The MH-60S Seahawk pitched violently as it fought through another squall. Chief Petty Officer Joseph Menhorn tightened his grip on the overhead strap, his free hand checking the security of his tactical vest. Around him, five members of his VBSS team braced against the helicopter's sudden movements, their faces half-hidden behind night vision goggles.

  "Five minutes to target," the pilot's voice crackled through Joseph's headset. "Visibility's still shit, Chief."

  Joseph nodded, though the pilot couldn't see him. The storm had come out of nowhere, turning what should have been a routine intercept into something far more dangerous. But that was the nature of their job—especially out here in international waters off the Horn of Africa, where pirates preyed on shipping lanes with increasing boldness.

  "Team, final equipment check," Joseph ordered, his voice steady despite the aircraft's lurching. He'd been doing this long enough that the adrenaline felt more like an old friend than an unwelcome guest.

  The distress call had come in forty-three minutes earlier. A European container vessel, the Helios, reported armed boarders—likely Somali pirates. By the time the USS George H.W. Bush had scrambled Joseph's team, the vessel had gone eerily silent.

  Lightning flashed, briefly illuminating the churning sea below through the open side door. Rain lashed horizontally into the cabin, mingling with the salt spray. Joseph thought of his wife Ellie and their four-year-old son back in Kentucky. He'd told them this deployment would be routine—Mediterranean patrols, maybe some show-of-force exercises. That was before CSG-10 had been suddenly diverted south to deal with this latest flare-up of piracy.

  "I've got visual on the target," announced the co-pilot. "Bringing her around."

  The helicopter banked hard, and through the open door, Joseph caught his first glimpse of the Helios—a massive container ship riding low in the water, its deck lights extinguished. The vessel looked abandoned, a ghost ship in a violent sea.

  "No signs of movement on deck," reported Petty Officer Rivera, the team's sniper, who was already surveying the ship through his thermal scope. "No heat signatures visible topside."

  "Roger that," Joseph replied, then addressed the entire team. "Insertion by fast-rope. Martinez, you're with me first. Williams and Torres follow, then Evans and Rivera provide overwatch from the bird. Standard clearing protocol. Watch your corners."

  "Petty Officer Rivera, I want you covering us until everyone's on deck," Joseph commanded, checking his own weapon one final time. "If you see anything move that isn't us, you call it."

  "Aye, Chief." Rivera's voice was calm, professional.

  The pilot maneuvered the Seahawk into position above the ship's starboard side, fighting against wind gusts that threatened to slam them into the vessel's superstructure. The helicopter hovered unsteadily about sixty feet above the deck.

  "Holding position best I can, Chief," the pilot reported, strain evident in his voice. "Make it quick. This storm's getting worse."

  Joseph gave a thumbs up and tossed the fast-rope out the door. It unfurled, whipping in the wind before settling against the ship's deck.

  "Go, go, go!" Joseph shouted, and then he was sliding down the rope, the rough material burning through his gloves despite the rain. His boots hit the metal deck with a solid thud, and he immediately moved to a defensive position, M4 carbine raised, scanning for threats.

  Martinez landed beside him seconds later, moving in the opposite direction to establish a perimeter. The deck pitched beneath them as the massive ship rolled in the heavy seas. Rain pelted them horizontally, reducing visibility to mere yards despite their night vision.

  Williams and Torres descended next, each taking up positions to cover the approaches to the deck. Joseph toggled his radio.

  "Team on deck. No contact. Beginning sweep."

  The Seahawk maintained its position overhead, the downdraft from its rotors creating a pocket of relative clarity in the driving rain. Through his goggles, Joseph could see Rivera in the door, rifle at the ready, scanning methodically.

  "Bridge first," Joseph ordered, gesturing toward the ship's superstructure. The team moved in formation, each man covering their sector, boots sliding slightly on the wet deck.

  The container ship was eerily silent save for the howling wind and the distant thrum of engines. Shipping containers were stacked in neat rows along the deck, creating corridors of darkness and potential ambush points.

