Tehoa looked back balefully back over his shoulder. “You tell your friend that we’ll be along by and by. As soon we get a few things sorted out.”
The French seaman translated Tehoa’s words, triggering a round of laughter within his party. His tall companion gave a reply, the sneering quality of his words telegraphing their meaning.
“My frien’ asks when that will be, when there is no African left to fight?”
Ben Tehoa sighed … deeply. Pushing his tray aside, he stood up, turning to face the expectant Frenchmen. The rest of the Queen’s crew followed suit a moment later. The French contingent got to their feet as well.
A ripple of silence radiated outward across the mess. Had this been a classic western movie, there would have been an urgent whispered suggestion for someone to send for the sheriff. The Guinean MPs on station at the tent’s entryway took a step forward, then decided that they really didn’t see anything all that wrong. They returned to their station, intently studying the dusty street outside.
The Chief went face-to-face with the big French sailor, a bulldozer confronting a derrick. “You can tell your friend here,” he said quietly, “that if you guys take care of your business, we’ll take care of ours, and everything will be just fine.”
The translation rattled off and the French sailor’s grin deepened. He spoke a prolonged reply to his English-speaking partner.
“My frien’ say, maybe the real reason you sit on your ass on the beach so long is you are too busy playing with the girls to want to fight the war.” The translator’s eyes flicked insolently at Caitlin again. “He says that maybe since you only have one girl, that’s why it’s taking so long.”
Tehoa’s massive right fist cocked back and fired forward in a single blurred motion. Crashing through the French sailor’s lax defense, the blow caved in the taller man’s hard-muscled stomach like a sheet of cardboard, buckling him over with an agonized grunt.
As the Frenchman folded forward, the Chief’s left hand came up and clamped onto his shoulder, the fingers sinking into the flesh. Heaving his target upright, Tehoa unleashed his right fist once more, exploding the second punch full into his opponent’s face.
The Frenchman crashed backward, through his line of compatriots and over the top of their mess table, piling up soup-drenched and unconscious on the ground on the other side.
“Hey, man. It’s cool,” the Fryguy commented to the stunned English-speaker. “I don’t think you need to translate that.”
“Begging your pardon, Captain Garrett, but did you get the word from Conakry?”
“I have the report from Captain Stottard on my desk. I think it’s about time we get the Queen of the West out of there. Inform Commander Lane that he may consider himself officially repaired and that he may sortie at his convenience.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am.”
“Oh, and also please advise Lieutenant Clark aboard the Carondelet that he’s scheduled to break down next.”
The United Nations Building,
New York 1000 Hours, Zone time;
May 22, 2007
“Good Afternoon, Admiral,” Vavra Bey said graciously. “Please be seated. It is most kind of you to take the time to meet with me like this.”
“It’s my pleasure, Madam Envoy,” Elliot Macintyre replied, accepting a seat across from the silver-haired stateswoman. Beyond the conference table, the picture windows of the meeting room looked out across the sluggish flow of the East River and the concrete-and-asphalt beehive of Queens beyond.
“Teleconferencing is a convenience,” she continued, “but I still find it difficult to develop a good working relationship with an image on a screen.”
Also, it’s harder to read someone off of a communications monitor, Macintyre thought back. Given his first impressions, this matronly woman would likely be hell across a poker table. “I understand fully. I prefer working face-to-face with my own people whenever possible. Errors in communication can be more readily avoided. I presume this conference concerns the UNAFIN operation?”
“It does, Admiral Macintyre,” Bey replied. “Have you been in recent communication with the interdiction force, or at least those units under your command?”
“I receive regular situational updates on all Naval Special Forces elements, Madam Envoy, especially from those operating in an active combat zone. Why? Is there some problem with the U.S. mission?”
“I was hoping you could tell me, Admiral,” Vavra Bey replied, her patrician features carefully neutral. She leaned forward into the table, clasping her hands on its surface. “I have been in conference with the ambassador from Guinea. He has expressed his government’s profound concerns about the developing crisis within their country.
“Union guerrilla activities are on the upswing, especially in the coastal regions. The situation is growing critical. The government of Guinea had expectations that the presence of the American naval patrol forces based on their soil would relieve the situation. To date, those … expectations have not been met. I have been asked to inquire if there is some technical problem or difficulty with those forces and, if so, when we might expect a rectification.”
Macintyre straightened slightly in his chair and donned his own best poker face. “Madam Envoy, I can assure you that the NAVSPECFORCE elements assigned to the African Interdiction Force are fully battle ready at this time. Also, I can assure you that operations in-theater are progressing as planned.”
“Indeed, Admiral. And who has developed this plan?”
“The new commander of the Tactical Action Group, Captain Amanda Lee Garrett, one of NAVSPECFORCE’s best people.”
Bey nodded again and peaked her fingertips together below her chin. “I am aware of Captain Garrett’s presence in Guinea. She is well known to us here at the United Nations, thanks to her involvement in both the Antarctic Treaty incident and the Chinese Civil War. She is a most striking young officer with a formidable reputation. However, this past reputation is irrelevant when one considers that she has not yet acted decisively to deal with this current situation.”
