That part would be easy. Kurebayashi had studied in America, two years at UCLA. He knew Western men, and he knew something of their illogical ways of thinking, especially about women and sex. Kohler and Brandeis, he was sure, would do anything, anything to keep their wives from being gang-raped and tortured one by one before their eyes. Since it was Kohler's help they needed most, they would start with the dead German's wife, then move on to the American, saving Kohler's wife for last. The only real problem was that the process would take time, and Kurebayashi very much doubted that they had more than a few hours before the Americans struck.

But then, it was possible that the threat alone would be enough. He studied the prisoners through narrowed eyes. Yes... Aghasi's little speech was definitely having the desired effect. The American, Brandeis, was pale and sweating, on the verge of passing out right there on the deck. Kohler's eyes were squeezed shut, and he was moaning something to himself over and over in German. These men were already broken, Kurebayashi thought, clay to be molded in any way their captors saw fit.

Aghasi barked a question at the American. Slowly, a little jerkily, the man nodded, his hands still clasped on top of his head. Excellent. They had one ally, even if he was an unwilling one. Then Kohler agreed too, nodding his head enthusiastically as tears rolled down his cheeks.

Success...

Thursday, 26 May

1945 hours (Zulu +3)

Indian Ocean, seventy miles east of Socotra

It was evening, but the sun was still well above the western horizon when the first flight of four Marine SuperCobra gunships clattered in toward the Yuduki Maru. They came in low, skimming the waves, approaching out of the west so that the enemy's gunners — and their heat-seeking anti-air weapons, if they had any — would be blinded by the sun. Half a mile behind the gunships, three big CH-53 Super Stallions of the 2nd Marine Aircraft Wing came in at higher altitude, each carrying a full load of fifty-five Marine combat troops.

Captain Ron Dilmore was strapped into the rear seat of Pickax One-three, one of the SuperCobras sliding into attack position west of the Iranian squadron. His gunner/copilot, in the front seat, was a skinny, blond kid from Kansas, Lieutenant Charles Mobely.

"So what's it gonna be," Mobely was saying over the ICS, the Cobra's intercom system. "Peace or war?"

"Aw, the Iranies are chicken-shit, Mobe," Dilmore replied. "They'll take one look at us and..."

"Pickax One, Pickax One" sounded over Dilmore's helmet phones. "This is Rolling Prairie. Deploy in attack formation, but hold your fire. Repeat, deploy for attack but do not fire."

Rolling Prairie was the call sign for II MEF's Tactical Command Team, buried away in the combat center aboard the Nassau.

"There they are," Mobely said. "I got the freighter and two... no, three warships. Looks like a destroyer has the freighter in tow."

"I see it, Mobe. Pick your targets. I'm gonna buzz the Maru."

The SuperCobra held its approach, now less than fifty feet above the water, its rotor blast raising a wind-lashed fog of spray in its wake. Ahead, the Japanese freighter Yuduki Maru was wallowing forward in moderate seas, a long length of heavy towing cable stretched from the fantail of the destroyer to the freighter's bow chocks. Red-white-and-green flags flew from the mastheads of both vessels.

"Hey, Skipper!" Mobely called. "The Maru's flying an Iranie flag!"

"I see it, Mobe." He put the SuperCobra into a gentle turn to port, circling the two vessels at a distance. So far there'd been no fire from either ship, though he could see armed men gathered on their decks. According to Prairie Fire's mission briefing, a team of Navy SEALs had managed to get on board the freighter and damage one of its screws, but had been forced to back off. How many Iranian soldiers were aboard? It looked like hundreds, though he didn't have time for an accurate count. Enough, certainly, to fight off a SEAL squad, and enough to make an airborne descent from helos, if not impossible, at least a very bloody business indeed.

"You getting all this, Mobe?"

"We're rolling, Skipper." The gunner/copilot was using a sophisticated camera mounted in the Cobra's chin turret to record the scene.

Damn. If the Iranians had raised their own flag over the Yuduki Maru, this could get real sticky, real fast. With that Iranian flag flying from her truck, the Japanese freighter was now, technically at least, Iranian property, and the American rescue mission could be construed as an invasion. Wryly wondering what the brass hats were going to make of this one, he opened a channel to Rolling Prairie and called in his report.

The other gunships began circling as well, while the troop-carrying Sea Stallions remained at a safe distance. After informing Nassau about the flags and tow cable, Dilmore was told to keep orbiting the freighter but to take no threatening action.

No threatening action? Add the SuperCobra's M197, a three-barreled, high-speed rotary cannon protruding from beneath its chin, to the rocket and minigun pods and TOW missiles slung from hardpoints to port and starboard, and you had one definitely threatening aircraft, even when it was squatting motionless on a flight deck. Circling its intended prey like some bristling, monster dragonfly, it was bound to make the people on those ships nervous.

The original plan, code-named Prairie Fire, called for the Marine helicopters to rush straight in, suppress any hostile fire from the freighter, and off-load the troops directly onto Yuduki Maru's forward deck. It was thought that the sudden, demoralizing appearance of the gunships, coupled with the casualties the Iranian forces had already suffered during the SEAL raid earlier in the week, would be enough to force their surrender.

The raid had been almost ready to go the day before when word had been received from the Pentagon that the Iranian warships Damavand, Sahand, and Alborz had joined the plutonium ship and were now providing close escort, together with a number of small patrol craft. Damavand, a World War II-era British destroyer transferred to Iran in the 1970s, now had the Yuduki Maru under tow.

Delayed for twenty-four hours while options were reviewed and orders rewritten, Prairie Fire had finally been launched despite the new intelligence, but their mission profile now called for them to approach cautiously, to report everything they saw, to hold fire until specifically ordered otherwise. What had begun as a terrorist incident on the high seas could rapidly escalate into a major military confrontation between Iran and the United States.

"Hey, Skipper?" Mobely called over the ICS. "We've got something screwy coming in on channel four."

"Let's hear it." He flipped the channel select knob on his console.

"...vessel Beluga! D-do not attack!" The voice was ragged with excitement, or more likely, Dilmore thought, with fear. "American forces, please, do not attack. This is Rudi Kohler, of the Greenpeace vessel Beluga. Soldiers and sailors of Revolutionary Iran, acting in the interest of world peace, have boarded the freighter Yuduki Maru, which was damaged several days ago in a terrorist incident, and have taken her in tow. This is a salvage and rescue operation as described under the international laws of the sea. The... the commander of the Iranian forces has asked me, as a representative of the organization Greenpeace International, to act as a neutral observer in this matter, to report what I see and hear to the world. American forces, please do not attack."

"Shit," Lieutenant Dilmore said, switching off. "A salvage operation! Who do they think they're kidding?"

"Pickax One, Pickax One, this is Rolling Prairie" sounded over Dilmore's helmet phones. "Hold fire, repeat, hold fire. This one's going up the chain. Confirm, over."