommodation ladder’s upper platform, Baxter turned to salute the national ensign, followed by the officer of the deck.

  The McKinley’s superstructure and bridge were midships, and that’s where Admiral Cogan’s quarters were located. Neely led the way, returning salutes every now and then, as did Baxter. He was the only one dressed in camos.

  After entering the superstructure through an open hatch, Neely led Baxter up a ladder, and onto the deck below the bridge. A first-class petty officer was in charge of the tiny waiting room. It was replete with wood trim, polished brass, and a case full of awards. The air was at least ten degrees cooler than outside.

  Baxter and Neely had to wait for a couple of marine corps officers to cycle through the admiral’s inner office before being invited to enter.

  The compartment was relatively large, as was the desk at the center of it, and the personality which came forward to meet them. Rear Admiral Cogan had short white hair and a long narrow face. Her uniform fit perfectly. Was that why everyone in the command had to wear white? Because Cogan looked good in it?

  “We meet again Commander,” Cogan said, as she shook hands with Neely.

  “Welcome aboard Commander Baxter … Please have a seat.”

  There were two guest chairs. As Baxter claimed one, he noticed that, although Cogan’s in-box was empty, her out box was full. Was the admiral’s email the same way? Baxter was willing to bet it was.

  And there, right in front of him, was a brass placard that read, “Be bright, be brief, and be gone.” A personal credo? Of course. He would keep that in mind.

  “So,” Cogan began. “Which officer am I looking at? The commander who, according to some, is an incredible pain in the ass? Or the one that General Langston thinks so highly of?”

  The revelation that flag officers had their own grapevine came as no surprise. But the fact that Cogan was willing to address his reputation in front of a subordinate did.

  “I can be a pain in the ass,” Baxter admitted. “As for the general’s opinion, I wouldn’t know.”

  “That was tactfully put,” Cogan observed. “But, since the general put you in for a Navy Cross, we can assume he’s a fan. I’d like to be one too. So please keep the other you in check.

  “But enough of that,” Cogan said, as she twirled a pen. “Let’s talk about Squadron 7. Sadly, due to attrition, it’s little more than a shadow of what it once was. All of your boats, with a single exception, were captured and pressed into service to replace Mark VIs.

  “But that’s the nature of war … We must make do.

  “Your squadron has three missions. The first is to eliminate coastal arms smuggling.

  “The second is to transport special operations personnel to and from specified locations.

  “And the third is to take part in search and rescue operations as needed. Do you have any questions?”

  “Only one,” Baxter replied. “Who do I report to?”

  “You will take orders from my XO, Captain Delgado,” Cogan answered. “Del is leading a command conference today, but he’ll drop by after he returns.

  “You can use the interim period to meet the members of your command and obtain some whites.”

  “Commander Neely helped me order two sets,” Baxter replied.

  “Good work Neely,” Cogan said. “You’ll have your own squadron before this war is over. Stop by the reception desk on your way out. Petty Officer Kyle has your written orders, plus templates for the reports your predecessor was supposed to submit, but rarely did.”

  Because he blew his brains out, Baxter thought. Why?

  It was a dismissal. Both officers stood, turned, and left. A different launch was waiting at the landing stage. Neely gave orders to the coxswain before going forward to sit across from Baxter. “Good job, sir. The admiral likes you.”

  “Really?” Baxter inquired. “It didn’t feel that way. Please call me Leo when we’re alone.”

  Neely smiled. “Cogan can be cantankerous. Her detractors call her the ‘wicked witch of the east.’ But she’s competent. And that’s good enough for me.”

  Baxter nodded. “Tell me about my predecessor.”

  Neely looked away. “His name was Ted Hanson. I liked him. Everybody did. But Ted had a dark side too … And most people think that had something to do with his suicide.

  “I guess we’ll find out when the NCIS (Naval Criminal Investigative Service) types submit their report.”

  Baxter waited for her eyes to meet his. “Tell me about Hanson’s dark side.”

  Neely shrugged. “Gambling is illegal in Yemen. But it exists. He may have been involved somehow.”

  Baxter was about to follow up when the launch pulled alongside a barge with a two-story structure on it. He looked up. “What the hell is this?”

  Neely laughed. “This, is your headquarters vessel, crew quarters, and the squadron’s maintenance facility. Remember what the admiral said? ‘All of us must make do.’ ”

  Four bells sounded as Baxter followed Neely up the steeply slanted ladder to the forward deck. The announcement came over a loudspeaker. “Squadron 7 arriving.”

