Sea fighter

by James H. Cobb

  Felix sometimes wondered if there was more truth in that name than he knew. The white folk claimed that they had no sorcerers or sorceresses living among them. However, with this one, he wasn’t so sure.

  ”Merci, s’il vous plait, Capitaine,” Felix replied carefully, taking a seat across the table from the female American naval officer. “The night is warm.”

  Producing a chilled bottle of Flag lager, she filled the two water glasses waiting on the table. After waiting a moment for the foam to settle, they drank together, accomplishing the ritual of hospitality.

  “How is the fishing?” she inquired, setting her glass on the table.

  “Not good and not bad. Much the same as always.”

  “And your granddaughters away at school?”

  “Ha! They write their grandpapa letters and my son-in-law reads them aloud to me and to the whole village. They make me proud.”

  The Little Ghost smiled. “I am pleased to hear it, my friend. And things along the coast, how are they?”

  Now the pleasantries were past and it was time to get to business.

  “The Union men have been around recruiting, seeking for more boatmen to haul oil Englishside.”

  “And are they finding many who want to try?”

  “It is not as easy as it once was. You and your sea monsters, your skimmer gunboats, have taken too many. Of course, the smugglers who have been caught are only sentenced to a month or two in the prisons, less than that if their families can pay dash to the judge. But even a month in the Ivoire Bastille is not a pleasant thing. And when they return home, their boats are gone. They have nothing.”

  Felix took another sip of beer. “No,” he said, “this time the Union men have to make big promises to get all the men they want.”

  “And do they want many?” Those eyes, the color of a dawn horizon at sea, narrowed just a little.

  “Very many. More than ever before.”

  “And what promises are the Union men making to get them?”

  “More money, almost twice as much for each barrel of diesel or petrol delivered. And this time the Union men are paying for the fuel themselves. And finally, a new outboard motor for every boat that dares the blockade, delivered in advance. My own wife would be tempted to smuggle for that.”

  The Little Ghost nodded thoughtfully. “I imagine they are getting their men with that offer.”

  “They are.”

  “I see. That is most interesting, my friend.” The woman reached into her shirt pocket and produced a folded pad of paper money. West African CFA francs, used bills as always, and in small denominations, money that wouldn’t attract attention. “Thank you for being my eyes and ears.”

  Felix stowed the francs away in the pocket of his own ragged shirt. At times he wondered about being a spy on his own people, but then, he wasn’t as young a man as he once was. The fish were harder to catch than when he was a youth and his granddaughters’ school was expensive.

  And then, what would happen if the West African Union succeeded in eating up Guinea? At the moment, this Belewa fellow smiled at the Côte d’Ivoire. But then, so does the shark just before taking a bite.

  “There is a plan as well,” Felix continued. “When the engines and the fuel are delivered, each boatman is told a night and a time and a place. This time, they are not to make the run to Englishside on their own. All of the smuggling boats are to sail at once and travel together like a great school of fish.”

  “And the Union thinks we won’t notice?” the Little Ghost asked.

  “They are sure you will. But the Union men have made one last promise. This time, so they say, there will be Union gunboats waiting to escort the smugglers across the line. Many Union gunboats. This time, so they say, the sea monsters will die.”

  Mobile Offshore Base, Floater 1 0645 Hours, Zone Time; August 16, 2007

  “I think it’s a Hail Mary play,” Christine Rendino said, cradling a half-empty coffee mug in her hands. “A desperation move. Belewa’s going for broke.”

  Following her interview with her informant aboard the Sirocco, the intel had thumbed a priority ride back to Floater 1 aboard a British patrol helicopter. She’d risked the sling lift in the early-morning darkness so she could be back aboard the platform and waiting when Amanda and the other senior tactical officers returned from patrol.

  Gathered in the briefing trailer, Christine, Amanda, Stone Quillain, and Steamer Lane drained the coffee urn, striving to keep sleep at bay while confronting this latest crisis.

