“Yes. My first officer’s on with them now. I’ll have the comms patched through to you and your team.” He pointed at the choppers. “Now get your asses in the game.”

  “Yes, sir!” Dawson waved his men toward the Sea Hawks, Red leading half of them onto one, the rest joining him on the other. They were wheels-up moments later as the comms chirped and the conversation between the first officer and the captain of the MS Horizon connected.

  “You’ve gotta help us!” cried the targeted vessel’s captain. “A lot of our passengers and crew are young women! You know what they’ll do to them! Please hurry!”

  His team exchanged looks. They all knew what it meant. Everything had changed since October 7th. Rape was a weapon of war now wholeheartedly embraced by the enemy, and apparently their supporters chanting on the streets of Western democracies worldwide. He rose, poking his head into the cockpit. “I don’t care what you have to do. Shake this airframe apart if you have to, but do whatever it takes to get there as fast as we can.”

  The pilot glanced over his shoulder at Dawson, his face grim, the man knowing the stakes. “Don’t worry, Sergeant Major. I’ve got two daughters at home. The rules are out the window.”

  6 |

  Darnell Williams’ Cabin, MS Horizon Arabian Sea

  Jenny sobbed on the bed, the glee and shouts in Arabic unintelligible, the only two she understood, “Allahu Akbar!” shouted by everyone in the room as her current rapist finished and the next one moved in.

  Why, God, didn’t you let me inject the insulin?

  She would be in a diabetic coma by now, maybe even dead. At a minimum, she wouldn’t even know what was happening to her. But as much as her mind struggled to protect her, to shut itself down, she felt everything. She heard everything. She smelled everything. And for the rest of her life, however short or long that might be, this one event would be all she remembered, her dreams dominated by the nightmare. Every time she looked in the mirror, she would know it was her fault. She had wanted to come on this trip. She had dressed provocatively. She had hesitated, lacking the courage to inject herself before it was too late.

  It was all her fault.

  She had been self-absorbed her entire life, only thinking of her own wants, her own needs. When was the last time she had done something good, something for the less fortunate, something that wasn’t about her social media followers?

  “Allahu Akbar!”

  She barely noticed the next man climbing onto her. Her self-blame consuming her.

  The voice on the PA system changed, the captain replaced long ago with someone shouting in Arabic, who then started chanting what she had to assume were Muslim prayers while his men raped and murdered their way through the ship. If this was God’s will, then she wanted no part of it. He could go to hell as far as she was concerned. There was no God, for if there were, there was no way He would let something like this happen. No way He would let something like this happen in His name.

  More shouts of “Allahu Akbar!” filled her ears as her assailant climbed off her but wasn’t replaced. Someone grabbed her by the arm and hauled her up and off the bed. She collapsed to the floor, her body broken, her will to live gone, any strength she might have once had sapped. She was a shell of a human being, sexually violated repeatedly in the name of God.

  Somebody shouted at her but she didn’t even see them, her eyes narrow slits from the repeated beatings. Someone hauled her roughly to her feet again, one of Allah’s warriors screaming at her, the spittle from his mouth, barely an inch from her face, spraying all over her.

  “Kill me.”

  The man continued shouting at her. It was obvious no one in this room spoke English.

  “Kill me,” she repeated, her voice a little louder this time. She was smacked then picked up, and it took her a moment to realize she was now over the man’s shoulder. As they left Darnell’s cabin, the last thing she saw was the body of the only man she had wanted to have sex with today, beaten to a bloody pulp, those that had taken turns assaulting her, repeatedly kicking him and stomping on him while they waited, the last man in the room swinging a machete at Darnell’s head.

  “Kill me.”

  But her pleas, not directed at her rapists, continued to fall upon the deaf ears of a God she no longer believed in.

