Leroux cursed. Three still remained. More than enough to do some damage. He punched in the code to connect to Control for this operation. “Alpha-Alpha-Four-Seven-Eight-Charlie Control. This is CIA Ops Center Two Control, Charlie-Charlie-Six-Six-Eight-One-Zulu. We have an important update on your op, over.”

  A voice Leroux knew well from previous ops, Colonel Clancy, replied. “This is Control Actual. Go ahead.”

  “Sir, we’re sending you footage now.” He glanced over at Tong who gave a thumbs-up, confirming he wasn’t a liar. “It shows the embarkation point of your five boats. We have an exact count for you. Thirty-five. I repeat, thirty-five hostiles boarded. Seven per boat. There’s no evidence that any additional hostiles boarded after they left port.”

  Clancy sounded relieved. “Excellent work. Have you been able to reconfirm our number on how many left after the attack?”

  “We’re showing twenty-two hostiles and fifteen hostages leaving the ship. We believe thirteen hostiles were left behind, and live sitreps indicate ten have been eliminated.”

  “Are we in agreement that our confidence is high that three hostiles remain alive?”

  “Yes, sir. Our confidence is high.”

  “Very well. Thank you for the assist, Langley. Control Actual, out.”

  Leroux removed his headset, tossing it on his station, then turned to Tong. “Have Randy and Danny review your data. We can’t risk being off by even one.”

  “We’re on it,” said Tong.

  Leroux sat back and yawned. He was exhausted. They all were after pulling an all-nighter. He had been looking forward to going home and FaceTiming with his girlfriend, CIA Operations Officer Sherrie White. She was on an op in Qatar, pretending to be press, covering the peace talks, but in reality collecting intel on the terrorist leadership that lived in luxury in Doha while the people they claimed to be fighting for suffered in squalor. What so many of the useful idiots didn’t understand was that much of what they donated to the cause was siphoned off by the various terrorist groups to supply themselves, to fund their weapons purchases, and to allow their leadership to accumulate hundreds of millions, some even billions of dollars that subsidized opulent lifestyles that would offend even themselves if they were true believers. Which many weren’t. They were simply criminals who had found a way to profit off the suffering of others and the ignorance of even more.

  He turned to Marc Therrien, sitting at the back of the room, the oldest member of the team. “Marc, let’s start working on the next phase. Get the crew manifest and the passenger list for that cruise. We need to know everybody who was on that boat. Pick your team. Start trying to identify those who were taken hostage, and start matching up the photos taken by Bravo Team. Run the hostiles against our databases. Let’s see if we can identify some of them, figure out what cells are behind this. Washington is going to want to respond, and I want to make sure we’re hitting the right places.”

  “You got it, boss.” Therrien pointed at three of the team sitting nearest him, everyone setting to work as the comms chatter from Bravo Team erupted in excitement overhead.

  “This is Zero-Seven! We’re taking heavy fire!”

  “RPG!” yelled someone in the background and a massive explosion followed, the transmission cutting off, everyone in the room staring as the live feeds from body cams for Atlas and Niner flickered out.

  Oh God, please, no!

  16 |

  MS Horizon Arabian Sea

  Dawson and Spock sprinted from the rear deck where he had just brought the Chinese survivor, heading toward Atlas’ last known position. They climbed the ladder to the next deck then rushed to the hatch, smoke billowing from the metal doorway, Atlas and Niner stumbling through.

  “You two okay?”

  Niner gave a thumbs-up as he coughed. “Yeah, I’m good.” He turned to Atlas. “You?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Luckily, my superhero reflexes saved the day, and I managed to shove the little man into a room before it hit.”

  Dawson quickly took a peek inside, his trained eye taking in everything. Two doors down on his left, there was evidence of a large explosion, likely from the RPG Atlas had warned of. At the far end, three hostiles were visible, cautiously approaching their handiwork.

  “Zero-One, this is Control Actual. We have high confidence that you are dealing with three remaining hostiles. I repeat, three remaining hostiles.”