  Baxter wasn’t sure that the formalities could, or should, be observed on a civilian barge, but chose to ignore the issue. The men and women of his command were trying to provide him with a warm reception, and he wasn’t about to ding them for it.

  A small contingent of officers was waiting. Neely made the introductions. “I have PB-001,” she said. “Lieutenant Clay Mosley has the Hercules, Lieutenant Katy Wong commands the Sprint, and Ensign Jim Osborn has responsibility for the Trout.”

  Osborn looked like what he was. A ninety-day wonder. “Tell me about the Trout,” Baxter said.

  “She’s seventy-five feet long, with a steel hull, and a pilot house aft,” Osborn replied eagerly. “Unfortunately, she has only one engine and one screw. That’s it.”

  Baxter frowned. “What about armament?”

  “We have two LMGS, a couple of automatic grenade launchers, and a Stinger. Plus small arms.”

  Neely nodded. “Would you like to see our boats, sir? They’re visible from the port side.”

  “Yes, I would,” Baxter replied. “Please lead the way.”

  After circumnavigating a crane, the group lined the port rail. The vessels in front of Baxter included a tug boat, a sleek speedboat, a retro patrol boat, and a blue-over-gray fishing boat. “There she is!” Osborn said proudly, as he pointed to his command. “The Trout.”

  Baxter was aghast. The Trout’s hull was filthy, tires hung the length of the hull, and only the boat’s radar and antennas hinted at the trawler’s true purpose.

  “Don’t tell me, let me guess, Baxter said. “The tug is Hercules, the speedboat is the Sprint, and the ancient mariner is the PB-Zero-Zero-One.”

  “That’s correct, sir,” Neely said. “The ‘ancient mariner,’ as you call her, is a Chamsuri-class patrol boat produced by South Korea in the 1970’s. She’s one hundred and twenty feet long, she’s powered by two diesel engines, and she carries a crew of 25.

  “The Chamsuri-class boats are also called ‘Patrol Killer Medium boats’ by the Koreans,” Neely added. “Ours is armed with one 40mm/60 Bofors in a fully enclosed mount, two turreted single 20mm Vulcan Gatlings, and a pair of 12.7mm machine guns. The Koreans sent three PKMs to this theatre and the Zero-Zero-One was assigned to Squadron 7.”

  Baxter was impressed in spite of his negative comment. The PKM was bristling with weapons and likely to give a good account of herself.

  The Patrol Killer Medium didn’t have any surface-to-surface missiles though—or any surface-to-air launchers. But Neely was so proud of her antique that he was reluctant to mention the boat’s obvious vulnerabilities.

  In fact, that was what impressed Baxter the most. The men and women around him were proud, and in no way apologetic for their motely fleet. That spoke well of Hanson’s leadership. And made his death even more mysterious.

  “We use each boat according to the mission at hand,” Wong volunteered. “The Trout gathers intelligence, the Sprint chases fast movers, and the Herc tows captured ships into port when necessary. That’s how Commander Hanson set it up.”

  Baxter could feel the weight of their stares. They liked things the way they were … Would the new CO approve? Or make a lot of changes?

  Baxter put their fears to rest. “That makes sense. Please show me around. I’d like to meet your people.”

  ***

  On a gun truck bound for Al Luhayyah, Yemen

  Capitaine Claude Arpin was sitting in the bed of a Toyota gun truck as it raced west. The pilot had no protection from the sun other than the traditional keffiyeh headdress that Abdullah Yusuf had given him. “You money,” Yusuf explained in broken English. “Protect.”

  Arpin had mixed feelings about that. While Yusuf claimed to be a Houthi, which was why he had ordered his men to fire a missile at the Mirage, he was also a capitalist.

  As such, the rebel was taking the Frenchman to a small seaport on Yemen’s west coast where he would be sold. That would be a good thing, assuming the Allies agreed to pay the ransom.

  But, what if al-Qaeda purchased him? Or ISIS? Both organizations had operations in Yemen. And both would like nothing better than an opportunity to parade an Allied pilot in front of their cameras. Or to symbolically execute him.

  Arpin heard a Houthi shout something. The words were lost in the slipstream. Then the truck turned, a fighter slid in behind the cab mounted LMG, and the rest of the rebs crouched with their AK-12s at the ready.

  The pilot found himself kneeling next to a teenage boy named Fadi who, unlike the rest of the group, spoke decent English. “What’s going on?”

