A novel puzzlement and an interesting philosophical challenge to someone distant enough to enjoy it. Yet it was a puzzle with a simple enough solution for Vavra Bey. She swiveled her chair back to face Macintyre.
“Admiral, I believe the seizure of this oil tanker at Port Monrovia may very well prove necessary. Can your people present me with a copy of the plan for this military action? I will consider it and pass it along to the Security Council with my proposal that action be taken.”
“No problem, Madam Envoy. One will be provided immediately.”
“And, Admiral, how long would you suggest that I consider it before passing it along?”
“Oh, I’d say an hour and forty-eight minutes would be about right.”
“And that most useful acronym again?”
“UNODIR, Madam Envoy. ‘Unless otherwise directed.’”
Upon leaving the U.N. field offices, Macintyre proceeded directly to the headquarters communications center.
“Primary link to Floater 1,” he snapped to the duty systems operator.” Direct line to Captain Garrett.”
“The channel is already open, Admiral. Captain Garrett has been standing by. You can use the communications deck on the watch officer’s desk, sir.”
Macintyre gave an acknowledging nod and scooped up the indicated handset. “Captain?”
“Garrett here,” the well-remembered voice came back. “What’s the word, sir?”
“The word is load and lock. The envoy bought the package.”
A sigh of relief gusted over the phone. “Yes!”
“You can tell your people the show is go.”
“I already have, sir. Our support and diversion elements are already deploying. My dread was having to call them back.”
“Right.” Macintyre glanced at his wristwatch. “I’m showing about one hundred minutes until you initiate your primary time line. I’ve got a helicopter standing by to take me out to the platform, so I should just about be on hand when the fun starts.”
“I’m very glad to hear that, sir.” A guarded tone crept into Amanda’s voice. “Commander Rendino will be standing by to receive you. I regret I will not be present.”
“What are you talking about, Captain?”
“I’m going in with the boarding force, sir.”
“What!” Macintyre exploded. “Leading from the front is all well and good, Captain, but there are limits! The place of the task force commander is in her Combat Information Center, not an assault boat. Dammit, Amanda, you are not Captain Kirk!”
“I’m rather glad you noticed.” A touch of humor tinged her voice for a moment. “Seriously, sir, I agree with you on all points, except in cases of operational necessity. A problem has cropped up with that Algerian tanker. She’s steam turbine powered, and our thermographic scans indicate that her crew has shut down her boilers. Her plant is totally cold. Even if we put a full black gang aboard her, it would take us at least a full hour to get up enough steam to move her.
“We won’t have that kind of time. We’ll have to grab one of the harbor tugboats and tow her out. That’s going to be my job. I’m the only officer in this command who has any tug handling experience.”
“That factor wasn’t in the mission outlines I saw, Captain,” Macintyre said coldly.
“There was no sense in clouding the issues with minor operational details, sir.” The hint of challenging jocularity that had crept into her voice trailed off again into somberness. “However, I will be grateful for your presence on the platform during the operation, sir. If something goes wrong, I … might not be in a position to deal with it effectively. I’m glad to know that home base will be covered.”
“It will be, Captain. I’m en route now. Carry on. I’ll speak with you after the mission.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Good luck, Amanda. Good hunting.”
The click of the disconnect was his only answer.
Macintyre returned the phone to its cradle and wondered to himself for a moment. He was a “West Coast Navy” officer by nature, casual in his command style. It wasn’t uncommon for him to address a subordinate by his or her first name.
Why did it feel so different, then, when he used hers?
Three hundred miles away, Amanda hung up her desk phone. They were committed now, and she felt a burden lift. It was like making a dive from the high board of a swimming pool. The dread of the dare was behind you, for better or worse, and all that was left to worry about was the plunge itself.
For her, there was only one last loose end to deal with. She switched on her laptop and called up the word processing program. For perhaps five minutes she sat quietly, her fingertips resting on the keyboard. Then she began to type.
Dearest Arkady:
This is one of those special letters that we of the profession of arms find necessary to write on occasion. If you are reading it, it will mean that I am dead …
Mobile Offshore Base, Floater 1 2228 Hours, Zone time;
September 7, 2007
Amanda struggled into her gear, taking on the unaccustomed weight and bulk of the equipment-studded load-bearing harness as well as the pistol belt and flak jacket. She considered the battle helmet as well, but decided to trust to luck instead of Kevlar. Twisting her hair up onto the top of her head, she contained it under her battered old Cunningham baseball cap, its tarnished gold braid concealed with black electrician’s tape.
She dug a small double-ended tube of camouflage cream out of a harness pouch. Removing the caps, she stood before the little wall mirror and inexpertly started applying the dull green and black skin paints.
A sharp knock sounded on the door as she worked. “Come in,” she called back over her shoulder.