A scowl brushed across Maclntyre’s face. “Begging your pardon, but if Mandy Garrett hasn’t made her move yet, it’s because she’s had a damn good reason not to.”
Vavra Bey smiled a diplomat’s smile. “And you would know what this reason might be, Admiral?” she probed.
“No, I wouldn’t. Captain Garrett doesn’t require micromanagement. Once she’s been given a mission, she’ll find a way to get it done. You have my personal guarantee that the situation along the Guinea coast will shortly be under control.”
“I will relay that to the Guinean ambassador.” The gray haired diplomat smiled again, a true smile this time. “You have a great deal of confidence in this young woman, Admiral.”
“She’s earned it, Madam Envoy.”
Monrovia,
West African Union 0704 Hours, Zone Time;
May 23, 2007
“What are the latest figures on our fuel reserves, Sako?”
“Seven to eight months at our current rate of consumption,” Brigadier Atiba replied from his position across the desk from the Premier General. “Not as good as we had hoped, but I think there is still room to tighten the rationing.”
“See it done.” Belewa laced his fingers together across his stomach and tilted his chair back, scowling. “And the theft and wastage of gasoline and diesel are to be listed as treasonable acts under the Anti-Corruption Mandate. All offenses are to be dealt with by the Special Courts.”
“I will have the formal orders written up, General.” Atiba meticulously scribbled the notes into the open daybook on his lap. “We do have some good news about the fuel situation, though.”
Belewa glanced sideways at his chief of staff. “And that is?”
“Our smuggling line into Côte d’Ivoire. We are already moving
better than a hundred barrels a day across the frontier. Our purchasing agents believe they can easily double the deliveries over the next month as they bring in more of the local boatmen.”
“There have been no problems with the Ivoire customs authorities and border patrols?”
Atiba smiled and patted the breast pocket of his uniform. “No problems. Only happy policemen who enjoy a little touch of dash.”
“And the U.N. patrols?”
“Them, we don’t even need to pay off. The French stay well offshore and only inspect the big ships, while Americans haven’t been east of Buchanan in more than a week.”
“Then where are the Americans operating?”
“When we do see one of their gunboats, it is either patrolling around the barge anchored offshore here at Monrovia or working the border over at Guinea side.” Atiba shrugged offhandedly. “Mostly they seem to sit broken down on the beach at Conakry.”
Belewa frowned lightly. “Have they tried to interfere with our gunboat operations?”
“Since we’ve resumed action along the Guinea coast, there have been two or three attempted interceptions. In each case our gunboats evaded and broke contact without much difficulty. Our intelligence agents inside the U.N. base report that the American hovercraft are suffering from severe technical problems and are operational only half of the time at best.”
“Perhaps,” Belewa grunted, studying the water stains on his office ceiling.
“Perhaps? Do we have reason to believe otherwise?”
“Possibly, Sako. Think. Remember when the Americans first landed in Guinea. Our intelligence reported them as being ready for battle and most formidable. Why do they suddenly have all of these problems now? If, in fact, they are having problems.”
“We killed their unit commander in our raid on Conakry. We know that from the Americans’ own news broadcasts.”
“He has been replaced.”
“Yes, by a woman.” Atiba chuckled softly. “Perhaps she is finding a gunboat squadron a little more difficult to manage than a kitchen.”
“No. Not this woman.” General Belewa let his chair slam forward. Rising from behind his desk, he paced off a few impatient steps, his fingertips lightly drumming against the leather of his pistol holster. “I know of this woman, Sako. Every serious student of modern warfare knows about Amanda Garrett. She is someone we need to be concerned about. She is someone who concerns me.”
Belewa turned on his boot heel and moved slowly back toward the desk. Pausing, he looked out beyond the sliding glass doors of the balcony and toward the distant blue line of the oceanic horizon. “She makes me think of the lion and the leopard.”
“The lion and the leopard?” Atiba inquired, puzzled.
Belewa turned to look at his chief of staff. “When the lion hunts, he stands tall and lifts his head to roar at the sky, announcing to all the world that he is going out to seek his prey. When the leopard hunts, however, she lies still in the tall grass, so silent and so unmoving that you might almost step on her before you know that she is there.
“Does this make the leopard more of a coward than the lion and less of a danger? It does not. For the leopard is very patient. She waits and watches and chooses a moment that belongs only to her for the attack. She offers no warning. She gives no chance. She shows no mercy.”
Belewa returned his gaze to the sea. “Something down deep in my belly is telling me that we may have a leopard out there.”
Mobile Offshore Base, Floater 1 0917 Hours, Zone Time;
May 23, 2007
With a ponderous delicacy, the CH 53F Sea Stallion settled onto the landing platform, the weight of the mammoth transport helicopter making the platform’s supporting superbarge bobble slightly. Throttling down, the Stallion’s tail ramp dropped, permitting its human payload to disembark.
“Marines, move out!” First Sergeant Tallman’s bellow overrode the dying moan of the triple-turbine power plant. “Watch for the rotors! Clear the platform and form up on the main deck!”