  “Do we have any other intel supporting the word you’ve received from your agent?” Amanda inquired, rubbing her eyes.

  “It explains what we’ve been seeing at the naval station at Harper. The two Boghammer squadrons there have been reinforced with every available hull the Union navy can scrape together. We’re estimating between twenty-two and twenty-four Bogs currently operational. These squadrons have also had their fuel restrictions lifted. For the past week they’ve been conducting intensive maneuver and live-fire training. Fa’sure, they’re gearing up for some kind of big push.”

  “I don’t suppose your guy could give us the word on when this show is scheduled,” Steamer inquired.

  Christine shrugged. “He doesn’t have to. It’s easy enough to figure. The Union plans on making their move at night. That makes sense. They want darkness cover. On the other hand, they’re going to be herding an uncoordinated swarm of fishing boats down the coast, none of which will have night vision systems or even rudimentary navigational equipment. They’re going to need moonlight, as much of it as they can get.”

  “And we’ve got a full moon in six days,” Amanda said slowly.

  “Yep,” Christine acknowledged. “I’d say their valid operational time frame will extend from two days before full moon to two days after. The long-range weather projection indicates that we can also expect low seas and clear weather throughout that time frame. Conditions will be as good as they get for a convoy run. If the Union misses this gate, it’ll be a month before they can try again. And they don’t have another month to spare.”

  No one spoke, and all eyes came to rest on Amanda Garrett.

  She seemed to be gazing off into the distance beyond the trailer walls, her golden hazel eyes half closed and shadowed with lack of sleep. Only that slight unconscious action, that light biting of her lower lip in thought, testified to her mental focus. The adding and subtracting of a warrior’s sums.

  “I think we can put enough of a package together to take to the U.N. rep,” Christine continued hesitantly. “She can confront the government of Côte d’Ivoire with it. This deal is going to be too big for them to sweep under the rug. They’ll have to take action or run the risk of losing too much international face. If we move fast, maybe we can break this thing before it gets launched.”

  “No.”

  Amanda shook her head decisively. “We don’t tell anyone ashore about this. Not even anyone at Conakry Base. I will personally brief Admiral Macintyre on this situation. Beyond that, this information stays strictly on the platform. I don’t want Union intelligence to have any chance at all to learn that we’ve been tipped to their plans.”

  She pushed back her chair and rose to her feet, pacing, the sudden surge of battle-inspired adrenaline kicking her up and moving. “If Belewa wants to come out and engage, we’re going to let him. This is what we’ve been waiting for since Yelibuya Sound. Another chance for a stand-up fight with the Union navy within our rules of engagement, and another opportunity to take them down hard.”

  Steamer Lane looked grim. Stone Quillain smiled wolfishly, one fist lifting in a sharp thumbs-up. As for herself, Christine wasn’t quite sure what her response should be.

  “Steamer, start cooking your maintenance schedules. I want full squadron availability during this upcoming full moon phase. Maximum e
ffort! We’re going to have all three PGs out there on station for all five nights. It means a doubled patrol schedule for all hands, but we can hack that for a little while. Pass the word to Santana and Sirocco as well. We’ll be shifting both of them over to support positions on Ivory East. We’ll also need to coordinate operations with the Brit helo group. Everybody gets invited to this party.”

  “Aye, aye, ma’am.”

  “Stone, I’m not quite sure what all your people are going to be doing yet, but I want all three rifle platoons regrouped here on the barge. Everyone except for our coastwatcher patrols on the eastern Liberian beaches.”

  “Y’all got it, Skipper.”

  “Christine. Can you give us a one-day jump-off warning before they make their move?”

  The intel nodded slowly. “Yes, ma’am. I believe we can give you a twenty-four-hour notification of event with a reasonable accuracy level.”

