Stone Quillain would be far from the first person to question her abilities during her career in the Navy. He’d be far from the last, as well. And having to prove yourself to someone every now and again is not necessarily a bad thing. It kept a person from getting sloppy with themselves.
Amanda took a deliberate sip of her tea.
“Begging your pardon, Commander.” Quillain spoke up from across the table. “But I notice that you aren’t packing an issue handgun. What kind of a piece is that, anyway?”
“A Ruger SP 101.” She snapped open the retaining tab on the nylon cross-draw holster clipped to her belt and drew the small stainless-steel revolver. Thumbing the cylinder release, she flipped the little weapon open and passed it across to the Marine. “Technically, it’s a five-shot .357 Magnum, but I’ve only used .38 Special in it.”
Frowning, Quillain dumped the shells out into his hand; rolling them between his fingers, he sought for the feel of tarnished brass. Aiming the revolver at the battle light on the overhead, he spun the cylinder with his thumb, one-eyeing the chambers in an instinctive inspection for wear or dirt.
Wryly Amanda realized that she was being judged once more—this time for the ultimate Marine sin of neglecting a weapon.
“How come you went back to a wheel gun?” Quillain inquired with curiosity.
There was a yarn behind her choice. Unfortunately, it was one that still made Amanda feel like something of a ninny. The Marine looked on expectantly. She sensed he was genuinely trying to get an understanding of her through something he understood. He deserved the truth.
“It’s a long story,” she began, “going back about ten years to when I was still a lieutenant junior grade. The maritime drug-interdiction program was a major concern back then, involving assets from both the Navy and the Coast Guard. As an aspect of this, a certain number of naval officers were given the opportunity to cross-deck over to the Coasties to serve a makee-learn cruise aboard one of their cutters. It seemed like a good way to get off the beach for a while, so I volunteered.
“At any rate, one day off the coast of Baja California, we made an intercept on what appeared to be an Ecuadorian tuna clipper. I was the duty boarding officer that watch, and so I led a four-man inspection team across in a Zodiac to give her the once-over.
“Although we didn’t know it at the time, we’d hit the jack pot. The trawler was a cartel drug transport carrying several tons of raw morphine base. She was also carrying several senior cartel gunmen who were not interested in casually surrendering.”
Chief Tehoa had put aside his letter and was listening as well.
“I started getting the feel of something wrong almost the second we were aboard the clipper. Nobody was on deck except for the one sailor who met us at the boarding ladder, and he was as nervous as all get-out. He kept trying to get us to go below decks or into the deckhouse and out of sight of our people on the cutter.
“I didn’t buy it. I had two of my boarding hands cover the South American while I and the other two men started to search and clear the clipper’s weather decks. I was moving pretty fast as I ducked around the corner of the deckhouse, and I practically ran into another of the cutter’s crew, this one with a loaded SKS carbine.
“This brings us to my choice of side arms. At the time I was carrying an issue M9 Beretta automatic, and frankly, the damn thing intimidated the daylights out of me.”
Amanda sighed and gave a deprecating smug. “Don’t get me wrong. The Beretta is a fine weapon. Only, you do have to know what you’re doing with it. Now, I know my way around rifles and shotguns all right. My father taught me how to shoot while I was in grade school and he bought me a twenty-gauge Browning double barrel on my sixteenth birthday so we could go to the trap range together. However, I’ve never had the chance to really get good with a handgun. I had the basics at Annapolis and I shoot my qualification every month, but at the time I was, and still am, a long way from being any kind of expert.
“I yelled a warning to my backup team and shoved my pistol into the gunman’s face. Unfortunately, I couldn’t coerce the damn thing into going bang! I’d left the safety on. And by the time I could sort out the safety catch from all of the decocking levers and magazine releases and other assorted instrumentation on the Beretta’s frame, I’d been shot.”
Quillain lifted an eyebrow. “How big a piece did you catch?”
Amanda’s right hand instinctively came up to her left shoulder and the scar she could feel through the thin fabric of her shirt. “Not too bad. In and out and a broken collarbone.”
“What happened next, Captain?” Tehoa inquired.
“Not much. My backup team did for the gunman with their M-16s, and they got me out of there.”