  As they approached the first row of containers, Joseph raised his fist, signaling a halt. He'd glimpsed something—a flash of movement between the metal boxes.

  "Movement, ten o'clock," he whispered into his comm. "Could be crew, could be hostiles."

  The team froze, weapons trained in that direction. Joseph clicked his tactical light on momentarily, the beam cutting through the darkness like a knife.

  "US Navy!" he shouted above the storm. "Show yourself with hands up!"

  Silence followed, broken only by the storm. Joseph signaled to Martinez to move right while he advanced left, maintaining their tactical spread. The shipping containers created a maze of steel corridors, and Joseph knew all too well how easily someone could hide among them.

  "I'm coming out!" a voice finally called, barely audible over the wind. "Don't shoot! I'm not armed!"

  "Hands where I can see them!" Joseph commanded, his weapon trained on the gap between containers where the voice had originated.

  Slowly, a figure emerged from the shadows. An older man with gray hair plastered to his head by the rain, wearing what appeared to be an officer's uniform. His hands were raised high, palms forward.

  "I'm the First Officer," the man shouted, his accent distinctly Eastern European. "Mikhail Petrov. The pirates—they're gone."

  Joseph didn't lower his weapon. "Any other crew nearby?"

  "Yes, hiding. In the mess hall and engine room." Petrov took a tentative step forward. "Please, can we go inside? This storm..."

  Joseph nodded to Martinez, who moved forward to check the man for weapons while Joseph kept him covered.

  "He's clean, Chief," Martinez confirmed.

  Joseph lowered his weapon slightly but remained alert. "What happened here? Where are the pirates?"

  Lightning flashed, illuminating the deck in stark white for a split second. In that moment, Joseph caught the first officer's expression—a mixture of fear and bewilderment.

  "They're dead," Petrov said flatly. "All of them."

  Joseph exchanged glances with Martinez. This wasn't in the playbook.

  "Dead? How?"

  "Other men," Petrov said, wiping rain from his face. "They came just before you. From another helicopter. They killed all the pirates, took something from the cargo, and left."

  Joseph activated his comm. "Rivera, you copy that?"

  "Affirmative, Chief. No sign of another chopper in the vicinity now."

  "How many pirates were there?" Joseph asked as they moved toward the ship's interior.

  "Seven, maybe eight. They boarded from small boats on the port side. We had no warning—our radar systems were malfunctioning in the storm."

  As they reached the door leading to the ship's interior corridor, Joseph noticed dark smears on the deck that the rain hadn't fully washed away. Blood.

  "These men who killed the pirates," Joseph pressed as they stepped into the relative calm of the corridor. "Did they identify themselves? Military? Private security?"

  Petrov shook his head, water droplets flying from his gray hair. "No identification. Professional, though. Very professional. Some American accents, others... I think Middle Eastern, African perhaps."

  Joseph's training prickled at the back of his neck. Mercenaries? Pirates fighting pirates? Or something else entirely?

  "And you said they took cargo?"

  "Yes. One container. They knew exactly which one." Petrov's eyes narrowed. "They had the manifest codes. Someone told them what to look for."

  Inside the ship, more crew members began to emerge from hiding places. They looked shaken but unharmed. Joseph ordered Williams and Torres to conduct a sweep of the vessel while he and Martinez made their way to the bridge.

  The captain, a burly man with a split lip and bruised eye, stepped forward as they entered.

  "Captain Nikolai Baros," he introduced himself with a grimace that might have been an attempt at a smile. "Thank you for coming. Though it seems others got here first."

  Joseph introduced himself and his team, then turned to the ship's radar and communications console.

  "I need to report to my command. May I?"

  The captain gestured permission, and Joseph contacted the USS Bush.

  "Nightdip One-Five, this is Seahawk Delta-Seven. We've secured the vessel. Crew is safe. Pirates were neutralized by unknown third party prior to our arrival. They also removed cargo. Requesting further instructions."

  There was a brief crackle of static before the reply came through.

