Sea fighter

by James H. Cobb

  “No appreciable damage at Conakry, and Abidjan just got an extra-heavy rain squall. Our people at Conakry are already asking when we want them back.”

  “What do you think, Steve? Are we ready to open for business again?”

  The wiry Seabee grinned back. “I can think of all sorts of jobs I could use some extra warm bodies for just now.”

  “Very well, then. Contact Conakry Base. Tell everyone to come on home.”

  Mamba Point Hotel

  Monrovia, West African Union 2034 Hours, Zone time;

  July 23, 2007

  “… Two deaths reported at Cape Shilling. Two more at Barlo Point. Three at Whale Bay.” Standing before Belewa’s desk, the staff officer read from the notebook in his hand. “That makes twelve total from the Freetown Provinces so far. We have yet to receive the reports from the Turtle and Banana Islands, however. Communications are still down.”

  Obe Belewa nodded slowly. “Very good, Captain Tshombe. It could have been worse. Far, far worse.”

  “It was bad enough as it was, sir,” the staff man replied soberly.

  Hammers rang outside the Premier General’s office. Sheets of plywood were being nailed over windows that had imploded under the impact of the hurricane winds. Women from a civil labor battalion worked with rags and buckets in the corridor, sopping up the rainwater that had infiltrated the government headquarters.

  “How are things with the signals detachment?” Belewa inquired. “Have we any problems there?”

  “We are fully operational, sir,” Tshombe replied proudly. “We remained so throughout the storm.”

  “Very good, Captain. Give your men a well done from me for their good service.” Belewa hesitated for a moment, then continued. “Are we still receiving information from the Americans?”

  “They are still transmitting weather bulletins at regular intervals,” the signals officer replied. “We have also received a message from them that they will be ready to start aerial reconnaissance photographs again shortly … that is, if the General wishes for us to continue to accept them.”

  Belewa lifted an eyebrow. “Did the Americans’ photographs prove useful in preparing for the storm?”

  “Yes, sir. They proved very useful.”

  “And would more such reconnaissance prove useful in our poststorm damage assessment?”

  “Uh, yes, sir. I would think so.”

  “Then accept the photographs for as long as the Americans are willing to send them. Dismissed.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir!”

  Belewa rubbed the back of his neck as the signals officer departed, recalling that he hadn’t slept for thirty-six hours. The hurricane was past now. Why not stand down and withdraw to his apartment and to his bed? His command staff were all good people. Why not turn things over to Sako and sleep?

  At even the thought, Belewa’s eyes grew heavy. And yet the damage and casualty reports were not in from the coastal islands. Curtly, he shook himself awake. One hour more, perhaps. Yes, just one hour more and then he would rest.

  A rap came at the door of his office.

  “Yes?”

  “The Algerian ambassador desires to speak with you, General. He says it is a matter of great importance.”

  Belewa allowed a groaning mutter to escape his lips. A bloody hurricane, and now Umamgi as well.

  “Show the ambassador in.”

  There was an arch smugness to the imam’s smile as he was ushered into Belewa’s office. “Good evening, General,” he said, coming to stand before the General’s desk. “An unpleasant storm, was it not? I trust that it has not caused undue injury to your nation or your people.”

  “In fact, we have considerable damage to deal with, Ambassador,” Belewa replied shortly, not offering the Algerian a seat. “I daresay we are going to be quite busy for a number of days with rescue and relief work. So saying, what may we do for you?”

  “It is what I may do for you, General.” Umamgi’s smile widened. “This storm was not entirely an evil omen. It was sent by Allah to grant you victory in your just struggle with the West.”

  Belewa scowled. “What do you mean, Ambassador?”

  “I bring you word from our embassy in Conakry. Our intelligence service has learned that the Americans were cowed by the fury of the tempest. They evacuated the majority of their fighting forces from the floating base they maintain off your coast.”

  Belewa lifted an eyebrow. “Our own agents in Conakry have informed us of the same thing, Ambassador. And your point?”

  “Simply this, General. With the passing of the storm, the American forces will be returning. But they have not done so yet. There are only a handful of Americans present at their base. Not enough to defend it adequately, but enough to serve us well as prisoners and hostages.

  “You have an opportunity to win this war in a single blow, General.” Umamgi continued eagerly. “I have been speaking with your chief of staff. Your gunboat squadron at Port Monrovia has ridden out the storm without damage. It is ready to sail at your command. If you attack now you could sink the American base, or better yet, seize it. You could break the illegal blockade that binds your nation and make fools of the United States and United Nations both.”

  The room grew very still for a moment. Even the hammer blows from the next office seemed muted. And then Belewa smiled a humorless smile. “All you say is quite true, Ambassador. Such an operation would be quite feasible, were it not for the cease-fire that is in effect along the coast for the next forty-eight hours.”

  The Algerian’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Cease-fire!” he exclaimed, taking a step closer to the desk. “I have heard rumors of a cease-fire. But still, you would throw away such an opportunity for … some … piece of paper!”

  “There is no piece of paper, Ambassador,” Belewa replied mildly. “There is only a verbal agreement between myself and the U.N. military commander.”

