“I understand your position, Commander Trochard,” Amanda replied. “And yet you must also understand the time factor that we are confronted with. While your government considers the issue, our window of opportunity will close.”
The French officer shook his head. “I am sorry, but we are not like you Americans. For all of our much-vaunted French élan, we simply do not have this kind of cowboy blood in us.”
Amanda sighed. In battle, one used whatever weapons were available in the arsenal. She allowed her expression and her voice to soften. “Jacques, please, we need your help with this thing … I need your help.”
Trochard fought his own battle for a moment, then sighed his own sigh and smiled. “A thought does occur to me, Amanda. While we cannot stretch my operational mandate into a direct involvement in this matter, perhaps we could at least appear to be involved …”
… Plot, plan, and prepare …
“Okay, Lieutenant.” Sergeant Tallman passed the youthful lieutenant a stuffed manila envelope. “Here’s all the dope you’ll need. Mission parameters, maps, tide table, beach composition and gradients, Union force deployments in that sector and what we have on their patrol intervals. The Skipper needs your completed plan of operations by no later than 1600 hours. You and your men need to be ready to move by 1800.”
“Got it, Sarge.” Smiling ironically, the platoon leader accepted the envelope. “Damn. Eight months out of ROTC and I’m already planning my first invasion. It ain’t a fuckin job …”
“…it’s a fuckin’ adventure,” the Top wryly joined in, finishing the chorus.
… Adapt, alter, and expedite …
“Bloody hell, sir!” the crew chief exclaimed, aghast, studying the hand-sketched diagrams. “We’re an ASW unit. We’re just not supposed to be doing this kind of thing!”
Squadron leader Evan Dane only grinned and patted the aircrewman on the shoulder. “Well, then, young-sailor-me-lad, let’s just say that we’re going after the 1st African Royal Submarine Regiment and leave it at that.”
… Analyze, assess, collect …
”Guten Tag, Herr Zimmer. Thank you for sparing us this time. It is greatly appreciated. We understand that in 2003, your firm reconditioned and sold an eighty-four-foot diesel harbor tug to the government of the West African Union. If possible, could we get some technical specifications on that vessel? Rated horsepower, power-plant manuals, wheelhouse and engine-room schematics, that sort of thing.”
… Evaluate … consider … project …
“Just asking, boss ma’am, but have you thought about the possible environmental fallout of this little tea party we’re throwing? We’re on the verge of deliberately invoking our own little Exxon Valdez on the African Gold Coast here.”
“Not quite, Chris. That tanker is loaded with light petroleum distillates, diesel and gasoline, and not heavy crude oil. They should evaporate and disperse fairly rapidly in this hot a climate. Besides, if our friends the Marines work it right, there shouldn’t be all that much left to worry about.”
… Designate, assign, and trust in the abilities of subordinates …
“Okay, Corporal. Tankers take a hell of a lot of killing. What have you got?”
“Right over here, Cap’n.” The demolitions man cracked his gum and led Stone Quillain over to the selection of munitions spread out on a patch of tarpaulin-covered deck. They included an innocuous-looking camouflaged shoulder bag, a thick and ominous gray metal disk roughly the size of a hub cap, and a couple of quart-sized gray metal canisters each with the safety lever and pull ring of a grenade fuse screwed into its top.
“We’ve got kind of a package here, sir, put together with a standard Mark 138 forty-pound satchel charge, a limpet mine, and a couple of Mark 34 white phosphorus grenades.”
Quillain nodded. “How’ll she work?”
The demo man knelt down beside the tarp and began indicating components. “Y’ see, we clip the Willie Pete grenades to the satchel charge and then rig the charge on top of one of the tanker’s cargo cells. Then we link the limpet mine’s detonator to the satchel charge with a long-length petroleum-proof det cord.”
“With you so far, son.”
“We drop the mine into the cargo cell through an inspection hatch. The mine sinks to the bottom of the tank. That sets up what you call your chain of events. When the satchel charge detonates, it’ll do a whole bunch of stuff at once. It’ll tear open the top of the cargo cell, set off the two white phosphorus grenades, and fire the det cord. The det cord then flashes down to the bottom of the tank and to the limpet mine, which it detonates a split second later. This not only blows a hole in the bottom of the ship, but it should sort of sneeze the contents of the cargo cell up and out of the hole in the top, where it will then have congress with all that burning white phosphorus that’s lying around.
“We’ve got the goods for about half a dozen of these rigs and we’ll target the cells loaded with gasoline and Avgas. We’ll double-fuse everything with M700 and time for a five minute delay.”
The demo man popped his gum again. “Piece of cake.”
“Lord A’mighty. Did our demo people at Little Creek have anything to say about this setup?”
“Yes, sir. They suggest we stand way back and take photographs.”
…Work fast, faster, watch the clock, if you can’t do all, do what you can.
Night draws nigh.
Conakry Base, Guinea 1922 Hours, Zone Time;
September 7, 2007
Unseen, a night rain had started to fall outside of the headquarters building. Vavra Bey could smell the mildewing wetness of it seeping in through the wall of sandbags beyond the empty window frame. She and the others of the U.N. diplomatic mission to Guinea had been pulled back inside the U.N. base compound for the duration of this latest crisis, both for personal security and to be closer to the developing situation.