  “Copy that, Control. Three hostiles remaining.” Dawson took another peek, confirming he had spotted three of the enemy in the corridor. “Bravo Team, Zero-One, we have eyes on three hostiles on B deck approaching our position aft, over.”

  “Zero-One, Zero-Two, we’re approaching your position from the forward stairs, over.”

  “Zero-Two, Zero-One, hold your position one flight below. Acknowledge, over.”

  “Holding, over.”

  Dawson readied his weapon and glanced at Spock. “You take the one on the left. I’ll take the two on the right.”

  “Roger that.”

  “On three…two…one.” Dawson leaned into the doorway, squeezing the trigger of his M4 twice as Spock did the same beside him. Dawson readjusted his aim, but Spock beat him to it, taking out the remaining hostile.

  His friend grinned at him. “Too slow.”

  “Apparently.”

  They advanced, their weapons trained on what should be corpses, but you should never assume. They could have been wearing body armor and might be merely wounded or knocked out. But in this case, traditional dishdasha robes provided little protection, all three with large bullet holes in their chests from the M4’s 5.56×45mm rounds.

  “Clear!” he shouted.

  “Friendlies coming from forward stairwell!” replied Red.

  Dawson glanced to see his best friend and the others emerge from the stairwell as Dawson radioed in their status. “Control, Zero-One. We’ve eliminated three hostiles. According to your count, that should be all the remaining hostiles, over.”

  “Confirmed, Zero-One. However, we recommend caution. We have no way of knowing if any hostiles were already on board from when they left port, over.”

  “Acknowledged, Control. We’re going to regain control of the ship and see if we can make an announcement for any survivors to call in. But from what we’ve seen so far, I doubt there are many, over.”

  “Understood, Zero-One. Notify us when you’ve regained control. We’ll give you a heading so that you can rendezvous with the USS Roosevelt, over.”

  “Copy that, Control. Zero-One, out.” Dawson turned to his team. “Anyone piloted a ship this big before?”

  Niner raised his hand. “Does a battleship count?”

  Atlas shoved the little man against the wall. “Playing in your bathtub doesn’t count.”

  Niner frowned. “Okay, then I guess my answer would have to be changed to no.”

  Wings stepped forward. “I can fly anything. This is just two dimensions and bigger.”

  Spock cocked an eyebrow. “Yeah, just remember that when you introduce the third dimension to piloting a boat, it usually means you’ve done something wrong unless you’re on a submarine.”

  “Good point. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Jimmy smacked Wings on the shoulder. “Just remember, when we rendezvous with the Roosevelt, try not to run into her.”

  Wings stared at him blankly. “Then how the hell do you expect me to stop?”

  17 |

  USS Roosevelt Gulf of Aden

  Dawson stood in the shower aboard the USS Roosevelt, rinsing off the salt and grime from the mission, and the demons that came with it. He had seen horrifying things during his career, examined photographs and watched videos of what had happened on October 7th, but to see it in person on such a scale was something entirely different. Over 200 passengers and almost the same number of crew dead, many of the women with signs of sexual assault, young men beaten to death, beheaded, corpses desecrated, beaten postmortem, urinated upon, defecated upon.

  Scum like this weren’t human, they were animals. They were worse than animals. They didn’t care about innocent lives, proven time and again by the indiscriminate targeting of civilians and the use of their own people as human shields. Throughout the entire ship, they had found only three passengers alive, all women, all raped repeatedly. The only good news was they had also found ten crewmembers alive who had barricaded themselves in engineering. The thick metal hatches had kept the terrorists at bay, saving those inside, though he had no doubt the survivor’s guilt they would suffer would haunt them for the rest of their lives.

  Nearby, the grizzly task of documenting everything and recovering the bodies was underway. Several of the surviving crew had taken it upon themselves, after being liberated, to stay on board, many of them going cabin to cabin, uploading images and footage of the carnage, one of them saying there was no way in hell they were letting anybody deny what had happened here.

