Osborn’s eyes grew larger. The prospect of stepping into Baxter’s shoes scared him. But there was only one answer Osborn could give, “Aye, aye sir.”

  Slowly but surely the Trout made its way to the area where the smugglers were supposed to land. And, due to the on-again, off-again presence of pirates, it was important to keep a sharp eye out as the Trout motored back and forth. Because, humble though the trawler was, she would still represent a fortune to the mostly penniless thieves—who could use open boats to attack.

  The parttime buccaneers wouldn’t stand a chance against the Trout’s armament, but once the trawler’s true nature was revealed, all hope of intercepting the smugglers would be lost. Fortunately, that didn’t occur.

  Bit by bit the sun dropped toward the western horizon. As it did, the techs on the spy ship were waiting for one of two possible messages: a change of plans, or a confirmation indicating that the arms drop was on.

  The sun set, the stars came out, and Osborn ordered his crew to bring the net in. No one could see it at night and the net took two miles per hour off the fishing boat’s speed.

  The message was intercepted five minutes later. The arms delivery was on! And scheduled to take place in an hour.

  Osborn ordered his helmswoman to head for the drop zone at its top speed of fifteen miles per hour, while Baxter made contact with the Sprint, and delivered the good news. The Riverines were going to war.

  ***

  Because the speedboat was so conspicuous, it had been anchored just off a tiny island where its radar signature would merge with the island’s. And, by dropping the hook between a rusty wreck and the rocky beach, the Sprint was mostly hidden.

  Lieutenant Katy Wong wasted no time starting both engines, bringing the anchor up, and heading out. Eight marines were crammed into the forty-five-foot boat, all under the command of Gunnery Sergeant Jack Peabody, a no-nonsense NCO who’d been in “the crotch” for sixteen years.

  “We’re about half an hour off the beach, Gunny,” Wong said. “Pass the word.”

  The Sprint’s bow rose, white water sprayed sideways, and Wong felt the usual rush of adrenaline. Maybe it was stupid, maybe it was wrong, but she enjoyed such moments.

  Wong could feel each thump as the Sprint broke through the oncoming waves and there was a big smile on her face. She turned to her helmsman. “Give me full throttle. Momma’s in a hurry.”

  He grinned. “Yes, ma’am!” The revs increased and the Sprint flew.

  ***

  Together with three heavily armed sailors from the Trout, Baxter was motoring ashore. Everything had a greenish glow because of his night vision gear.

  The well-tuned outboard purred as it pushed the RIB boat toward the point where phosphorescent waves were breaking on a beach. Not the section of the shoreline where the arms were supposed to arrive, but a spot south of that, where Baxter hoped to go ashore unobserved.

  The Sprint was no more than ten minutes out, and if all went well, would arrive in time to catch smuggler Jok and his gang red-handed. If they surrendered, good. But if they didn’t, Jok’s men were going to take fire from the south and east.

  Baxter’s thoughts were interrupted when he heard a male voice via his headset. “Pirate-Six and Pirate-Three, this is Snake Eyes. My Reaper is at five hundred and circling.

  “Be advised that a scow is bow on the beach, and a forklift is being used to unload crates. A large truck is waiting. I count fourteen tangos in all. I’d say these bastards will amscray in about ten mike-mikes. Over.”

  “Roger that,” Baxter replied. “We’re almost ashore. Over.”

  “This is Three,” Wong added. “We’re coming in hot. Over.”

  “Understood. I could grease them now,” Snake Eyes said. “Game over.”

  “Thanks,” Baxter replied, as the boat ran up onto the sand. “But what if they’re smuggling cigarettes? Or booze? Plus, it would be nice to take these people to Aden and sweat ‘em for a while. Who knows what kind of Intel they would barf up? Over.”

  “Got it,” Snake Eyes said. “But the offer stands. Over.”

  Baxter didn’t reply. After helping the sailors drag the RIB up onto the shore, he led them north. Headlights appeared, and a motor could be heard, as the forklift churned its way up the beach. The truck’s lights lit the scene and Baxter could see armed men moving about, with a shanty and two overturned boats in the background.