  “The Houthi found out that we have you … So, they are going to attack.”

  “But you’re Houthi,” Arpin objected.

  “True,” the boy replied. “But these people are political.”

  Arpin took that to mean that Yusuf’s men were about to be attacked by idealogues who were more interested in using the Frenchman for political leverage, rather than collecting a ransom.

  “How did they find out?” Arpin wanted to know.

  “Mr. Yusuf likes to talk on the radio,” the boy said expressionlessly. “Maybe the wrong people heard him.”

  The man on the machine gun opened fire, quickly followed by the riflemen in back, Fadi included. Hot brass hit the side of Arpin’s head so he pulled back. He couldn’t go very far however, due to the chain connecting his ankle shackle to a U-bolt on the floor.

  That was when the Toyota hit something, tilted sideways, and rolled. Arpin was tossed about like a ragdoll, but remained tethered to the truck as it landed upside down.

  The pilot was lying on his back, with the dead machine gunner sprawled across him, when the attackers burrowed in. “He’s alive!” someone shouted in Arabic.

  “Get the bolt cutters,” another man ordered.

  “Praise Allah,” a third said. And that was when Arpin passed out.

  ***

  Off the coast of Sudan, in the Red Sea

  The Trout smelled like decaying fish. Not because it was carrying a cargo of tuna, but because the odor had long since seeped into every nook and cranny of the twenty-year-old vessel, where no amount of scrubbing could remove it.

  The Trout’s captain, Ensign Osborn, claimed that Baxter would become accustomed to the stench after a while, but that seemed unlikely.

  However, as stinky as the boat might be, the trawler was perfect for gathering intelligence. With a short net dragging behind, the Trout looked like anything except the spy ship that she was.

  The equipment required for that function was located below deck, in what had once been the trawler’s holds, where four techs monitored radar, radio, and phone frequencies with assistance from an onboard AI (artificial intelligence).

  The AI’s job was to sift through transmissions searching for those on bandwidths the smugglers liked to use, for voices that matched prints on file, and anything else of interest.

  Then, when a potential target was identified, it was frequently possible to perform a real time translation using a variety of apps. Some of which were top secret.

  Baxter didn’t have the training or experience necessary to carry out any of those tasks, but was determined to be a presence in the squadron, and to improve processes where possible.

  It was also an opportunity to catch up on the never-ending supply requisitions, exception reports, and personnel reviews that were part and parcel of his job. And that’s what he was doing when Osborn stuck his head into the tiny cabin. “Yes, Ensign … What’s up?”

  “We have a positive match with a known gun runner named Andrew Jok, sir. He appears to be prepping a delivery to a beach south of Suakin, Sudan.”

  Baxter put his laptop aside and stood. “How far away is it? Could the Sprint get there in time?”

  “Probably,” Osborn replied. “But it isn’t that simple. Jok may change the time or location at the last minute. So, the best thing to do is to prepare, but then wait and see.”

  Baxter was impressed by the youngster’s self-assurance and professionalism. “Okay, but I have a couple of questions … How many men will Jok have with him—assuming he shows up? And, will the squad on the Sprint be sufficient to deal with them?”

  After the initial meeting with the navy officers, Baxter had learned that his squadron included a marine contingent under Lieutenant Jerome Gulin. Not just any marines, but members of Force Recon, which meant they were the best of the best. Still, with the extraction from Gwadar fresh in his mind, Baxter was cautious.

  “Yes,” Osborn replied. “The marines can do the job, so long as we have Snake Eyes or one of his buddies on our side.”

  “Snake Eyes?”

  “Yes. He drives an MQ-9 Reaper, and tends to be on duty at night, which is when illicit arms deliveries generally take place.”

  Baxter knew that Reapers could linger for a long time, and put a lot of firepower on the enemy, making them important force multipliers. “Okay,” Baxter said. “Let’s take the Trout into that area, and do some fishing. I want to go ashore before the marines do. So have your people check on the RIB boat and motor.”

  A look of consternation appeared on Osborn’s face. Baxter could read the young man’s mind. Had the CO lost his mind? Should he object?”

  Baxter smiled. “How long have you been an officer? Six months?”

  Osborn swallowed. “About that, yes.”

  “Well,” Baxter told him, “here’s a piece of advice. Lead from the front when you can. Show your people you’re willing to take the same chances they do. But only if you have a backup. And in this case, that’s you.”