Stone Quillain stepped up into her quarters. Fully geared and armed, he was a looming presence that filled the entirety of the little room.
“Boarding parties are ready to load, Skipper.” The Marine’s own face paint seemed to merge into the camouflage patterns of his equipment and jungle utilities, making him look as if he had been poured whole out of some stealth composite. Only the dark intentness of his narrowed eyes stood separate from the whole.
“Very good, Stone. I’ll be ready myself as soon as I get my face on. Elizabeth Arden never quite prepared me for anything like this.”
“Oh hell! What are you trying to do?” Stepping forward impatiently, Quillain took the tube of cream from her hand. “You aren’t supposed to be finger painting, goddammit!”
Loading a couple of fingertips with the paint, he began to swipe it onto her face with brusque strokes. “You want a solid base of the green all over everything, including the back of your neck. Then you use the black here to kill the highlight points. Your chin, the cheekbones, the bridge of your nose. Keep it asymmetrical, so if anyone does make out your face it’ll take him a couple seconds to figure out what it is he’s looking at. That’ll give you time to drop him. You get those spare .45 clips I sent over?”
“I did, Stone, and thank you,” she replied somberly. “You’ve taught me a lot about this business, and I want you to know that I appreciate it. I can imagine that it hasn’t been easy having to drag a green skimmer captain along behind you.”
“Aw, well, hell,” the big Marine muttered back. “I guess I’ve learned a few things too.” He jammed the caps back on the tube and tucked it into one of her gear pouches. “Use that stuff on your hands, too, when we go in. Either that or keep your gloves on.”
Quillain hesitated for a moment more. “There’s something that I want you to know, Skipper. Shame the devil and tell the truth, I had some … problems about working under the command of a woman CO when I first came out here. But now, for what it’s worth, I’d be pleased and proud to serve with you or with any other lady like you, anywhere, anytime.”
Amanda smiled, tasting
the oily touch of the camo paint on her lips. “And I would be pleased and proud to serve with you, Stone. Anywhere. Anytime.”
She extended her hand and Quillain’s callused fingers closed around it, the two exchanging a short and fierce grip.
“Carry on, Captain Quillain. I’ll join you shortly.”
“Aye, aye, Skipper.”
As Quillain departed, Amanda turned back to her desk and the interphone, dialing up the Operations Center watch officer. “This is Captain Garrett. I’m shifting my flag to the Queen at this time. Is Commander Rendino there?”
The intel came on line in a moment. “Right here, boss ma’am.” Despite the flippant use of Amanda’s pet name, Christine sounded exceptionally sober this night.
“What’s our status, Chris?”
“We are on the precommit time line, ma’am. The air group is ready to take departure, and all other decoy elements are on station and standing by. Drone recon coverage is up and we are seeing no alteration in the Union force deployments. All boards are green. Operation Wolfrider is ready to commit.”
“What’s the word on Admiral Macintyre?”
“His helo is inbound with a fifteen-minute ETA. The helipads should be clear, so we can bring him straight aboard.”
“That’s good, Chris. Until he gets up to speed, you’ll be running the show.”
A laugh with a degree of sob in it came back over the phone. “God, responsibility! It keeps creeping up on me like cheap underwear. Damn you, Amanda. This is more frothing-at-the-mouth crazy than anything you’ve ever done before. Don’t be any more of a hero out there tonight than you absolutely have to. Okay?”
“I promise, Chris. Cross my heart. Take care of things until I get back.”
“You know I will, boss ma’am”.
Amanda glanced at her watch. “Commander Rendino. It is now 2245 hours. Advise all elements that we are committing to Operation Wolfrider. Initiate the primary time line.”
“Acknowledged, Captain. The primary time line is initiated.”
Amanda dropped the phone into its cradle and glanced for a last time at the recorded CD she’d left centered on her laptop lid. Then she stepped out into the night.
The misty rain that she’d hoped for blackened the antiskid on the decks and starred the scarlet worklights. Shadowy figures hurried through the darkness and voices shouted over the howl of turbines and the drone of rotors. Running lights pulsing against the black overcast. The helicopters of the composite U.K./U.S. air strike group were launching, three sleek British Merlins and one hulking American Sea Stallion lifting sequentially off the platform helipads.
Amanda lifted an unseen hand to Squadron Commander Dane in the lead aircraft and started aft to the hover hangars. As she made her way through the maze of deck modules, half-recognized voices called out of the shadows.
“Good luck, Captain!”
“Give ’em hell, ma’am!”
“Kick ass and take names, TACBOSS!”
She responded with a lifted thumb to each hail.
The trio of seafighters lay beneath the glare of the hangar arcs, their tail gates down and with the last few ammunition cases being hogged aboard. The PGACs were much changed from the gleaming, yard-new hulls that Amanda had first seen five months ago. Battered, patched, and sun blasted now, but also proven, like the men and women who crewed them.