  Suddenly the beam from a powerful search light speared the scene and the Sprint roared out of the darkness, and ran up onto the beach.

  It was a risky move since the speedboat’s hull could suffer damage, and once grounded, it might be difficult to float the Sprint off.

  But Wong was determined to deliver her marines in a hurry … And a good thing too, if they were to capture some gunrunners.

  The smugglers opened fire on the Sprint, as marines jumped clear and landed on the sand. Baxter was close enough to hear Peabody’s parade ground voice. “Follow me, marines! Shoot those bastards … Then shoot ‘em again!”

  Baxter turned to his sailors. “Pick your targets! Stay off the marines! Take ‘em down!”

  Baxter fired his M4, saw a silhouette fall, and thumbed the transmit button. “This is Six … . Engaging from the south, over.”

  An engine roared, and headlights swung, as the truck turned and headed west. Baxter swore. “Snake Eyes, this is Six. Smoke the truck. Over.”

  A single Hellfire II air-to-ground missile was sufficient to destroy the truck, trigger a dozen secondary explosions, and create a fireball that floated up into the sky.

  A resonant BOOM was followed by a series of lesser explosions—and the persistent crackle of individual rounds going off. “Nice work, Snake Eye,” Baxter said. “Thanks. Over.”

  “Anytime.” The drone pilot replied. “Venimus, vidimus, nos coortus. We came, we saw, we blew stuff up. Over.”

  Baxter grinned and clicked his mike twice. Then he went to work. “This is Six actual … Search the area. But exercise caution. Some of the tangos could be hiding in the weeds.

  “Capture them if you can. Shoot ‘em if you can’t.

  “I want a photo of each KIA’s face, a zip lock containing his pocket litter, and a DNA sample. Remember, the best way to go is to take a sample of the tango’s cheek or hair.

  “And make damned sure that all that stuff has the same number. Questions? No? Get to work. Over.”

  Confident that Peabody had things in hand, Baxter went down to where the Sprint was grounded and where Wong stood, hands on hips. She turned as Baxter approached. “Sorry, sir … About a third of her length is out of the water. No holes though … Not that we can discern.”

  Baxter eyed his watch. “Never fear Lieutenant, the tide has turned, and it’s coming in.”

  Wong’s expression brightened. “That’s right … Plus we have the scow. It has an inboard engine, and might be able to pull the Sprint off.”

  “Good thinking,” Baxter replied. “Did Mr. Jok get all of his cargo off? Or is some of it still aboard?”

  “One crate remains, sir.”

  “The serial numbers on those weapons will give the Intel types something to chew on,” Baxter observed. “I suggest that you prepare to pull the Sprint off. We can call on the Hercules, if necessary, but it would take her all day to get here.”

  The eastern sky was brighter by the time the scow managed to drag the speedboat off, and the battlefield inventory was complete.

  Rather than return to the Trout, Baxter elected to ride on the speedboat, which would get him to Aden more quickly. That was when he would write his after-action report. And lay the groundwork for the recommendations he planned to make.

  ***

  Andrew Jok was lying on his stomach under the thick foliage of a scaevola taccada, also known as beach cabbage, sea lettuce, and beach naupaka, depending on the part of the world one lived in. Worthless knowledge now that Jok was a gunrunner, rather than a high school science teacher.

  I see you, Jok thought, as he peered through the binoculars. A black man working for the Imperialists. Shame on you. If Allah wills it, we will meet again.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Al Luhayyah, Yemen

  After being gagged, blindfolded and bound Capitaine Claude Arpin was placed in the back of an SUV, and driven cross country to the city of Al Luhayyah, Yemen. That’s what his Houthi captors had said.

  Upon arrival, Arpin’s ankles were freed and his boots removed. Then, in response to orders like “Out!” and “Walk!” the POW was escorted across hot concrete and into a building that smelled like the fenugreek paste that Yemenis were so fond of.

  The floor turned cold at that point and Arpin felt the irregularities typical of tiles. Then he was ordered to stop, heard hinges squeal, and felt a shove. It sent him stumbling forward. And, because his hands were tied behind him, Arpin fell on his face. The guards laughed, the door slammed shut, and he was alone.