  Dawson agreed with the man. If any good could come of this tragedy, it would be to inform the masses of the sickness pervading the world, then show those photos alongside the pictures of protesters who denied the atrocities committed in their name.

  He turned off the shower and, wiping his hands over his body, wicked away the excess water before grabbing his towel and drying off. The locker room was restricted to his team for the moment, Captain Finley having greeted them solemnly when they returned.

  “Anything you need, you ask.”

  Dawson had shaken the man’s hand. “Showers and chow, and some place to decompress.”

  “Already arranged.”

  Dawson stepped into the locker room, the last out of the showers, and began dressing, the chatter among the team comforting. These weren’t only his comrades, they were his brothers, his family. And while he would give anything to be held by Maggie right now, this was the best place for him to be, with men who understood what he had just gone through because they had gone through it themselves. They would get past this, they always did, but the memories of what they had seen would haunt them, likely for the rest of their lives.

  Or until something worse came along.

  Niner glanced at him. “So, BD, what do you think happens now?”

  Dawson pulled on a pair of underwear, then everyone faced him after respectfully allowing him to get his kibbles and bits tucked away before eleven sets of eyes were on him. “I have to imagine there’ll be some sort of response. The methods used were the same as ten-seven, but the context is entirely different. Ten-seven was an invasion resulting in a massacre of mostly civilians, where the hostiles retreated into their territory where the population had elected them to be their leaders. Therefore, it was that country’s military that attacked a sovereign nation. The response was then entirely justified and expected. And because terrorists like Hamas and Islamic Jihad don’t value civilian life, they were hoping for the exact response they got—a lot of civilian deaths that have turned uninformed world opinion against the victim.

  “You saw that briefing last week. The confidential analysis of the number of deaths in Gaza, tens of thousands dead, a count provided by Hamas itself, not any recognized civilian authority, that miraculously follows the demographics of the area, roughly seventy percent women and children. How is that even possible? Israel’s targeting Hamas. That means they’re targeting men. How can it possibly be that day after day, the percentage of those killed matches the overall demographics of the region?

  “It can’t. It’s never been seen before in war, yet the press, the politicians, and the useful idiots, accept Hamas’ numbers as gospel. And remember, even Hamas itself has admitted that they count the bodies, but they also add to the total anything they hear about in news reports. So, how do they distinguish between them? If five bodies were brought in, then a newspaper reports that five people were killed in an airstrike, how do you know it’s not those same five people now being counted as ten? This whole thing is absurd.

  “Fortunately, this time, we don’t have to worry about that shit. This was a terrorist group that attacked a civilian target, and there’s no way they can blame the Jews, and there’s no way the public can be misled into thinking it was justified. This time, I’m guessing the reaction is going to be swift. CIA and others will find the hostages, we’ll be sent in to rescue them, and our ROEs will be fairly wide open.”

  Atlas grunted. “Good. I’m sick and tired of having to pussyfoot around these people. Every time you kill a Muslim armed with a gun, you’re accused of Islamophobia.”

  A klaxon sounded, then the 1MC squawked overhead. “General Quarters, General Quarters! All hands man your battle stations! Missiles inbound. Port side! All hands brace for shock!”

  The speaker fell silent, but the klaxon continued as everyone scrambled to finish dressing. Niner rapidly tightened his boot laces and swatted the slower Atlas. “Hurry up, dude. If I die today, there’s no way I want the report to read, ‘in the shitter.’”

  “No one’s keeping you here,” rumbled Atlas.

  Niner threw his arms around the big man. “I could never leave you behind.”

  “Let go, little man. Those missiles are probably gonna miss, but you’ll still be a casualty because I’ll have stuffed you headfirst into the shitter. You’ll be the only man in history to have ever drowned at sea without having touched the water.”

  Niner let him go. “You know, words can hurt.”

  Atlas held up both fists. “These hurt worse.”

