Commander Akana stood in the bridge, looking out over the foredeck boat that stretched out in front of him like a clean parking lot. In addition to the officer of the watch and the two enlisted personnel who were driving the boat, the executive officer and the command master chief were also present. All wore Navy work blues and uniform ball caps.
The XO, Lieutenant Commander Nicole Carter, was an Annapolis grad, but she didn’t appear to be a ring-knocker. She let her daily output of stellar work speak far louder than her CV ever could. Command Master Chief Alfredo Perez was tall, with the lined face of a man with a long history. He had an intense Danny Trejo look going that at once terrified and endeared him to officers and enlisted alike. Equivalent to the chief of the boat, or COB, on a submarine, a command master chief or command senior chief was the senior enlisted person on a surface vessel. The Navy didn’t strike sailors anymore or restrict them to bread and water — but one cross look from CMC Perez had the same effect on most young sailors. He was fiercely protective of his crew, advocating for them to leadership at every turn, but unafraid to dispense the frequent ass-chewings needed to keep recalcitrant youngsters in line. Like the rest of the crew, the XO and command master chief were finishing up their assigned four-month rotation. Akana had taken over for the previous skipper, making him the new guy. Fortunately, his reputation as a pirate hunter aboard the USS Rogue had preceded him — bringing enough sea-cred that he had time to prove himself as a servant leader. It seemed to Akana that every sailor just assumed that a new skipper was going to be an incarnation of Captain Queeg. That sort of leader certainly existed, but in Akana’s experience, there were more Horatio Hornblowers in the Navy — more deckplate leaders — than there were Captain Blighs.
Good leaders thought about leadership, not management, and that meant getting out in front of things. This mission was tricky, and if it failed, he would be the one to take the heat, not the XO, not the CMC.
“Have Engineering wring out flank speed for as long as practical,” Akana said.
Where full speed was a high percentage of power that, while not fuel-efficient, was not the maximum, flank speed meant as fast as the boat could go. Period. Such speed was reserved for emergency situations, and came at a cost if carried out for too long. Maintainers didn’t much care for flank speed, because it had a tendency to break things.
The XO passed the word, and Akana felt a gradual shift as the vessel dug more aggressively into the waves.
“If they’re taking fire, there could be injuries,” Akana said. He didn’t have to explain himself, but talking out certain decisions allowed him not only to train his executive officer but to think everything through in front of the command master chief — who had a full decade more experience at sea. “Any distance we can close shaves off valuable seconds.”
“Understood, sir,” Carter said. “Air Ops reports the MH-60 and the Fire Scout should be on station in two minutes.”
“Very well,” Akana said, moving into what, for him, was the most difficult part of any operation — waiting for things to happen.
With his hands clasped behind his back, Perez squinted, the corner of his mouth turning up a little, Popeye-like.
“Is something bothering you, CMC?” Akana asked.
“Far from it, Captain,” the command master chief said. “I was just thinking what a great day it is to be in the Navy.”
The shooting stopped as they neared the beach, a good indicator that Habib did indeed have friends down there waiting.
“Movement!” Adara said. “Eleven o’clock.”
She, Chavez, and the Papuan man all lay facedown under the cover of a curtain of creeping vines. Chavez faced uphill, watching their back trail, while she and Konner studied the route ahead.
Konner Toba shook his head, not understanding. Chavez glanced back to see Adara hold her hand straight in front of her, knifelike, then moved to the left. “Twelve, eleven, ten…”
“Me sees it,” the Papuan said, pressing his face closer to the debris on the jungle floor. “Under big hibiscus tree.”
Chavez saw it, too, even with his blurred vision. At least three men with long guns. Beach hibiscus were not the tallest trees in the jungle, but what they lacked in height they made up for in spread. Their large branches, some as big as a man’s waist, pointed skyward off a thick trunk, before arching back to touch the ground. These arches and heavy foliage of hand-sized leaves formed shadowed roomlike hiding spots beneath the sprawling trees.
Had the men stayed back in the shadows a little farther, they would have been invisible. Fortunately, they were drug runners, not trained snipers.
Focusing back uphill, Chavez popped the mag out of his Smith & Wesson and checked for the second time to make certain he’d done a tactical reload. He was normally more sure of himself, but the head wound had him loopy. “I’m down to ten rounds,” he said.
Adara gave a grim nod. “I’m at six.”
He passed her his partial mag. “Top off,” he said. “I’m seeing two of everything anyway.”
“Me gots four,” Konner Toba said, holding up a shotgun shell from his pocket. He’d turned the ball cap so the bill and the curling blue feather faced backward. He didn’t mention the thighbone dagger.
The voices uphill grew more animated since they knew the jaws of their trap were closing. Chavez estimated they were less than a hundred yards away now. The men along the beach were even closer.
“What’s that way?” Chavez asked, gesturing to his left.
“Waterfall,” the Papuan said. “That way no good.”
“How about to the right?”
“Maybe,” Konner said. “But big fern field above. Open, so me think this way better.”
“Not at the moment,” Chavez said.
A volley of Kalashnikov fire rattled uphill as one of their pursuers fired into the air, working to drive them downhill toward the hibiscus. Thick foliage dampened the sound, but they were close enough now that Chavez could hear the clack, clack, clack of the rifle’s heavy action slamming back and forth as it cycled.
He squinted, trying to clear his vision, to do something about the crippling pain in his head. These guys would be on top of them in minutes, if not seconds.
Adara had her hand cupped over the mouthpiece of the satellite phone. She pointed her chin downhill to get Chavez’s attention.
Another volley of automatic gunfire. More voices. The jungle thinned somewhat on the lower third of the mountain. Chavez counted eleven men, less than fifty meters away, ghosting through the trees.
Chavez could clearly see the trails the three of them had made through the grass and undergrowth. Habib and his men would have no trouble walking straight to them.
“We have to move,” he whispered.
Adara gave an emphatic shake of her head, going so far as to reach over and kick Chavez in the calf with the point of her boot. She mouthed the word Wait! and then began whispering into the sat phone again.
A moment later, Chavez picked up the sound of a lawn mower, or perhaps a tractor from the direction of the ocean, and then the beautiful image of an MQ-8 Fire Scout rose into view behind the hibiscus tree.
A branch snapped in the foliage to Adara’s left, and Chavez caught a glimpse of brown movement. One of Habib’s men had flanked them. Chavez swung his pistol, but Konner lunged into the brush, leaving his shotgun behind. The brush thrashed for a moment, and then the lanky Papuan crept back to the group in a half-crouch, his grandfather’s bloody thighbone dagger clutched in his fist.
“Thanks,” Chavez whispered, scanning for others.