Amanda was granted the dignity due a squadron commander as she stepped down from the Queen, accepting the more reserved congratulations and handshakes from the task group officers. She was grateful for the space, suspecting that soon, when the last of the adrenaline surge wore off, she was going to be very, very tired.
There was one exception, however. Christine Rendino met her at the top of the Queen’s ramp with a joyful hug. “Well, you pulled off another one.”
“So far so good, anyway. Has Admiral Macintyre been advised?”
“I’ve been feeding him regular updates throughout the operation. I don’t know what time it is back in Hawaii, but he wants to talk to you as soon as you get in.”
“Okay, I’ll take it in my quarters. Then I’m going to get in the shower and cheat on the water rationing for ten minutes. Then I intend to lie down and pass out for about two days.”
Steamer stepped forward at those words. “Begging your pardon on that, Captain, but there’s a matter the squadron needs your assistance with if you don’t mind. It’ll just take a second.”
“Of course, Steamer. What’s the problem?”
“This way ma’am.”
Lane led her around to the side of the hovercraft hangar. Amanda noted that the majority of PGAC-1’s personnel were gathered there, a generalized expression of grinning anticipation on all hands. She also noted a tarp shrouding something on the side of the hangar.
“It’s like this, ma’am,” Steamer went on. “We’re a new outfit, and we don’t have an official squadron insignia yet. We didn’t have a really good idea for one, either, until something you said on your first day with us caught the attention of Lieutenant Banks over there.”
Steamer nodded in the direction of a half-excited, half nervous Snowy. “She passed the idea around and we built on it some. Now we want you to have a look at it.”
Someone yanked on the corner of the tarp, dropping it to the deck. An instant later Amanda exploded, almost doubling over with helpless laughter.
It was a unit badge, four feet tall and shield shaped. Across its crested top, it bore a double-leveled title:
PGAC SQUADRON 1
THE THREE LITTLE PIGS
The main body of the badge bore the image of three Disneyesque but ferociously tusked African warthogs surfing into a beach on the back of a Queen-class seafighter. All three wore white navy “Dixie cup” hats, while one also sported a piratical black eye patch and a foul-looking stogie cigar. Around the bottom of the shield ran the motto “Now, what’s this about some damn wolf?”
“We didn’t want to show this to you until we had at least one good operation under our belts,” Lane continued. “We kind of felt we had to earn the right to it. What do you think, ma’am?”
Amanda straightened, wiping the tears from her eyes. She looked around into the faces of the task force personnel, of her people, and felt a sense of belonging to something that hadn’t been there for some time. It felt good.
“I love it,” she said, lifting her voice. “Badge authorized, but with one warning. The first person in this outfit who refers to me as ‘The Old Sow’ is in a lot of trouble.”
Mamba Point Hotel
Monrovia, West African Union 1115 Hours, Zone Time;
June 8, 2007
The meeting was a formality. But then, formality constitutes ninety-nine percent of the diplomatic process. Formalities, protocols, procedures, the endless dialogues that form the overburden within which rests the occasional precious nugget of progress.
Vavra Bey had little hope of finding such a treasure today.
“We protest the illegal intrusion of United Nations military units into our territorial waters.” Premier General Belewa spoke the words, stone featured. “This was a rank violation of our national sovereignty and a flagrant attempt at international bullying.”
“The Islamic Republic of Algeria protests this act of neo-colonial barbarity as well!” Ambassador Umamgi spat. “We will not tolerate such acts of aggression against an ally!”
They were seated in a different meeting room within the hotel this day, one with a circular conference table in its center. Belewa, Bey, and the Algerian ambassador sat equidistant around the table, their staff seated against the walls behind them. So established when the U.N. team had arrived, Bey pondered the possible, subtle meaning of the talk’s setting. Were the Algerians demanding a bigger role for themselves in the crisis? Or was Belewa reminding the U.N. representative that he did not stand entirely alone?
Vavra Bey honed her instincts to their finest edge.
“Gentlemen,” she began, “there is no doubt that aggression has taken place. However, the question of aggression, by whom, against whom, is seen in a different light by the Security Council. It is felt by the Council that the actions of the UNAFIN force elements involved were correct and justified, given the evidence recovered. This evidence being indicative of an active military campaign launched against the nation of Guinea by the West African Union.”
“We deny these allegations,” Belewa growled. The big African’s elbows rested on the tabletop and his fingers were interlaced in a doubled fist that half concealed the scowl on his face.
“Do you deny these, General?” Vavra Bey swept her hand over the tabletop, indicating the photographs and photocopied documents scattered across it. “Arms and military stores bearing the markings of the West African Union’s armed forces, captured documents bearing the signatures of senior Union naval and army officers, battle plans and reports on insurgency operations—”
“Lies!” Umamgi exploded. Half standing, he leaned over his section of the table. “We have examined these documents and we have found them to be blatant fabrications produced by Western intelligence organizations. We refuse to acknowledge them!”