  7 |

  Bridge, MS Horizon Arabian Sea

  Captain Shakur flinched with each volley of gunfire, the man who appeared in charge having issued the orders only moments ago that it was time to leave. It had triggered an orgy of bullets, and it could mean only one thing—the terrorist vermin were massacring everyone left alive. Even from his position on the bridge, he suffered the strangled screams as they brutalized the women he was responsible for, some hauled out onto the deck for him to see, his face shoved against the glass, forcing him to watch. It had been horrifying, heartbreaking, to watch as a young woman he had worked with for the past several years was treated like a piece of meat. Not a human, but a weapon of war. For not only was she raped and destroyed, the scum recorded it, jubilant cheers erupting as each man finished with her.

  This wasn’t right. How could God allow this? He was a Muslim. This wasn’t Islam. This was some twisted perversion that had nothing to do with the Koran, nothing to do with the Hadiths. Yet it didn’t matter. It was happening in the name of Allah, in the name of Islam, and that’s all the world would remember.

  “Get up!” ordered the man in charge. He stood, the only one left alive. “Let’s go! Out on the deck!”

  He obeyed the orders, despite the fact he wanted to die, but there were still survivors and they were all his responsibility. As long as one person lived, he had to as well to advocate on their behalf, to take the beatings if there were to be any, to suffer the torture that was sure to follow.

  Anything to ease the suffering of those he had failed so miserably, to atone as a believer for the crimes committed in the name of his beloved Islam.

  8 |

  En Route to MS Horizon Arabian Sea

  “We’ve got boats ahead,” announced the pilot.

  Dawson climbed forward, and the copilot pointed to their twelve o’clock. “I’m counting five. Do we intercept?”

  From what he could see, there was little doubt these were their hostiles. A drone sent ahead had already confirmed the enemy had left the ship. He activated his comms. “Zero-Two, Zero-One. Come in, over.”

  Red responded. “This is Zero-Two, go ahead.”

  “Proceed on target. We’re going to investigate these guys, over.”

  “Roger that, Zero-One. Proceeding to target, out.”

  Dawson pointed at the boats below. “Let’s get a closer look. See what we’re dealing with.” He turned back to the others. “Eyes peeled. Cameras out. Prepare to take fire.”

  “Yes, Sergeant Major!” echoed his men.

  The Sea Hawk banked to port, slowly circling the boats below. Dawson stepped back into the cabin, peering through one of the windows. Muzzle flashes erupted.

  “We’re taking fire!” reported the pilot as a few rounds pinged off the reinforced skin of the airframe.

  Dawson glanced over at Niner, who had a camera trained on the boats below, recording everything. “Report.”

  “We’ve got hostages on the decks.”

  Dawson cursed, though it wasn’t news. Control had already reported spotting hostages being loaded onto the Houthi boats. “Make sure you get some good footage of each boat.”

  “On it!” replied Niner.

  “They’re about to open up with a fifty on the deck,” warned Atlas.

  Dawson’s head spun toward the cockpit. “Break off! Resume our previous heading!”

  “Roger that!” The pilot banked hard to starboard, increasing their speed as the .50-caliber machine gun opened up below them. Everyone pulled back from the windows as several rounds rattled off the fuselage, but Dawson didn’t pay them any mind. They were from AKs fired too far away to cause any significant damage. He glanced out the window to see tracer fire from the .50 streaking past them. The pilot banked away, keeping just ahead of the obviously inexperienced gunner following where the tracers were in relation to his target rather than using the tracers to anticipate where his target would be and adjust his aim accordingly. They had the chopper dead to rights, but every second that passed took them farther out of range.

  The pilot continued to bank, having picked up on what was happening, keeping just enough of an angle that he could stay ahead of the rounds from the .50 and continue to build as much distance between them as possible. The tracer fire dropped off and Dawson stepped over to the window to make certain the gunner hadn’t just smartened up, but found them continuing to fall off. “We’re out of range,” he announced.

  “Thank God for that,” replied the pilot as he leveled out.

  Dawson stepped forward, poking his head into the cockpit. “Did we take any damage?”