  Should he try to free his wrists? What would happen if he succeeded? Arpin had been taught that if captured by a terrorist group, they would punish him for just about anything.

  But since the pilot needed to urinate, he could either free his hands, or pee on himself. Arpin chose to free his hands. Assuming that was possible. And, after what might have been ten minutes of persistent struggle, he succeeded.

  The victory enabled Arpin to remove the blindfold and look around. There weren’t any windows and therefore no light other than that provided by a bare bulb on the ceiling.

  It was mounted next to a sturdy hook. And there, directly below, was a floor drain. One plus one equaled torture.

  Arpin battled to suppress the fear he felt. They have no reason to torture me, Arpin reasoned. You must affirm the best rather than the worst.

  The cell was about the size of his wife’s walk-in closet. A plastic bucket was available to pee in, which he did. A bottle of water sat on the floor. Arpin drank half of the liquid and quickly came to regret it. Would his captors provide more? And, if so, when?

  A feeling of hopelessness settled over him. The present was bleak, the future was a blank, and there was nothing to look forward to. Central Command knew where his plane had gone down. That much was certain.

  But what, if anything else, did they know? Maybe they had tracked him to Al Luhayyah. Or, maybe they didn’t have a clue. Assume the worst, Arpin decided. Then, if something good happens, you’ll feel better.

  Arpin could hear the rhythmic thud, thud, thud of Yemeni hip-hop music coming from somewhere nearby. He sat on the floor, leaned against the mudbrick wall, and closed his eyes. I miss you Michelle … I love you.

  Arpin awoke to the sound of hinges squealing and realized that he was lying on the floor, curled up in the fetal position. He hurried to stand as a man wearing a kufi cap and a grey business suit entered the cell. “I am Doctor Mohamed Yar. It is my privilege to teach you about the history of the Houthi, the nature of our holy cause, and why Allah chose us to purify the soil upon which Mecca rests.”

  Two chairs were brought in. One for Doctor Yar, and one for Arpin. They were placed barely two feet apart and a guard ordered him to sit. This beats the alternatives, Arpin decided, as he sat down. No pun intended.

  Yar began to read. He spoke perfect French. The Houthis, Yar informed him, were a Zaydi Shiite movement that had been fighting Yemen’s Sunni-majority government since 2004. And that was why the Iranians provided them with money and guns.

  That, at least made sense. But, as Yar read on and on, Arpin’s attention began to drift— and his eyelids grew heavy. He struggled to stay awake. Finally, after what might have been an hour, Yar left. The chairs went with him.

  Food, Arpin thought, as the smell of cooking wafted through the air. Will they feed me?

  The answer arrived later when the door opened and a plate of food scraps was placed on the floor. Leftovers from dinner most likely, scraped onto a plate, and delivered to the prisoner. Arpin was grateful and ate it all.

  There was no day or night. Nor was there a routine. Just the agonizingly slow passage of time. Maybe we’ll win the war, Arpin thought. And the graves registration people will look for me. They will find this cell, but they won’t know I was here, unless I tell them. So, I should scratch my name into the wall. But how?

  Arpin spent what might have been fifteen minutes examining the floor until he found a fragment of chicken bone. That was Arpin’s theory anyway. Then, by dint of rubbing one end back and forth he managed to create a respectable point.

  After a brief test Arpin went to work. There are many Claudes, and many Arpins, the pilot reasoned. So, I must include my rank.

  Arpin was halfway through scratching “Capitaine” into the wall when he heard the bolt rattle then the screech of hinges. There was barely enough time to drop his newly made tool and face the door. Doctor Yar was the first to enter, followed by three guards. Arpin could smell garlic.

  Yar was holding a rod. Arpin assumed it was a club. Yar slapped the palm of his left hand with it. “Do you know what this is? No? It’s a cattle prod.

  “See the bronze tip? And the insulated handle? Unless you answer my questions, all of my questions, I will connect the prod to a rheostat—and from there to a car battery.

  “Then, after I apply the tip to your testicles, you will beg for the opportunity to confess your crimes. But perhaps you’d like to share what you know without needless suffering. So, what will it be?”