  "Delta-Seven, be advised we have a high-speed contact approximately twelve nautical miles southwest of your position. Vessel is not responding to hails. Air patrol identifies it as a warship configuration, possibly Bangladeshi frigate class."

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Joseph frowned. Bangladesh? What would a Bangladeshi warship be doing this far from home waters?

  "Can you confirm identity?"

  A pause, then: "Preliminary identification based on hull markings suggests BNS Osman. However, our records indicate that vessel was decommissioned and scheduled for scrapping nearly two years ago."

  Joseph felt a chill that had nothing to do with his rain-soaked uniform. A decommissioned warship, operating in international waters, potentially connected to the mysterious group that had beaten them to the Helios.

  "Confirmed, Bush. What are your orders?"

  "Intercept and identify. Determine if vessel is involved in tonight's incident. Air patrol reports no visible deck activity. Approach with caution."

  "Roger that. Preparing to redeploy." Joseph turned to Captain Baros. "Sir, we need to leave you to pursue another vessel. Is there anything else we should know about the pirates or the men who killed them?"

  Baros and Petrov exchanged glances.

  "Only one thing," Petrov said. "Before they left, their leader—American, I think—said something strange."

  Joseph waited.

  "He said: 'The Osman sends its regards.'" Petrov's expression was grim. "Does that mean something to you?"

  Joseph's comm unit crackled before he could respond.

  "Chief, Rivera here. Storm's intensifying. Pilot says we need to move now or risk being grounded."

  "Copy that. We're on our way." Joseph turned back to the ship's officers. "Secure your vessel and crew. We'll have additional naval assets respond to your position as soon as possible."

  Joseph and Martinez rejoined Williams and Torres, who had completed a cursory sweep of the main deck. Together, they made their way back to the extraction point where the Seahawk hovered precariously, fighting the increasingly violent wind.

  "One at a time!" Joseph shouted over the storm. "Williams, you're first!"

  The team began ascending via the fast-rope system, each member straining against the powerful gusts that threatened to tear them from the line. Joseph watched as, one by one, his men made it safely into the helicopter.

  Finally, it was Joseph's turn. He gripped the rope, gave one last nod to the ship's officers who had come to see them off, and began to climb. The wind buffeted him mercilessly, swinging him in wide arcs as he ascended. Rain lashed at his face, nearly blinding him despite his gear.

  Halfway up, a particularly violent gust slammed him against the helicopter's landing skid. He grunted in pain but maintained his grip, continuing to pull himself upward with practiced strength.

  "Got you, Chief!" Martinez reached out, grabbing Joseph's tactical vest and hauling him the rest of the way into the cabin.

  "Thanks," Joseph gasped, securing himself in the aircraft. "Everyone accounted for?"

  "All present," confirmed Williams. "Though this bird's taking a beating."

  Joseph could feel it—the helicopter shuddered and bucked against the storm, its engines straining at maximum power. Through his headset, he could hear the pilots discussing their situation in clipped, professional tones that barely masked their concern.

  "Nightdip One-Five to Delta-Seven," came the voice from the Bush. "Target vessel maintaining course and speed. Current position puts it on heading two-zero-niner, approximately seventeen miles from your location. Be advised, storm cell intensifying between your positions."

  "Roger that," Joseph replied. "We're in pursuit."

  The Seahawk banked hard, turning southwest and accelerating away from the Helios. Joseph felt the helicopter climb, attempting to find less turbulent air above the worst of the storm. Lightning flashed around them with increasing frequency, each crack followed by thunder that Joseph could feel in his chest despite the helicopter's roar.

  "This isn't standard pirate behavior," Martinez said over the internal comm. "Hit a ship, then flee in a frickin' warship?"

  "Not standard anything," Joseph agreed. "And who were those guys who beat us to the scene?"

  "Contractors maybe?" suggested Williams. "Plenty of private security firms operating in these waters."

  "Private security doesn't typically execute pirates and steal cargo," Torres countered.