  Amanda hesitated, meeting Christine’s cool blue-gray gaze for a long moment, then turned away. “All right, let’s get going on this ground work. We’ll start on the details tonight. I want a special 0 Group meeting at 1900 hours for … let’s call it for Operation OK Corral.”

  Twenty minutes later, Amanda sat at her desk calling up the first of a protracted series of data dumps on her laptop. A Styrofoam cup of double-steeped tea sat at her elbow. She’d learned that if she absorbed enough caffeine to get through the comparatively cool morning hours, the generalized discomfort of the full day’s heat would keep her awake and operational, without having to resort to the go-pill kit. It was a useful thing to know when all hell was on the verge of breaking loose.

  She was just taking her first cautious sip of the hot liquid when a sharp rap sounded at the module door.

  “Come in.”

  Christine Rendino entered and assumed a parade rest in front of Amanda’s desk, her eyes emotionless and looking somewhere beyond Amanda’s shoulder. “Request permission to speak frankly with the Captain.”

  Amanda sighed and pushed the laptop aside. Back during the briefing, Christine had started to look and sound like a naval officer. That almost inevitably meant that the little intel was truly and royally pissed off about something and that she wanted Amanda to know about it.

  “You know you always have permission, Chris. Let’s hear it. What’s the problem?”

  The intel relaxed minutely, resting her hands on her hips. “You’ve been spending a lot of time with Stone Quillain lately, haven’t you?”

  Amanda lifted an eyebrow. “Does this concern my professional life or my personal one?”

  “Both! I mean, I’m wondering here if you’ve been hanging around with the Marine mentality so much that maybe some of the gung ho is starting wear off on you.”

  The intel’s words were an attack, and an angry nerve-sharpened response almost reached Amanda’s lips. Almost.

  Amanda caught herself in time and called the words back. Christine Rendino had been serving as her emotional Jiminy Cricket for years now, and she had come to learn it was bad joss to disregard her friend’s observations.

  “Sit down, Chris,” she said quietly. “Pour yourself a cup of this high-octane tea and tell me what you’re seeing.”

  After a moment, the little intel stopped bristling and accepted both the tea and the chair. “All right,” she said. “What I think I’m seeing now is something I haven’t ever seen before. Amanda Garrett looking for a fight. Hey, I mean you’ve always done the job, but I have never, ever seen you take your people into a battle that wasn’t absolutely required to do that job.”

  Amanda took a deliberate sip of tea. “And you don’t think OK Corral is a necessary fight?”

  “What I think isn’t important, boss ma’am. What you think is. And what I am asking is, have you done as much thinking about this job as maybe you should have? Belewa is up against the ropes. If we can just keep the oil tap turned off for a few more weeks, he’s going down.

  “That’s the real strategic key to this whole thing,” Christine continued earnestly. “We don’t have to go to guns with this guy. We can starve him to death. If we can bust up this mass smuggling run by means other than by a direct confrontation, it’ll serve the same purpose. And a big bunch of Union … and probably American sailors will stay alive.”

  When applied to those most elemental equations of life and death, additional consideration was always in order. Amanda thought for a long moment before replying.

  “To tell you the truth, Chris,” she said finally. “I really didn’t do too much deep thinking at all about the OK Corral operation before committing us to it. But then, that’s become rather SOP for me lately. I’m not exactly sure why, but as this campaign has progressed, I’ve found myself reacting to Belewa more and more by instinct and intuition than by logic. If I were back at the Naval War College laying this scenario out as a problem in strategic analysis, I’d probably agree with you. But here and now, living it, my heart and my gut are sending me a different message.”

  Christine frowned. “And they’re saying?”

  “That this show is a long way from being over. Back in the briefing trailer, you called this bulk-smuggling operation a Hail Mary play. I disagree with that assumption. Yes, we are going into the endgame. Yes, Belewa’s back is against the wall. But that only makes him more dangerous. Belewa is not going to yield passively, Chris. Not while he has a drop of fuel, or a round of ammunition, or a single man responding to orders. This I am sure of. He will only become more driven and more willing to take chances.”