  “Va te faire foutre.” (Fuck you.)

  Yar nodded. “I understand. You have seen movies in which the hero resists torture. But that, as you are about to discover, is a fantasy. Strip him.”

  Arpin fought the guards but to no avail. And while two of them were ripping his clothes off, Yar and an assistant were connecting a block and tackle to the ceiling hook, and prepping the wand. “One last chance,” Yar said, as a guard secured the pilot’s ankles.

  “Would you like to change your mind?”

  “Mange de la merde et meurs.” (Eat shit and die.)

  “Hang him up,” Yar ordered.

  A wire cable was connected to the cord around Arpin’s ankles. And, as a guard jerked on a rope, the pilot’s feet were pulled out from under him. He fell and hit his head.

  Arpin struggled, but it was useless. Bit by bit his feet, legs, and torso were hoisted upwards until he dangled head down. “Good,” Yar said, as the helpless pilot swayed slightly. “Who is your commanding officer?”

  “Le pere Noel.” (Santa Claus.)

  Arpin felt a moment of intense pain, screamed, and kept screaming. Please God, Arpin thought. Kill me! But God wasn’t listening.

  ***

  Aden, Yemen

  At some point Squadron 7’s headquarters barge came to be called “Homeplate.” And the name stuck. Had the barge been designed by the navy—for the navy—Baxter’s office and cabin would have been half the size. But more space had been allotted to the civilian originally in charge of Homeplate.

  That was the good news. The bad news was that the office area was just the way Hanson had left it, which was to say messy, and in need of cleaning.

  It wasn’t the sort of thing Baxter wanted his new CO to see. And Captain Richard Delgado was coming aboard that morning.

  Some COs would have ordered a seaman to clean the office space, since it qualified as a common area, but sailors weren’t servants. And Baxter believed that officers should take care of themselves.

  Most of Hanson’s files were electronic, thank God. But there was a filing cabinet filled with invoices and receipts related to the port, information regarding the squadron’s boats, and a lot of outdated crap.

  After putting the disposable material aside for shredding Baxter turned his attention to Hanson’s desk. Personal effects like family photos had been collected and shipped home.

  But everything else remained, including a stapler, a ruler, a pair of scissors and plenty of pens. All of which was to be expected.

  There was an item that struck Baxter as unusual however, and that was the photo he found in the desk’s lap drawer, along with some stray rounds of pistol ammo.

  A man Baxter knew to be Hanson was in the picture, with his left arm around a beautiful black woman. She had large eyes, high cheekbones, and full lips. There was something inherently regal about her—something so strong the camera captured it.

  And there, at the woman’s side was a girl Baxter estimated to be five or so, all dressed up, as if for a special occasion.

  Baxter turned his attention back to the woman. Who, he wondered, is that?

  But his CO was coming aboard in half an hour and Baxter didn’t have time to give the photo any additional thought. The picture went back into the drawer.

  After changing into a set of whites Baxter went on deck to receive Captain Delgado. Normally, had Delgado been boarding a navy ship, he would have been piped over the side. But no such honors were required on a civilian barge.

  Most of Baxter’s direct reports were present, the single exception being Neely, who was on a mission. The other officers already knew Delgado.

  So, when the captain came over the side, there were salutes all around, and handshakes. “Captain Del” had heavy eyebrows, a slightly crooked nose, and an aura of confidence.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Commander Baxter. Congratulations on your first mission with Squadron 7. The admiral is pleased.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Baxter replied. “Although I should mention we couldn’t have pulled it off without a Reaper pilot named Snake Eyes.”

  Delgado smiled. “The chair force comes in handy at times. I sent a copy of your report to Central, along with a request to send it to the proper command.

  “I’m sure that Snake Eyes will receive a well-deserved attaboy. In the meantime, we have urgent business to discuss.”

  So much for the organizational review Baxter’s officers had prepped for. They excused themselves.

  “Let’s adjourn to my office,” Baxter suggested. “I imagine you’ve been there before.”

  “On numerous occasions,” Delgado replied. “Commander Hanson was a good conversationalist. I enjoyed our chats.”