Actually there had been quite a bit more. A savage firefight on the clipper’s decks with the remainder of the cartel crew, an assault on the bridge of the drug transport, and several blood-soaked and agonizing minutes until help could arrive from the cutter.
However, in Amanda’s opinion, none of that was really germane to the point she wished to make. “Anyway, the first thing I did after getting out of the hospital was to go out and buy the simplest, most reliable, and most totally idiot-proof side arm I could find. Some people who knew their business suggested the Ruger, and I’ve been carrying it ever since.”
Quillain thumbed the shells back into the little revolver. Closing it, he passed the gun back across the table. “Yeah. Just about everything Ruger makes is hell for sturdy. I’ll give ’em that.”
The big man hesitated for a moment, then cleared his throat. “Thing is, if you figure on staying with Special Operations for a while, you might want to think about getting yourself somethin’ a little heavier. Five rounds of .38 FMJ might be okay for standing a gangway watch in San Diego, but it’s not going to do you much good in a serious firefight.”
“That might be a good idea, Stone,” Amanda replied with careful casualness, settling the revolver back in its holster. “What would you suggest?”
The Marine went thoughtful for a moment. “I’d say your best bet would be an old Model 1911A Colt .45. There’s still a few of them rattling around in the arsenals.”
It was Amanda’s turn to lift an eyebrow. “A Colt .45? Lord, I’d never be able to handle a hip howitzer like that.”
“Oh hell! Yes you could! I know plenty of female shooters who can really hit a lick with the 1911.” There was a growing animation in the big man’s voice as his interest grew. “You don’t have that big fat two-by-four grip you get with the Beretta, and the weight of the piece absorbs the recoil. And if you want to talk stopping power, that old .45 hardball round has just about as much as you’re ever going to need.”
“Think you could get me one to try out?” she asked.
Quillain nodded. “I’d guess so. I’ll talk to my company armorer. He knows a few people here and there.”
It was good enough to simply be having a genuine conversation with Quillain, but he might also be making a valid point. “Okay,” Amanda conceded, “but I’m still going to need some instruction on it. Like I said, I’m no Annie Oakley, but I do know that the .45 is another expert’s gun.”
“Anything my top sergeant doesn’t know about the 1911 Colt isn’t worth knowing. When they finally made us convert all the way over to the Beretta, Tallman cried for three days, then went out and got drunk. He can set you up.”
Quillain hesitated for a moment, looking down at the table top and his half-empty coffee cup. When he looked up, there was a wry acceptance on his angular features. “And I figure I can help you some, too, if you need it.”
Amanda resisted the urge to grin. Sometimes you can win a battle when you least expect to. She nodded to the Marine. “Thank you, Stone. You’ve got a deal.”
“Hey, Captain Garrett,” Steamer Lane’s voice rang down urgently from the cockpit.
“Operations wants you on the horn. We got action!”
Amanda scrambled out from behind the mess table, leaving her mug abandoned at her place.
Topside, Snowy had dropped down out of the overhead hatch and was back in the copilot’s seat, beginning the power up checklists. Steamer passed back Amanda’s command headset. “Tactical display indicates we have a single slow moving target just crossing the line into Guinea’s territorial waters. Operations has the dope.”
“Thanks, Steamer.” Amanda clamped on the earphones. “Operations, this is Royalty. What do you have for us?”
Christine Rendino was on the other end of the circuit. Somehow she always managed to be there when Amanda was out on station. “We’ve got that probe you’ve been expecting, boss ma’am. A standard Union three-boat Boghammer patrol just executed a sweep up to the Guinea border. Two of the Bogs turned back; one didn’t. He’s now half a klick over the line and is still northbound, tiptoeing along just outside of the surf. Estimated speed, five knots. He’s not showing any lights and he’s minimizing his wake. I have the barrier Predator orbiting him at Angels twenty-five, and I do not think this guy knows we’ve got him spotted.”
“Good work, Chris! Stay on him! Steamer, sound General Quarters! Stand by to intercept!”
“Marines, saddle up! Boarding drill!” Stone Quillain yelled the words more out of habit than of necessity. Around him, both his people and the Navy gun teams donned helmets and strapped on battle vests.