  “You …” Umamgi struggled to regain control. “Such things are meaningless!”

  “They are only meaningless if the involved parties fail to give them meaning. The U.N. commander upheld her share of the bargain. She rendered assistance that possibly saved thousands of African lives. I shall abide by my part of the agreement as well.”

  “She is a Western woman!” Umamgi clenched a thin fist in helpless rage. “A perverted, godless, and evil creature! Did you ever think that this is why she made this mad pact with you! To draw your teeth at the one moment when you could tear the throat from your enemies!”

  Belewa tilted his chair back and pondered. After a moment, he smiled again. “Speaking truthfully, Ambassador, no. I did not consider it. Nor, I think, did the Leopard. However, even if she did so, the gambit was well played. I have given my word. It will be kept. The cease-fire will be maintained.”

  “I will inform my government of this outrage! This insanity!” Umamgi sputtered. “They will not be pleased with an ally who throws away such a victory.”

  Belewa steepled his fingers over his chest, finding that he was enjoying himself for the first time in many days. “Ah, Ambassador, it is a great sadness, but it is decreed that some days we must disappoint even our closest and dearest allies. Such is life.”

  The Algerian spun on his heel and stalked for the office door. Belewa let him cross half the room before he reached out with a shout to stop the mock holy man.

  “Umamgi!”

  The Algerian cringed like a village cur and froze in place.

  “A man who has no honor,” Belewa continued in a quiet voice, “frequently cannot understand its value. You may go, Ambassador.”

  By the time Umamgi stepped back into the corridor, his lean features were stoic once more. Rage still burned brightly within the imam, but he had long since mastered the art of masking his true feelings and intentions. He wore such a
mask now as he sought out Belewa’s chief of staff.

  Pacing with suppressed excitement, Brigadier Atiba looked up as Umamgi entered his workspace. “You told him?” Atiba demanded. “What did he say? Are we attacking?”

  “I fear not, Brigadier,” Umamgi replied, picking his words and emphasis with consummate care. “I outlined the opportunity to the General as I did for you. However, your leader does not think it … prudent to directly challenge the United Nations in this way at this time.”

  “What?” Atiba exclaimed. “You can’t mean it? This is an opportunity that will never come again! I can’t believe Obe would throw this away for no good reason.” The Chief of Staff started to the door. “I’ll talk to him myself. I’ll change his mind.”

  Umamgi caught Atiba’s arm. “Leave him in peace, my son,” the Algerian said, metering careful overtones of sympathy and pity into his voice. “The General has made his decision and there it stands. He is … tired. Things have not gone well for him of late.”

  “Things are not going well for the entire Union, Ambassador! This is our opportunity to turn it all around.”

  “It was our chance, my son. It was our chance. Pray to Allah that there will be others. In the meantime, we must follow your general’s decisions in these matters … must we not?”

  Mobile Offshore Base, Floater 1 0751 Hours, Zone time;

  August 1, 2007

  Dear Dad:

  It’s about 0700 here and I’ve just completed a pretty good patrol debriefing and a pretty bad breakfast. In a little bit, I’m going to be turning in for the day. But first, I’m going to answer your last letter as a dutiful daughter should.

  We’re up and running again after our interlude with that hurricane. The British admiralty was indeed a little disgruntled at first over my innovative use of their minehunter, but they’ve agreed that under the circumstances we really didn’t have much choice. At any rate, we’ve patched up our storm damage and we’re back to conducting routine operations once more. Or at least as “routine” as it can get in a combat theater.

  The campaign progresses slowly. Belewa continues to nibble at the Guinea governmental infrastructure with his guerrilla raids, and we continue to interdict his oil-smuggling line with our patrols. Chris assures me that we’re winning, but we’re doing it the slow way, one jerrican of gas at a time.

  I don’t much like that, Dad. I want to get this thing finished fast. I know about “Softly softly catchee monkey” and that “A hunter is patience,” but I still don’t like giving Belewa any more time to work with than I have to. This guy is good, Dad. Good enough to scare me.

  I can feel him out there, just watching and waiting for me to make that one little mistake that will give him the edge back. It’s almost as if I can feel him thinking about me at times. There have been nights here in my quarters when I’ve had the sensation of someone staring at the back of my neck. Enough so that I’ve turned to see if someone was there.

  There wasn’t, of course. No doubt it’s just a minor case of the tropics.

  And don’t go taking that seriously, either. I’m sleeping okay, and I’m eating as well as the galley permits. I’ve lost a couple of pounds to the heat, but I needed to reduce a little anyway. And before you can nag me about it, Admiral Daddy sir, I promise that just as soon as the rush is over, I’ll fly into Abidjan and take a couple of days’ shore leave.

  In the meantime, I’m hunting for ways to possibly speed this campaign up a little. I’ll let you know what I come up with.

  I love you.

  Your daughter,

  Amanda

  Mobile Offshore Base, Floater 1 0943 Hours, Zone Time; August 2, 2007

  “I thought all this stuff was all weather- and environment-proof?”

  “It’s supposed to be, ma’am. But this Gold Coast climate is something else. Nothing’ s proof against it.”