  “Nothing that the dash is showing. Do you want me to continue on target?”

  “If the airframe can take it, absolutely.”

  The pilot glanced at him. “How about we roll the dice and find out?”

  Dawson slapped him on the shoulder. “I like how you think.” He sat back down with the others and activated his comms. “Control, Zero-One, come in, over.”

  “Go ahead, Zero-One.”

  “We just encountered hostiles outbound from our target. Looks like they’re heading back to Yemen. We took some fire but we’re intact. One-One is sending you footage now.” He glanced at Niner, who gave him a thumbs-up. “We’re reporting hostages on the decks. I repeat, hostages are on the decks, over.”

  Colonel Clancy cut in. “Zero-One, Control Actual. Can you give me any numbers?”

  Niner shook his head, as did the others.

  “Negative, sir, but it appeared that there was at least one on each boat. Most likely meant as human shields. If you examine the footage we took, you’ll probably get a better count than we were able to. We were taking fire the entire time.”

  “Copy that, Zero-One. Your status?”

  “Intact and proceeding to original destination.”

  “Copy that. Be advised, we’ve spotted movement on board.”

  “Copy that, Control. Any indication on friend or foe.”

  “Definitely foe.”

  “Copy that. Please advise Zero-Two if you haven’t already. Have him hold his insertion until we arrive, over.”

  “Roger that, Zero-One. Relaying your orders now. We’ll deploy a drone to monitor those other boats, just in case we have a gap in our satellite coverage. Good luck, Zero-One.”

  “Thank you, sir. Zero-One, out.” He listened as Control relayed his orders to Red’s team and stepped up to the cockpit once again. “ETA?”

  “Twenty minutes. We’re five behind.”

  “Copy that. Don’t take your foot off the gas. There’s a reason those guys were left behind, and I have a feeling it’s to mop up any survivors.”

  The pilot cursed. “Somebody has gotta turn this entire region into glass.”

  Dawson grunted. “That will get rid of the bad guys, all right, but they’re not all nuts.”

  “I suppose you’re right. Oh well, it keeps us employed.”

  “Between the fundamentalists, Russia, China, and North Korea, I think we’re probably all good until retirement.”

  Their pilot became serious. “I think I’d happily give up my pension if it meant no one ever had to see what I fear you guys are about to walk in on.”

  Dawson frowned. “You and me both, brother. You and me both.”

  9 |

  Operations Center Alpha 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment—Delta HQ Fort Liberty, North Carolina A.k.a. “The Unit”

  Colonel Thomas Clancy peered at the video transmitted by Niner. As the commanding officer of Bravo Team, among others, he had witnessed unbelievable atrocities, though usually from afar. As a younger man, he had seen combat, but he was over a decade out from those days. Iraq and Afghanistan were bad enough, but he feared October 7th had changed things. Islamic fundamentalists committing atrocities was nothing new. It was as old as time itself. But systematic rape on this scale was something only seen in primitive times. This shouldn’t be a 21st century method of war, but it now was. And judging from the footage he was looking at, expert analysts in the operations center isolating portions of it, his men were coming up on something that would impact them for the rest of their lives.

  There were hostages on each boat, as Dawson had reported, and almost all of them appeared to be unclothed women. Some of the female hostages released after October 7th had reported repeated rapes their entire time in custody. Others were broken, unable to acknowledge what had happened to them. The useful idiots that denied any of this had occurred had him ashamed of his country. How could so many people allow themselves to be manipulated? It was disgraceful, but it was a sign of the times, when half the country got their news from one source and the other half from another, both sides reporting the same story in entirely different ways.

  It was no wonder the world looked upon America, shaking their collective head. Today, one channel would report that a black man got into a fight with a white man. The other would report that a white man got into a fight with a black man. In the old days, it would have been two men got into a fight, one was black, one was white. The difference was subtle, but critical. His country was tearing itself apart, and both sides were ignorant to that fact because each side thought they were absolutely right and that the other side was evil. Long gone were the days where both sides could come together and cooperate on issues that were important to the nation. Now, no matter how good you thought an idea was, if the other guy came up with it first, it was a bad idea. The entire planet was going to hell along with his country, and he feared what that meant for the future of his children and grandchildren.