  Joseph kept his thoughts to himself. Something about this felt wrong—organized, precise, and far too well-informed to be typical Gulf of Aden piracy. And that name—the Osman. A decommissioned Bangladeshi warship that somehow found its way into the hands of...who exactly?

  The helicopter pitched suddenly, dropping several feet before the pilots could correct. Everyone instinctively grabbed for handholds.

  "Sorry about that, gentlemen," the pilot's strained voice came through the headset. "Mother Nature's not being kind tonight."

  "Visibility's dropping to near zero," the co-pilot announced. "Switching to instruments and thermal. Delta-Seven, this is going to be a rough ride."

  Joseph acknowledged with a thumbs-up. His team checked their equipment, preparing for whatever they might face when—if—they caught up to the Osman. The tension in the cabin was palpable, heightened by each violent movement of the aircraft.

  "Target vessel now ten miles ahead," reported the Bush. "Still maintaining course. No response to radio hails on any frequency."

  The Seahawk continued its pursuit, the minutes stretching into what felt like hours as they battled through the storm. Joseph found himself going through mental scenarios, contingency plans. Boarding a hostile warship in these conditions would be exponentially more dangerous than the cargo vessel they'd just left.

  "Visual contact!" the pilot suddenly announced. "Two miles dead ahead."

  Joseph moved to the open door, straining to see through the darkness and rain. For a moment, there was nothing—then lightning flashed, illuminating a silhouette on the horizon. A warship, cutting through the heavy seas with purpose.

  "Can you get us closer?" Joseph asked.

  "Working on it," the pilot replied, the strain evident in his voice. "Trying to stay above their radar coverage."

  The Seahawk descended slightly, bringing them into a better position. Another lightning flash, longer this time, gave Joseph his first clear look at the vessel. It was indeed a frigate, its sleek profile unmistakable despite years of apparent neglect. Through his night vision, he could make out faded markings on the hull.

  "That's definitely the Osman," Rivera confirmed, observing through his scope. "No deck activity visible. Running lights minimal."

  "Delta-Seven to Nightdip One-Five," Joseph reported. "We have visual confirmation of BNS Osman. No signs of life topside. Request permission to attempt boarding."

  There was a pause before the response came.

  "Delta-Seven, if conditions permit safe boarding, you are authorized to conduct VBSS operation. Primary objective: determine vessel identity and command. Secondary: assess any connection to the Helios incident. Extreme caution advised."

  "Copy that," Joseph replied. "Moving to execute."

  Joseph turned to his team. "Same drill as before, but heightened alert. This is a military vessel with unknown occupants who've already demonstrated lethal capability. Rivera, you maintain overwatch from the bird. The rest of us go in, secure the bridge, and identify who's in charge."

  His team nodded, faces set with determination as they checked their weapons one final time.

  "We'll approach from the stern," Joseph continued. "Less exposure to wind, and potentially out of direct line of sight from the bridge."

  The pilot maneuvered the Seahawk toward the frigate's rear section, fighting crosswinds that threatened to push them into the ship's superstructure. Unlike the container vessel, the Osman's deck offered far fewer secure insertion points, with most of the space taken up by weapon systems and equipment.

  "Best I can do is hold position over the helicopter deck at the stern," the pilot informed them. "It's gonna be unstable."

  "Roger that," Joseph replied. "We'll make it work."

  The Seahawk hovered precariously over the frigate's small flight deck. Through the open door, Joseph could see the surface below, illuminated intermittently by the helicopter's searchlight. The deck showed signs of recent use—unusual for a supposedly decommissioned vessel.

  "Fast-rope ready," Martinez announced, securing the line.

  Joseph gave the go-signal, and the rope dropped to the deck below. It whipped violently in the wind, the end barely touching the ship's surface as the helicopter struggled to maintain position.

  "This is getting worse by the second," the pilot warned. "Make it quick!"

  "I'll go first," Joseph decided. He positioned himself at the door, hand gripping the rope. "Martinez, you follow on my signal. Williams and Torres, maintain comms with the bird."