  Amanda set her cup on the desktop and leaned back in her chair, the salt-rusted pivot squeaking. “That’s what OK Corral is about, Chris. The fuel is almost secondary. This is a chance to bleed Belewa, to force him into an engagement at something close to our terms. If we can take a large block of his fighting strength out of the game now, it will leave him with that much less to work with when he finally does make his last stand.”

  The intel was quiet for a moment, deep in considerations of her own.

  “Well,” Amanda inquired. “What do you think of OK Corral now?”

  “I think I liked the Kurt Russell version best. Wasn’t Val Kilmer just to die for as Doc Holliday?”

  Off the Coast of the West African Union

  Four Miles South-Southwest of Cape Palma 0122 Hours, Zone Time;

  August 22, 2007

  “You called it right, Captain,” Ben Tehoa commented, peering over the shoulder of his squadron commander. “They’re bypassing Port Harper and continuing up the coast.”

  Captain Garrett nodded absently as she studied the radar display, her amber hair dull flame in the cockpit’s scarlet battle lights. “Our recon indicates they have truck convoys waiting up at their usual landing points along the Grand Cess coastal highway. I’ve been worried that they might try and bring the smuggling fleet directly in at Harper, but I guess that would be a little too flagrant even for the Union. This was the last big maybe, Chief. OK Corral is good to go.”

  “You think they know we’re out here, ma’am?”

  “I think they’re expecting us to be.”

  The radar sweep etched scores of glowing dots clustered between the ghostfire green of the coast and the incandescent blue of the squadron’s course line. A second console screen carried a real-time download from the low-light cameras of a circling Predator drone. Upon it, dozens of straggling wakes cut across the surface of the sea, outboard engines churning the luminescence from the water.

  A mismatched flotilla of small craft trudged westward beneath the full moon, each boat burdened to the point of risk with cans and drums of diesel and gasoline. On their seaward flank, a long line of Boghammer gunboats cruised warily nose to tail, a mobile wall of men and firepower fencing out the threat of U.N. intervention.

  Farther yet to seaward, that intervention loitered. The Three Little Pigs p
added silently along in swimmer mode, paralleling the course of the Union convoy, awaiting their time.

  “Those Union gunboats look like they’ve got bigger crews aboard tonight,” Tehoa commented.

  Captain Garrett nodded again. “Um-hmm. They’re running a couple of extra gunners per hull. I had the Predator make a low pass a while ago to check them out and they look like army heavy-weapons men. Every boat’s also carrying a heavy ammunition load. They’re here to fight. No doubt about it.”

  Captain Garrett looked back over her shoulder, smiling ruefully. “I can really pick ’em, can’t I, Chief?”

  Tehoa grinned back. “It’s no fun if it’s too easy, ma’am. By your leave, I’ll go do a walk around in the main hull.”

  “Carry on. You’ve got about half an hour before we hit the engagement zone.”

  Tehoa dropped down the ladder into the Queen’s central bay. Methodically he began a circuit of the seafighter’s battle stations, checking out systems and personnel alike, exchanging a few quiet words with the hands. Danno and Fryguy at fire control, Lamar and Slim in the starboard power room, the auxiliary gun crews at the hatch mounts.

  Like the Boghammers, the Queen carried a couple of extra souls aboard this night—extra ammo humpers ready to feed the ravenous autoweapons during a prolonged battle. With the Marine landing team absent and with the miniraider Zodiac unshipped, there was plenty of room for them as well as for the small mountain of cartridge and grenade cases lashed down along the centerline of the bay.

  “Yo, Scrounger! How’s things going in here?” Tehoa called, looking in through the port-side power room hatch.

  “Green boards, Chief,” the brunette turbine tech replied, turning away from the silent main engines. “Everything’s looking okay.”