  He turned to the ops center coordinator. “Carol, whatever you do, don’t lose them.”

  “We’ll do our best, sir, but as soon as they make landfall, it might be impossible.”

  Clancy cursed. She was right. This was a well-coordinated, well-planned attack. They likely had an escape route planned with the full knowledge that every satellite trained on the region would be watching.

  They needed ground assets.

  “Get me the Pentagon. We need to bring the CIA in on this.”

  10 |

  En Route to MS Horizon Arabian Sea

  Red and the others watched the drone footage on their tablets as it slowly circled the MS Horizon. Sergeant Eugene “Jagger” Thomas pointed. “There’s one.”

  Red paused the playback, reversing it a few frames, a stereotype with an AK-47 standing in the doorway, staring up at the drone. “Well, that at least confirms one thing. We have hostiles on board.” He let the footage play forward then snickered as the moron opened fire on the drone thousands of feet in the air.

  Jagger groaned. “Does he think he’s got magic JFK bullets?”

  “He must, though I thought those were only able to reverse course, not extend their range.”

  Jagger shrugged. “Hey, I was impressed enough with bullets that could reverse course. I keep asking for them every time I fill out my requisition list for a mission.”

  “What do they say?” asked Sweet’s replacement, Sergeant Gary “Angus” Tye.

  “Not in stock.”

  “Not in stock?”

  “Exactly. Which means they exist.”

  Red chuckled. “Obviously, they must. Otherwise, it’d be ‘No such item.’”

  “I once tried ordering a Phased Plasma Rifle in the forty-watt range,” said Sergeant Trip “Mickey” McDonald. “The supply officer wrote, ‘Denied by Skynet.’ Very disappointed.”

  Angus’ eyebrows narrowed. “What the hell’s a Phased Plasma Rifle? And what’s a Skynet?”

  Everyone in the chopper, including the pilot and copilot, stared at him, aghast. A deep frown creased Red’s face. “I know you’re just a child, barely out of diapers, but if you’re gonna be on this team, hell, if you’re gonna serve, not only should you have every line of Terminator One and Two memorized, you should have every pre-governor Arnold Schwarzenegger movie committed to memory. Except for Junior.”

  Jagger’s head bobbed. “True. We’ll forgive the great Ahhnold for that one. And while you’re at it, don’t forget Stallone.”

  “Except for Oscar and Stop! Or My Mom Will Shoot,” added Red.

  “Yeah, forget those,” agreed Mickey. “Oh, and don’t forget Tulsa King. It’s awesome.”

  Red gave a thumbs-up to Mickey’s suggestion. “Absolutely. That show is fantastic.”

  “We’ve got a visual!” shouted the pilot from the cockpit, ending the banter.

  “Equipment check,” ordered Red as he leaned into the cockpit.

  The pilot pointed ahead. “There she is.”

  “Not very big,” commented the copilot. “I thought we were headed for a cruise ship.”

  “That is a cruise ship. It’s just that it’s for the rich and famous, so they keep it small so riffraff like you and me can’t afford to get on board unless we’re willing to be servants.” Red turned to their pilot. “Let’s maintain our distance while we wait for the other chopper. Do a slow pass around so we can get visuals on all sides. See what we’re dealing with.”

  “Roger that.”

  “Oh, and activate Whisper Mode.”

  The pilot laughed, glancing at him over his shoulder. “You guys really are into the old movies.”

  “Unit tradition.”

  “Great tradition. My dad said Blue Thunder is what made him want to be a pilot. But sorry, we’re as quiet as we’re going to get. Unfortunately, this is a plain old Sea Hawk. No Jedi or Ghost Rides available.”

 

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