Bey noted the jump of a small muscle under the curve of Belewa’s jaw and the momentary narrowing of his eyes. The African took a deliberate breath before speaking. “The Union admits the possibility that some of its citizens, even perhaps some of its military personnel, may have joined with rebel factions within Guinea in acts against that nation’s government. Segments of our population have strong feelings about the corruption and injustice rampant in that country. However, I again categorically deny that my government has ordered any hostile acts performed against our neighboring state.”
“And what of those men, General?” Bey asked softly. “The thirty-four Union nationals currently being held by the government of Guinea. Do you deny them as well?”
The muscle in Belewa’s throat twitched again. “The West African Union is always concerned about the welfare of its citizens, wherever they may be. It is our hope that the United Nations might be able to assist us in arranging for their return. The ambassador from Guinea has been most … truculent in this matter.”
Vavra Bey lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “General, if indeed these men are acting on their own recognizance, there is nothing I can do. As you have said, no recognized state of war exists between the Union and Guinea. Thus, these men cannot be classified as prisoners of war. Accordingly, their fate now rests in the hands of the civil courts of Guinea. Your men will stand trial for murder, piracy, and terrorism. I fear that the penalties handed down will be most severe.”
Bey held Belewa’s gaze with her own. “Perhaps if the West African Union would accept at least some responsibility for the actions of these individuals, grounds might be found for U.N. intervention on their behalf.”
The General’s eyes were brown ice. “There is nothing more to be said on this matter.”
“As you wish.”
Bey removed a cream-colored folder from the briefcase at her side, its cover bearing the embossed silver seal of the United Nations. Deliberately she placed it in the center of the conference table. “As you no doubt have been advised by your ambassador to the U.N., the Securit
y Council has elected to act upon the evidence of Union aggression recovered by the United Nations African Interdiction Force. The trade embargo against the West African Union has been expanded to include all goods and materials except for food and medical stores. Also, the UNAFIN rules of engagement have been formally amended to permit operations inside of Union territorial waters at the discretion of the UNAFIN commanders, should such actions be necessary in support of the blockade.”
“Any further violation of our territorial sovereignty will be met by armed force!”
“Then that will be at your discretion, General.” Vavra Bey closed the latches of her briefcase with a decisive snap.
Mobile Offshore Base, Floater 1 Zone Time;
June 8, 2007
My dearest Arkady:
Well, we’ve pulled it off The first go-round, at any rate. Upon reflection, I’ve decided that I was lucky to be dumped into this command in the middle of a crisis. Total immersion! Sink or swim! I never had time to think about all of the things I might be doing wrong.
I’ve been lucky in another area as well. As with our old team aboard the Duke, I’ve got another bunch of exceptionally good people to work with. I hope I can be worthy of their potential. I’ve just got to remember that I have to adapt to the rules of the tribe and the environment. If I can manage that, I think I’ll be okay.
We’ve cleaned out Belewa’s boat hides inside of Guinea and, surprisingly, no one’s complained about the rather unorthodox way we went about it. The local government is just relieved to have the pressure off for a while. Our major concern, now that we have the Union kicked out, is with not letting them sneak back in.
We’re running a barrier patrol now and I’m going out with it daily (or nightly—that seems to be when most of the action is around here). I just got back in from one a short time ago. I’ll be darned if I’m going to let myself develop a “squadron commander spread” by sitting around on this barge all of the time.
Even after taking out the hide network, we’re still spread awfully thin. Too few hulls to cover too many miles of coast. My Three Little PGs are fast, but not fast enough. (By the way, check the attached picture file. It’s their new squadron patch. Unknowingly, I had a hand in designing it.) I’m worried about our ability to execute a fast response should anything blow out along the line.
It’s a heck of a thing for a good surface-warfare officer to have to say, but I wish I had you and your helos here. And that, love, is for any number of reasons. I think about our last night together in the cockpit of the Seeadler, usually just before I go to sleep at night. I hope you think of it as well, and I also hope that we have the chance to finish that conversation soon. We still have a great deal to say on the subject.
Be well and be happy,
Amanda
P.S. Chris sends her regards.
Off the Guinea Coast
One Half Mile Southwest of Point Sallatouk 2330 Hours, Zone Time;
June 11, 2007
There was an odd feel to the way Queen of the West rode the low, oily swells. Drifting off cushion and powered down, there was a slight but decided hesitation to the hovercraft’s roll. Amanda idly analyzed the phenomenon and concluded it must be caused by the drag of the deflated plenum skirt beneath the hull.
Steamer Lane slouched in his command chair, staring out into the darkness, one hand resting on the propulsor pod controls. Intermittently his fingers would move and the Queen would tremble slightly as he poured a shot of power to the propellers, deftly holding the seafighter precisely on station.
As usual, the PGAC had the inshore post. Glancing at her tactical display, Amanda could see the Patrol Craft Sirocco circling slowly in her endless racetrack pattern six miles farther offshore. And six miles beyond her, the French corvette La Fleurette loitered out in deep water.
Odds were, though, if there was going to be any action, it would come here, creeping in along the coastline.
Amanda arose from her seat and stretched as well as she could in the cramped confines of the cockpit. “How’s it looking, Snowy?” she inquired, peering up through the overhead hatch.