Not that there appeared to be all that much that she could do.
The U.N. envoy removed her glasses and lightly rubbed her throbbing temples, wishing for a moment that she could be a grandmother again. Be damned with diplomacy and with the futility of trying to solve the problems of a world that didn’t want them solved. Her joints ached in the humidity, and all she wanted for that moment was the warm, sun-baked dryness of her garden at home and the sound of her grandchildren at play.
A knock came at the door of the tiny office she had been allotted and it half opened, her aide looking around it. “Madam Envoy. Admiral Macintyre has arrived.”
“Very well, Lars. Show him in, please.”
Bey slipped her glasses on once more. Thinking of her grandchildren had been a good thing. It reminded her of why she had become who she was.
It was a different Elliot Macintyre than she had met that day at the U.N. Instead of the crisp blue uniform, the Admiral now wore a rain-dotted Nomex flight suit. His gray-streaked hair was matted from hours under a crash helmet, and a haze of beard darkened his angular chin.
“I apologize for my appearance, Madam Envoy,” he said, accepting the chair across the desk from her. “I’ve been doing some traveling today.”
“So I understand. Appearance is a matter of little consequence at the moment, Admiral,” she replied. “Surely, though, you haven’t come all the way from the United States?”
“Not quite. I was attending a conference on Adriatic security affairs at NATO Southern Command headquarters in Naples when I received word of the blockade being broken. I, ah, ‘borrowed’ an Air Force F-22 and a pilot from Sigonella and hauled down here as fast as I could. I’ve made it a personal policy as commander in chief, NAVSPECFORCE, to be present if possible whenever any of my people might be seeing action.”
“Ah.” Bey nodded and interlaced her fingers. “That brings us to the current state of affairs.”
“It does, Madam Envoy, and at this time
I would like to state for the record that I stand behind and agree with the decision made by Captain Amanda Garrett this morning concerning the Bajara. Given the circumstances, she had no option except to refuse engagement and allow the tanker through the blockade. Humanitarian considerations gave her no choice.”
“I agree, Admiral, and that shall be noted for the record as well. We could not place those children in the line of fire.
“I must say,” she continued more slowly, “that I’m surprised that they were there in the first place. Belewa didn’t strike me as that kind of man…. Well, desperation knows no bounds. The question before us now, Admiral, is what can we do about this, if anything?”
“Madam Envoy, if we permit General Belewa to off-load that tanker’s cargo, everything UNAFIN has accomplished here on the Gold Coast will be erased. The crisis will be protracted. The strain on the Guinean government will be redoubled, and the West African Union’s plans for territorial conquest will go back on track. We cannot allow this to stand.”
“I agree,” she replied. “However, diplomatically, I fear our options are nonexistent. What of the military ones?”
“The simple and direct option, that of blowing that tanker out of the water where it sits, has been blocked by the presence of the human shields aboard her. So has any bombardment of the oil-storage facility at Port Monrovia. It’s been turned into a prison compound with several hundred of the Union’s political dissidents being held there. Belewa has checked any direct attack against him.”
“Leaving what, Admiral?”
Macintyre took a deliberate breath before continuing. “Leaving a rather … audacious plan proposed by Captain Garrett. We don’t blow the oil up, we steal it. Tanker and all.”
“Steal it? I don’t understand, Admiral.” Confident as she was with the English language, Vavra Bey was certain she must have missed the true meaning of Maclntyre’s words.
“Captain Garrett is proposing what in naval parlance is called a ‘cutting-out’ expedition. A small-boat assault to capture an enemy vessel in a hostile harbor.”
Bey’s eyebrows lifted. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
Macintyre gave a slight grimace. “It was once a fairly common naval evolution. At least back in Napoleonic times. Captain Garrett is proposing a modernized, uprated version of it. An escalating series of diversionary actions will draw Union attention and resources away from the Port Monrovia area while a stealthy penetration of Port facilities takes place. A Marine boarding team will go aboard the Bajara, eliminate the guards on board, and remove the human shields and the Algerian crew to a point of safety. Following that, the ship will be moved away from the pier and into the central channel of the port. There it will be set on fire and scuttled, destroying its cargo and blocking the port entrance.
“We kill two birds with one stone,” Macintyre finished. “Not only do we take out this oil shipment, but we make sure the Union can never try this stunt again, or least not until the hulk of that tanker is salvaged and moved out of the way.”
Bey considered Maclntyre’s words for a few long moments. “Something suggests to me,” she said finally, “that this operation is much more complicated than your description would indicate.”
The Admiral nodded. “That’s a sound assumption, Madam Envoy. In fact, I’d be thinking twice about this plan myself if I didn’t know the person who has developed it. She has a proven track record of accomplishing the extremely difficult, if not the impossible. That’s why I brought her out here in the first place.”
“So I recall.” Bey half-smiled reminiscently. “I remember speaking to you about her in New York what seems to be a very long time ago. You expressed a great deal of confidence in her at that time as well.”