Burdened by their seabags, weapons, and combat harness, the men of First Platoon, Fox Company, 6th Marine Regiment hunched across the landing pad to the descent ladders, helmeted heads turning as they got their first look at their new duty station.
Standing at the helicopter’s tail ramp, Captain Stone Quillain didn’t avail himself of the opportunity until his last man had cleared the aircraft.
Standing two inches over six feet in height, the Marine company commander was a composite of rough-hewn angles and wedges. A halfback’s shoulders tapered down to a quarterback’s waist and his wind-weathered face had high cheek bones, a forthright nose, and dark, rather narrow eyes that could shift from amiable to agate cold.
Stone Quillain was not a handsome man by any conventional Hollywood reckoning. However, he would have been a little surprised at the number of women who had studied him thoughtfully after noting his strong, open features and tall, rangy frame.
With the last member of the platoon on his way, Quillain took his look around at the platform and the sea and the heat hazy horizon beyond. He gave a noncommittal grunt and slung his rucksack and flak vest over one shoulder. With his free hand, he scooped up the carrying straps of both his fully loaded seabag and the Mossburg Model 590 combat shotgun he preferred as a personal weapon. Lifting them without effort, he started for the ladderway.
A chief petty officer waited for him down on the barge’s main deck. “The compliments of Commander Gueletti and the Provisional Seabee Base Support Force, sir,” he said, saluting. “Welcome to Floater 1. We have your quarters ready.”
“Thank you, Chief,” Quillain replied, setting down his gear and returning the salute. “You can show Lieutenant DeVega here and his men where they’re to be quartered. Also, I’d ’preciate it if you could have someone take care of my gear and that of my top sergeant. Yo! Tallman! Over here!”
Calvin Tallman, the Fox Company top, was a solid and stocky brick of a black man. Hailing from the hard side of Detroit, he stemmed from a background and culture decisively divergent from the rural Georgia upbringing of his company commander. However, like Quillain he acknowledged the existence of only one color: Marine Corps green.
“Tallman, you’re with me while we report to the TACBOSS. Afterward, we can check out the rest of the company spaces and see what we have to work with.”
“Aye, aye, Skipper.”
“Want a guide to Captain Garrett’s quarters, sir?” the Seabee CPO inquired. The layout of the platform can be a little confusing until you get the hang of it.”
“No, thanks, Chief. We’ll manage.”
The truth be told, Quillain wanted the opportunity to have a look around on his own, as well as the luxury of speaking bluntly with his own people.
“Well, Skipper, what do you think?” Tallman asked as they strode aft through the compact village of deck modules, availing himself of the traditional openness that existed between a Marine unit commander and his top shirt.
Quillain prefaced his response with a disparaging snort. “What I think is that we’re pretty much stuck up shit creek without a paddle. You heard the word back on the beach, same as I did. The Navy’s tech weenies aren’t having any luck getting the bells and whistles on these damn glorified landing craft of theirs to work. We’re falling over patch-together ‘provisional units’ and ‘task groups’ left and right and down the middle, and the goddamn United Nations is in charge, no doubt with the entire goddamn General Assembly voting on how to make it totally goddamn impossible for us to do whatever the hell it is we’re supposed to be doing!”
“And let’s not forget that we got us a lady C.O. on top of it,” Tallman added. “We may all be goin’ to hell in a handcart, but at least we’re doing it politically correct.”
Quillain aimed a baleful glance at the grinning noncom. In any number of vocife
rous bull sessions, Quillain had argued that women had their place in the military, just not in any command position over a Marine ground combat unit.
The mere fact that his new commanding officer was the highly decorated and, in some circles, near-legendary Amanda Garrett didn’t cut a great deal of slack with Quillain either. In his mind there was a vast difference between pushing buttons in the CIC of a warship and lying in the mud of an infantry battlefield.
They reached the deck space of the seafighter group and a seaman pointed the way to the officers’ quarters. Shortly thereafter, the two Marines stood beside the housing module door bearing a nameplate that read, “Commander Tactical Action Force.” The murmur of a feminine voice could be heard inside.
Quillain exchanged his Kevlar battle helmet for the Marine utility cover he’d carried in one of his cargo pockets. “Wait here, Top,” he said lowly, slapping the cover into shape and tugging it down over his coarse, dark hair, “while I go and see just what kind of a goddamn candy-assed female we’re lashed up with.”
Climbing the single step to the module’s doorway, he knocked.
“Come in,” the muffled alto replied over the hum of the air conditioner.
Quillain flipped the door handle and entered, coming to attention in front of the desk that dominated the small living space. The precise, razor’s-edge salute he aimed toward the individual seated behind that desk almost made the air crack, and he fired his words like a burst from a machine gun.
“Captain Stone Quillain, Fox Company, Second Battalion, Sixth Marine Regiment, reporting as ordered, ma’am!”
The responding salute was more casual, the responder’s free hand being used to hold a telephone to her left ear. “At ease, Captain. Welcome aboard. Excuse me for a moment. I’ll be right with you.”
Quillain went to a parade rest that was only a nominal step down from his previous stiff-spined brace. Keeping his eyes level, he used his peripheral vision to evaluate his surroundings.
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