“It’s a beautiful night out here, ma’am.” Seated on the hatch rim, the hovercraft’s copilot was a silhouette against the stars. She lowered her low-light binoculars and a faint flash of pale green light played across her pretty farm girl’s features. “Nothing’s happening except for a couple of fires over on the beach. Fishermen, I’d guess.”
“You think we may have some trouble coming, Captain?” Steamer asked from the controls.
“I’m not sure.” Amanda leaned forward to gaze out the windscreen, resting her elbow on the back of the pilot’s chair. There was just enough skyglow to differentiate between the sea, land, and sky. “For the past couple of days, I’ve been expecting some kind of a move from our friend Belewa.”
“I dunno. We kicked his ass pretty good back there, ma’am.”
“That’s just the point, Steamer. We’ve hurt him badly by eliminating his coastal bases inside of Guinea. He’s going to want those bases back again.” Amanda’s eyes narrowed as she again sought for the thought patterns of her opponent. “He also knows that we’re good now. But he’s not sure yet just how good. I think he’s bound to try at least one more probe to find out.”
Amanda straightened and slapped the back of the chair. “At any rate, I’m going below for a cup of tea. Can I bring you two anything?”
“No, thanks, ma’am. I’m good to mid rats.”
“Same here, Captain,” Snowy called down from the hatch way.
Amanda started down the ladder into the main hull. “Okay. Yell if we have any developments.”
The side hatches and stern ramp were closed against the possibility of a seventh wave, making the seafighter’s interior an enclosed little world, dimly blue lit by the battle lights. A diesel auxiliary purred and air rustled in the air-conditioning ducts. Sailors and Marines, those on duty and off, kept their voices low.
In the port-side passage a cutthroat game of six-handed Spades raged quietly among the auxiliary gunners, while over by the open hatch of the port power room, Scrounger Catlin lay stretched out on the deck, her eyes closed and her head resting on a bunched lifejacket, a whisper of new swing leaking from the headset of her portable CD player. In the central bay, half of a Marine rifle team intently studied an old issue of Guns and Ammo, while seated next to him on the fold-out bench, his partner mused over Steinbeck.
Other hands availed themselves of the opportunity to catch up on their sack time. All four bunks in the little berthing space were occupied, while back aft, dozing Marines sprawled in the inflatable miniraider.
Gunner’s Mate Daniel O’Roark had the scanner’s watch at the fire-control station under the cockpit. Grimly hunkering over his console, he alternated between the radar and the low light television, systematically sweeping the horizon.
Amanda smiled. She’d sensed right about the boy. Ever since that misfire incident, he’d been pushing hard to make up for his error and to prove himself. He was going to be one of the good ones.
Circling the cockpit ladder, Amanda ducked into the little wardroom. Stone Quillain and Ben Tehoa were seated at the wedge-shaped mess table, nursing mugs of coffee. The CPO also had a pen in hand and a half-filled sheet of writing paper in front of him.
“Catching up on your correspondence, Chief?” Amanda inquired, pouring water into a mug and setting it in the microwave.
“Yes, ma’am. A letter to my daughters.”
Amanda removed the steaming cup and dunked in a tea bag. She’d forgotten to lay in a stock of her preferred Earl Grey for this cruise and had been making due with PX generic. “You know we do have all-hands e-mail access on the barge.”
“Oh, sure. That’s how my wife and I take care of the routine stuff when I’m on deployment. But, you know, for my personal letters
, I still like to use paper.” The burly chief grinned self-consciously.” It makes it a little more special.”
“I can understand that,” Amanda replied, sliding in around the table. She still had a treasured stash of letters from her father safe in her desk at home, mementos of his days at sea. Those and a few from some of the other men who had been special in her life. Electronic communications could be convenient, but also soulless. She made a mental note to dig out some writing paper of her own next time Arkady was due a note.
“Have I ever shown you a picture of my family, Commander?”
“No, Chief. Not yet.”
Tehoa dug a battered wallet out of his hip pocket. Flipping it open, he passed it to Amanda. The photograph was as worn and salt-stained as the wallet, but Amanda could make out the stocky, serene Samoan woman and the two little girls. The girls were perhaps six and eight years old, each with large, dark, and sober eyes and glossy black hair.
“They’re beautiful, Chief,” Amanda said with all honesty. “All three of them.”
“I’m not going to argue, ma’am,” Tehoa replied proudly, restoring his wallet to his pocket.
Stone Quillain had been silent over at his corner of the table. However, Amanda was aware that the Marine’s eyes had been upon her throughout the exchange, studying her with that grim focus of his.
As an attractive woman, Amanda Garrett was used to being looked at by men. Given the right environment and circumstances, she could even enjoy the experience. However, she suspected that overt sensuality had little to do with Captain Quillain’s consideration of her.
Ever since the Marine had joined the task force, Amanda had been aware that she was being minutely analyzed, her actions gauged and her performance as a commanding officer judged. And, as far as she was concerned, he had every right to do so, as did anyone else serving under her command. Just as she had the responsibility of trying to live up to their highest expectations.
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