The Queen was under way, not howling along on her air cushion but slinking through the night on her silent auxiliaries. To port and starboard, the midships hatches slammed open, the stumpy barrels of the grenade launchers training outboard. Back aft, the tail ramp dropped with a hissing moan of hydraulics, the slender barrels of the stern machine guns leveling at the night. The pool of air-conditioned cool within the hovercraft vented out into the darkness, replaced by an inrush of moist tropical heat intermingled with wisps of salt spray.
“All right, ladies and gentlemen,” Amanda Garrett’s quiet voice issued from the overhead speakers. “Here’s the situation. We have a single Union Boghammer advancing up the coast, presumably on a reconnaissance mission. As he’s heading in our direction, we’re going to let him come to us. We will attempt an ambush and capture. Hopefully, we can take him without a shoot-out. However, stand by for any eventuality. We will keep you posted as the situation develops.”
The Queen’s Marine squad marshaled at their station, seated with their backs against the bulkhead in the main bay, their weapons ready at hand. Quillain was cognizant of the twelve helmeted heads turned in his direction, the twelve sets of eyes watching for their company commander’s cue on how to react.
Quillain faked a yawn. “Looks like it’s gonna be the swabbies’ show for a while. Somebody give me a poke if they need us for anything.”
Claiming the end seat on the bench, Quillain slouched down and shut his eyes, his K-pot helmet in his lap and the Mossberg propped against his leg. Like the yawn, the attempt at sleep was a charade. He had the light headset of his PRC radio jacked into the hovercraft’s interphone system, and he maintained his situational awareness by monitoring the tense voices on the command channel.
“Bog holding course, steering three six zero. Speed still five knots. You guys have a ten-knot rate of closure. Separation two miles … Thanks, Chris … Steamer, this guy looks like he’s still right off the surf line. Is that going to be a problem? … Depends, ma’am. You want to run him up on the beach or take him offshore? … Let’s try and take him off shore … Fire Control. Do we have him on our radar? … Affirmative, ma’am. Range now three thousand yards, and I think I have a visual … Okay, Danno. Do you confirm target ID? … Yeah, that’s him, Captain. Confirming visual. We got a Bog … All right. Gunners, get me Hellfire locks on this guy. If he runs, I want a fast kill on him.… Roger, ma’am, Hellfires on the pedestals. We got locks. We are tracking…. Range two thousand … Range one thousand five hundred … Let him come in, guns.… Aye, aye, ma’am. Range one thousand. Come to Poppa.… We got position, Captain. Target bearing zero off the bow … Okay, Steamer. Go to station keeping. Kill our wake. Let him make final closure.… Roger. Range six-fifty … Arm flare tubes, we’ll take him at five hundred.… Okay, a little more … Okay, stand by … Flares now!”
The flare mortars on the weather deck of the Queen of the West tonked hollowly, hurling a cluster of sputtering projectiles into the sky. An instant later and the wave crests beyond the stern ramp burned white, reflecting the glare of the burning magnesium charges.
“UNION GUNBOAT!” Amanda Garrett’s voice was that of an angry goddess, thundering from the hovercraft’s loud speakers. “THIS IS THE UNITED STATES NAVY OPERATING UNDER UNITED NATIONS MANDATE! YOU HAVE MADE AN UNAUTHORIZED ENTRY INTO THE TERRITORIAL WATERS OF GUINEA. HEAVE TO AND PREPARE TO BE BOARDED. I SAY AGAIN, HEAVE TO AND PREPARE TO BE BOARDED! IF YOU RESIST, WE WILL OPEN FIRE!”
Quillain sat forward and donned his helmet. “Look alive, boys! We got business!” Keying the “Touch-to-Talk” pad of his headset, he spoke into the microphone. “Cockpit, this is the boarding team. How we looking?”
“The ambush appears successful,” Amanda replied warily. They’ve killed their engines, and they’re just sitting there about four hundred yards out.”
The flare launchers belched out another salvo, renewing the flickering false day outside.
“REMOVE THE AMMUNITION BELTS FROM YOUR MACHINE GUNS AND DROP ALL SMALL ARMS OVER THE SIDE. RAISE YOUR HANDS AND KEEP THEM RAISED. DO NOT RESIST AND YOU WILL NOT BE HARMED.”