“She’s done everything we’ve asked her to do, ma’am. Now she’s asking permission to finish the job. If you want my opinion, I say we should give her the chance.”
“And what does your government say, Admiral?”
“I’ve spoken to our secretary of state and he’s spoken with our president. The United States is willing to commit its forces within the confines of a U.N. action. I’ve also been in communication with my opposite numbers within both the United Kingdom and French UNAFIN contingents, and they have received similar authorizations from within their respective chains of command. We are good to go when we get word from you, Madam Envoy.”
“Indeed.” Again Vavra Bey lifted a hand to her temple to counter the ravages of her headache. She had not counted on having to deal with this aspect of statesmanship. In her younger and more idealistic days she had dreamed of prying warring armies apart, not in ordering them into battle. “When is it your intention to launch this operation?”
“Madam Envoy,” Macintyre replied grimly. “I need to take the go order with me when I leave this room. We must launch tonight.”
Bey looked up sharply. “That’s impossible. This kind of conflict escalation must be taken before the Security Council for a vote.”
“We already have the Security Council’s resolution to embargo all oil shipments to the West African Union,” Macintyre insisted. “What we’re proposing is no more than an extension of that policy.”
Bey shook her head. “Admiral, we have already stretched the envelope of that resolution to its limits. To date, the Security Council has turned a blind eye to our actions. However an open assault upon the territory of the West African Union goes far beyond any mandate UNAFIN has been issued. We are answerable to the world community here. Procedure and the rule of law must be followed.”
“And how long will that take, Madam Envoy? How long?”
“I can be in communication with the Security Council tonight. I will propose this matter be brought to an immediate debate and vote. I can promise you an answer within … forty-eight hours.”
Macintyre shook his head decisively. “No good, Madam Envoy. This operation must be launched within the next two hours or it doesn’t get launched at all. By ‘stretching the envelope,’ as you phrased it, Captain Garrett has delayed the unloading of that tanker by one night. That’s all. Two days from now, Belewa’s oil will have been off-loaded and dispersed out to his backcountry depots.
“I’m not saying that Belewa will win because of it, but I’m guaranteeing that the war in Guinea is going to stretch on for at least another half a year. In that interim, a hell of a lot of people are going to die, both on the battlefield and in those refugee camps.”
Macintyre held up his hand, thumb and forefinger separated by half an inch. “We are this close to seeing the UNAFIN operation become another international bad joke. For the sake of everything we’ve done here and for the sake of effective U.N. intervention in the crises that may follow, I don’t want to see that happen.”
“Neither do I, Admiral! But I have not the authority to unilaterally order this action!” Bey found herself holding her hands out to Macintyre. “Every word you say is true. But I have no options here. By the sacred name of God, give me one that I can work with!”
Macintyre looked down at the desktop for a moment, then back up into Bey’s eyes. An ironic yet sympathetic smile touched his face. “Madam Envoy, I fully understand your feelings just now. I was in this same position myself not too long ago, and it was Amanda Garrett who put me there too. All I might suggest to you now is a UNODIR.”
“I do not know that word, Admiral,” Bey replied, puzzled.
Macintyre gave a grim smile. “It’s not a word actually, Madam Envoy. It’s one of those acronyms that we’re so fond of in the United States military. It’s the first-letter contraction of the phrase ‘unless otherwise directed.’ We use it in situations where we know we have a job that needs to be done immediately, but where we are also hopelessly hobbled by a wad of red tape.
“You draw up a nice neat operational plan and head it UNODIR. Then you kick it on upstairs to your l
ords and masters … after your operation has been launched and is beyond recall.”
“Ah.” Vavra Bey let the sound of understanding draw out. “And then, Admiral?”
“And then, if all goes well, your lords and masters smile approval upon you for your initiative.”
“And if things do not go well?”
“We have another phrase to cover that eventuality, Madam Envoy. We call it ‘falling on your sword.’”
Bey chuckled. “That is one I have heard before. To speak with utter frankness, I find myself wishing you had dispatched one of those UNODIR missives to me. Judging outcomes is always so much simpler than predicting them.”
“Replying with utter frankness, Captain Garrett and I considered doing just that. However, neither the Captain nor I put much stock in military dictatorship. As officers of the United States Armed Forces, we must be answerable to a civilian authority. We may stretch that limit now and again, but there comes a point we simply can’t go beyond. This must be a decision made by a designated U.N. official. Madam Envoy, we await your orders.”
We await your orders. By all that was holy, she was a diplomat! Diplomats weren’t supposed to give orders. Diplomats were supposed to negotiate and bargain and then step back at the appropriate moment to allow the presidents, kings, and premiers to make the blood decisions. Dear Allah, how had this come to pass?
She turned her chair so that she could look out the office’s window, albeit all there was to be seen was that wall of sodden sandbags. It would be most easy to say no, and she would be right to do so. She and her career would be safe, and the war on the Gold Coast would drag on and thousands more would die. Or she could agree, and the attack could be launched and could fail. Her actions would be judged as wrong and she would face the condemnation of the Security Council and her personal ruin. And yet she would be wrong because she had attempted to bring the agony, death, and suffering to a close.
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