  The door to the locker room burst open, and a crewman poked his head inside. “Sergeant Major, we need to get you and your men to your assigned shelter.”

  Dawson pointed at the door. “You heard the man. Let’s move!”

  The banter ended, the team all business once again as Dawson counted them off, making sure no one was left behind in the showers or one of the bathroom stalls. The Houthi missiles were notoriously inaccurate, but occasionally one did get through.

  And Niner was right.

  There was no way in hell he wanted any report of his death to indicate he had died anywhere near the shitter.

  18 |

  Bridge, USS Roosevelt Gulf of Aden

  “Captain! We have twenty-seven inbound!”

  Captain Mario Finley hid his emotions, yet he would be lying to himself if he claimed the latest report didn’t have him a little anxious. The Houthi terrorists usually launched two or three missiles at a target, half a dozen at most. Twenty-seven was unprecedented against a naval target, perhaps even so at land. He had a sneaky suspicion his ship wasn’t the actual target. It was the MS Horizon, the scene of their crime. If they could sink it, they probably thought any evidence of what they had done would be sent to the bottom of the sea. It was primitive thinking. Hadn’t they heard of cameras?

  “Status on the evac?”

  His XO, standing on the starboard side with a pair of binoculars, turned. “Last of the incident team is coming on board now. Sixty seconds until we’re buttoned up.”

  “Copy that. TAO, ETA on nearest inbound?”

  “Four minutes!” replied his Tactical Action Officer.

  “Prepare to launch interceptors the moment they’re in range. Don’t wait for my order.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  His comms officer turned. “Captain, I have Captain Reynolds from the HMS Diamond. It’s a Royal Navy air-defense guided missile destroyer.”

  Finley adjusted his headset. “Put him on. What’s their location?”

  “Fifty miles northwest,” responded one of his well-trained crew. “They’re in the path of the missiles, sir, but none appear to be targeting them.”

  “I had a feeling.” He activated his comms. “Captain Reynolds, your timing is fortuitous.”

  Reynolds chuckled. “You appear to be in a bit of a pickle. Mind if we lend a hand?”

  Finley laughed. “Fire away, Captain. Fire away.”

  “With pleasure. Launching interceptors now. Hopefully, we can thin those inbounds out a little bit for you.”

  “Good luck, Captain. The US Navy appreciates any help our friendly neighbors from the other side of the pond can provide.”

  “Good luck to you and your crew. HMS Diamond Actual, out.”

  “The British are launching now, sir.”

  Finley stepped over to the tactical display as the Diamond’s Sea Viper missile system launched eight missiles, followed by another volley of eight, the scope tracking the targets rapidly leaving the Diamond’s position, quickly closing in on the inbound missiles.

  “First missile is within range. Should I hold?” asked his TAO.

  “Negative. They might miss. Launch and be prepared to retarget if necessary.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  The all too familiar sound of the SM-3 interceptor missiles launching had him inhaling deeply, holding his breath for a four-count as he steadied his heart. On the outside, he was calm. He couldn’t have the crew knowing that he feared for their safety. He, of course, was concerned for his own life, but more because he had a wife and two teenage children back home waiting for him. His primary concern was his crew. Their lives, their futures and those of their families, were all in his hands.

  The interceptors streaked vertically into the air then adjusted course, heading north toward the incoming projectiles, assembled and launched by the Houthis in Yemen, financed by the Iranians.

  “Instruct MS Horizon to set course two-seven-zero, best possible speed.”

  “Aye, Captain. Relaying now.”

  A skeleton crew had been left aboard to man the ship. He couldn’t have a vessel that size pilotless.

  “MS Horizon acknowledges and is turning to port, making course two-seven-zero, best possible speed.”

  “Sir, British missiles are intercepting now.”

  Finley watched the civilian ship pull away from them, turning sharply, piloted by one of his men trained in combat operations. His job wasn’t to give those aboard a smooth ride.

 

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