  In the RPV repair bay, Christine Rendino crouched in front of a grounded Eagle Eye Recon drone, a technician kneeling at either side of her to point out the problem.

  It was an easy one to spot. The heavy polymer skin had separated from the inner foam-and-aluminum core of the drone’s composite wing, peeling back from the leading edge in limp folds.

  “The constant heat and humidity’s breaking down the bonding resin,” the technician continued. “This seam along the leading edge takes the full force of the propwash when the drone’s in horizontal flight mode. A corner of the skin lifts, the wind catches it, and zot!”

  “Shucks and other comments,” Christine frowned. “What can we do about this?”

  “Nothing, ma’am. It’s shot. We’ll have to replace the whole wing and shoulder assembly to get this thing airworthy again.”

  “The whole assembly?”

  “Yes, ma’am. This is a one-piece chunk of bonded composite.”

  “How long is it going to take?”

  “Not long at all once we get the new assembly.”

  “And pray tell, when can we get one?

  The two avtechs exchanged uneasy glances. “Uh, well, I understand there’s one in the pipeline, Commander,” the senior hand replied.

  “Operative word—‘when’!”

  “Next month.”

  There was a soft smacking sound as the heel of Christine’s hand impacted on her forehead. “Not an option! We don’t have enough of these things to begin with. I can’t afford to have a hangar queen sitting around for the next two weeks.”

  “I’m sorry, Commander, but there’s nothing else we can do.”

  “Sure there is. Fix this one.”

  “Ma’am, I’m really sorry, but we just can’t!” the young aviation hand replied earnestly. “If they had this assembly back at the factory, maybe they could apply a layer of new resin and run it through the bonding press again. We can’t come close to doing anything like that out here. The book says there’s just no way to repair this kind of composite material in the field.”

  Christine stood up abruptly. Muttering under her breath, she crossed to the bay workbench. Snatching up an industrial staple gun, she returned to the parked drone. As the aviation hands watched aghast, she pulled the polymer skin section taut over the wing and ran a row of heavy-gauge staples along its edges and deep into the honeycomb core material.

  “There, God says the book’s wrong. Stick some duct tape on this sucker and let’s fly it.”

  Five Miles West of Camp Palmas

  West African Union 0202 Hours, Zone Time;

  August 7, 2007

  An enjungled shoreline beneath a black and silent sky. A broad and smooth beach washed by the faintly luminescent foam of a low sea. A tired and crumbling macadam roadway separating beach from forest. A single, smoky orange spark guttering on the sands.

  And a quarter of a mile away, a clump of undergrowth that was no longer just a clump of undergrowth. Stealthily, a pair of nonreflective night lenses peered out through a narrow slit in the vegetation.

  “Sleeper …” The Bear breathed the words into the pitch darkness beneath the Ghilly camouflage net. “Hey, Sleeper!”

  A few inches away, the burly SOC Marine’s lean and wiry teammate made the instant transition from deep slumber to alert wakefulness.

  “What?” The ghost of a word drifted back.

  “It looks like there’s two blockaders out there now. ’Nother one just came in.”

  “Did you log it?”

  “Yeah.” The Bear nodded, even though the gesture would be unseen.

  “And the rest of the squad’s still got the OP covered?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And there’s no sign of enemy patrol activity?”

  “No.”

  “Then why the shit are you buggin’ me about it?” the Sleeper whisper-snarled.

  “Because I figured you’d want to know!”


  “When it’s my watch on the glasses, then I’ll want to know. Until then, I’m trying to get some sack time in here!”

  “Ah, shove it. You prick!”

  “Up yours, dork!”

  The Sleeper returned to his favorite pastime, his head against his helmet pillow. The Bear returned to the night glasses.

  “This all?” the transport sergeant asked.

  “This all we got t’ru, and I think this be all anybody gets t’ru tonight,” the smuggler replied in the soft mixed English African patois of the coast. “The monsters be hungry.”

  “Too right,” the second smuggler agreed. “Saw ’em takin’ a pinasse just off the bar at Harper. Think I got past just because I was a little fish not worth keeping.”

  Two outboard-engined blockade runners lay drawn up on the sand, each assembled from a pair of pirogues lashed side by side to form a seagoing catamaran hull. Their combined cargoes, a dozen fifty-gallon drums of diesel oil, barely made a load for one of the three flatbed trucks that had been waiting at the rendezvous point.

  Those oil drums had now been hogged up a plank onto the rear deck of the last truck in line and lashed upright in a double row. The enlisted men of the labor battalion were grateful for their abbreviated workload. The noncom commanding them, however, knew enough about current conditions within the Union to be concerned about what the two empty trucks meant.

  “You got we dash?” the first smuggler demanded softly. “We got t’ be back over the line before light.”

  The Union sergeant silently handed over the two sweat stained envelopes. Stepping closer to the guttering beacon fire, the two Ivory Coast boatmen hastily counted the thick pads of small-denomination currency.

  After a few moments, the first smuggler looked back at the noncom. “Okay for now. But you tell ’em next time it’s more.”