  Joseph took a deep breath, then launched himself out of the helicopter, sliding down the rope. The descent was chaotic—wind gusts pushed him sideways, nearly slamming him into the ship's railing. He felt the rope jerk and sway as the helicopter above him fought the storm.

  His boots hit the deck with a metallic thud. Joseph immediately released the rope and moved to a defensive position, weapon raised, scanning for threats. The deck was empty, but he could feel the vibration of engines beneath his feet. The ship was clearly operational and under power.

  Joseph looked up to signal Martinez, but what he saw made his blood run cold. The Seahawk was suddenly veering away, pulled by a violent wind shear. The fast-rope, still dangling, swung wildly away from the ship.

  "Delta-Seven, we've lost stable position!" the pilot's frantic voice came through his comm. "Cannot maintain hover! Attempting to recover!"

  "Copy that, Seahawk," Joseph responded, watching as the helicopter battled the elements. "Maintain safety protocols. I'll find cover and wait for retrieval."

  "Chief!" It was Martinez's voice, tight with concern. "We'll come back for you!"

  "Affirmative," Joseph replied, maintaining his professional tone despite the sudden spike of adrenaline. "I'll establish a secure position. Focus on keeping that bird in one piece."

  The Seahawk continued to struggle, rising and falling erratically as it fought to escape the worst of the wind. Joseph watched it withdraw into the storm, the searchlight flickering like a distant star before disappearing entirely.

  Alone on the deck of an unknown warship, Joseph quickly assessed his situation. Standard protocol dictated he find a defensive position and wait for recovery, but he needed to gather intelligence first. Moving in a low crouch, weapon ready, he approached a hatch leading into the ship's interior.

  As Joseph reached for the hatch, he froze at the sound of boots on metal. He turned to see armed men emerging from multiple doorways, surrounding him with weapons raised. Their movements were precise, coordinated—military training, not pirates.

  "Drop your weapon!" one shouted in accented English. "On your knees!"

  Joseph calculated his odds—surrounded, outnumbered, in hostile territory with no immediate backup. He made his decision.

  "I'm a United States Navy Chief Petty Officer," he called out, keeping his weapon pointed down but not relinquishing it. "My helicopter—"

  A warning shot ricocheted off the deck near his feet.

  "I said drop it!" the same voice commanded. "Now!"

  Joseph slowly placed his M4 on the deck and raised his hands.

  "My men," he said, gesturing toward where the helicopter had disappeared. "They went down in the storm. They need rescue."

  The armed men exchanged glances. One spoke into a radio in a language Joseph didn't recognize. After a moment, he nodded to the others.

  "On your knees," he repeated, gesturing with his weapon.

  Joseph complied, hands still raised. Four men approached cautiously, weapons trained on him while a fifth moved to restrain him.

  "You need to send a rescue team," Joseph insisted. "My men are in the water."

  "Shut up," one of the men said, roughly securing Joseph's hands behind his back with zip ties.

  As they hauled Joseph to his feet, a tall figure emerged from a nearby hatchway—an American, judging by his bearing and the way he carried himself. The other men stepped back deferentially as he approached.

  "What about my team?" Joseph demanded. "There are men in the water!"

  The American studied him for a long moment, then shook his head. "No, Chief Menhorn, there aren't."

  The cold certainty in the man's voice hit Joseph like a physical blow. He lunged forward, only to be restrained by the men on either side.

  "You're lying! My team—"

  "Is gone," the American cut him off, his voice devoid of emotion. "The helicopter went down half a mile back. No survivors."

  Joseph felt his world tilt, the deck beneath him suddenly unsteady in a way that had nothing to do with the storm. The American gestured, and Joseph was shoved roughly toward an open hatchway.

  "Welcome aboard the Osman, Chief," the American said as Joseph was forced below decks. "We'll talk more after you've had some time to consider your situation."

  The last thing Joseph saw before being pushed down the ladder was the storm-tossed sea, empty of any sign of his team or their helicopter. Then darkness closed around him as the hatch slammed shut.