“Okay, Stone.” Normally modulated, Amanda’s voice returned to his headset. “We’re moving in now. Standard procedure. We’ll take them aboard over the tail ramp.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am.” Quillain lifted his thumb off the key. “Marines, stand by to receive prisoners! Covering team, load buckshot and take your stations! By the drill!”
The Queen was maneuvering again, closing in. The safety webbing across the mouth of the tailgate was dropped and the two Marine grenadiers knelt on either side of the stern gun mount, slamming juice-can-size shotgun shells into the lower breeches of their M-4/M-203 combo weapons.
The Navy gunner on the stern twin fifty looked over at Quillain. “How do you want this illuminated, sir?”
“We’ll do it white light, son. Wait till the Captain gives the word, then hit ’em with your beams. Once we illuminate, you keep it right in their eyes, you hear?”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
The second flight of flares sank into the sea, streaking the ocean’s surface with a brief pattern of wave shadows before guttering out entirely. The Queen sluggishly began to come about, bringing her stern in line with the Boghammer. Quillain felt his muscles bunch. This was the moment of greatest vulnerability, with the seafighter able only to bring its stern guns and the Marine’s small arms to bear on the potential threat.
A slender form in a battle vest came up beside Quillain. “How does it look?” Amanda asked.
“Let you know in a second, Captain. We clear to illuminate?’
“Light them up.”
Thanks to Scrounger Caitlin’s deft talents at acquisitioning, a pair of quarter-million-candlepower mercury iodide driving lights had been wired into the stern fifty-caliber mount. Now the gunner switched them on, sending twin sword blades of piercing silver light slashing through the darkness. They came to rest on the low gray-green hull of the Union gunboat.
The seafighter backed slowly toward the drifting Boghammer. As the smaller craft drew closer, more detail could be made out. The gunboat rode broadside-on. As per instruction, the belts had been removed from its heavy machine-gun mount and its twin barrels drooped down into the hull. There were no lighter weapons in sight, and the six-man Union crew sat in a grim row, their hands behind their heads and facing the American vessel.
The distance continued to lessen—fifty yards … forty …
Abruptly a warning switch tripped inside Quillain’s head. “Shit! They’re screwing with us!” He whipped the Mossberg up and in line, jacking a flechette round into the chamber. “I need more shooters back here!”
Marines surged to their company commander’s side, Squad Automatic Weaponsmen with their light machine guns braced on their hips, riflemen with their carbines leveled. Bolts slammed back and fire selectors snapped over to full autofire. Amanda Garrett was respectfully, but firmly, brushed aside and over against Quillain as the tailgate became a solid wall of leveled firepower.
“Target up! If any of those sumbitches move, I mean if they so much as twitch, hose ’em! Captain Garrett, heave to! Stop closing with the Bog!”
Without an instant’s hesitation, Amanda repeated the order into her lip mike. Seamlessly, command of the operation had passed to Stone Quillain.
The soft thrumming of the propellers stopped, and the only sound was the soft creaking of the hull and the occasional scuffling shift of a boot as a tense Marine rode with the slow pitching of the deck. The crew of the Boghammer continued to stare into the blaze of the gun lights.
“Okay!” Quillain relied on his own drill field bellow over the seafighter’s loud-hailer system. “Real easy now, drop the hand grenades over the side! Don’t die stupid!”
The Union captain screamed a wordless cry. Six arms whipped back, the ugly iron spheres held concealed behind the crewmen’s heads coming into view.
There was no order yelled in the Queen’s central bay. A dozen automatic weapons simply cut loose in a single massed roar of devastation, the spray of ejecting shell casings sparkling in the glare of the muzzle blasts. The jackhammering thunder of the dual Browning heavies segued with the faster venomous snarl of the SAWs and the chopping crackle of the M-4s. The grenade launchers crashed out their antipersonnel charges. Then, with their big tubes emptied, the grenadiers flipped over to carbine mode, pouring full thirty round magazines of 5.56mm after the handfuls of buckshot. Stone Quillain held down the trigger of the Mossberg and jacked the slide, pumping shotgun hulls through the action with a speed that nearly matched that of the full automatics, the distinctive bellow of the 12-gauge blurring into the firestorm.
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