Amanda studied them for a moment from her place in the shadows, and deep within her heart and soul, she cast off the last line that linked her with her past life aboard the Duke. This was her place now, and there were no more regrets.
Over at the far side of the hangar, Stone Quillain was completing his final premission inspection of the boarding parties. Taking a step back from the tightly packed ranks, he lifted his voice over the fading thunder of the departing helicopters.
“Who are ya?”
“Marines, sir!” the shouted reprise rolled back.
“I SAID WHO ARE YA?”
“MARINES, SIR!”
“DAMN RIGHT! MARINES, SADDLE UP!”
The deck plates rang under the boot heels of the assault teams as they broke formation and double-timed for the stern ramps of the hovercraft.
Amanda swung up through the Queen of the West’s side hatch and climbed the ladder into the cockpit. Looking back from the control stations, Steamer and Snowy exchanged acknowledging nods with her.
“Squadron status, Commander?”
“All craft report ramps coming up. Ready to start engines, ma’am.”
“Make it so, Commander. Start engines and take us out.”
“Very good, ma’am. Frenchman … Rebel … this is Royalty! Engine-start sequence!”
The Queen’s air horns blared their warning, trailed by the sound of cranking turbines. Steamer and Snowy’s palms came up and met in their high five. Amanda didn’t recall until later that this time their fingers interlaced for a moment in a tight handclasp.
Amanda settled a Command headset over her ears. “I’m riding up in the hatch for a while, Steamer. Take departure at your discretion.”
“You got it, ma’am.”
As the Queen came up on her cushion, Amanda slid the overhead hatch back and lifted herself up into the gunner’s saddle. She jacked her headset into the intercom and looked forward.
And only then did she realize the platform was saluting the strike away.
The inboard rails of the two barges that flanked the launching ramp were lined solidly with Seabees, support hands, and seafighter base personnel. Underlit by the blue glow of the ramp guide lights, each crewman and woman held rigidly at attention, fingertips at their brow.
Amanda had heard of airstrikes being saluted out before, but never a naval sortie. But then, there had never been a naval unit like this before. Another tradition to build on.
The Queen’s drive fans roared and she tundled forward toward the ramp break. Amanda’s hand came up, returning the salute for the squadron. Then the seafighter pitched over the break and accelerated downramp for the sea. She hit water in an explosion of spray and powered clear into the night, the Carondelet and the Manassas following at ten-second intervals.
Spume and rain droplets stung at Amanda’s face as the squadron dropped into combat echelon and worked up to speed. On the snubmast aft of the cockpit, the Queen’s flag and Amanda’s command burgee whipped and crackled in the growing slipstream. The lights of the platform faded in the mist behind them. Somewhere ahead, the lights of Port Monrovia glowed.
Port Monrovia 2325 Hours, Zone Time; September 7, 2007
The tea had grown cold and weak, mixing with the rain. Belewa paid no mind, tossing back the last swallow in his canteen cup. He hadn’t been able to stand the thought of waiting out this night back at Mamba Point. He had to be here, in the field, where he could think and breathe and do something.
Belewa set the empty cup inside the open tail ramp of the Styer command track. Unhampered by his sodden poncho, he climbed the side of the vehicle. Standing on its flat armored roof, he lifted his binoculars to his eyes.
From here he could see the battlefield-to-be.
His cluster of headquarters vehicles were assembled on the access road atop the southern harbor breakwater, close to the midpoint between the oiling pier and the tank farm. Just to shoreward, the tarpaulin-shielded arc welders of the tank farm repair crew sparked and sputtered as they raced to mend the severed pipelines.
Would God that they were finished now and the oil was flowing.
The shoreside piers and warehouse areas of the port had arc light illumination, as did the oiling pier and tank farm. Those lights blazed this night, power conservation be damned. The outer extremities of the vegetation-ridden breakwaters had no such lighting, however, save for the slow blinking navigational beacons that marked the mouth of the entry chann
el.
With little night-vision gear available, the Union defenders had been forced to improvise. Log and palm oil bonfires had been spaced along the breakwaters at fifty-yard intervals, and at each bonfire, an infantry squad. Roving patrols also prowled the lengths of the causeways.
The fires burned sullenly in the rain, however, guttering and threatening to go out.
I wish we could illuminate with flares all night, but we haven’t enough. Best to save what we have until they are truly needed.
At the end of each breakwater, covering the harbor mouth, a hardpoint had been established. A heavy-weapons platoon at each, backed by a cannon-armed Panhard AML armored car. The three gunboats of the Union navy’s heavy squadron also lay at anchor side by side, directly across the mouth of the channel, their guns manned and their searchlights and radar sweeping the darkness.
How do I best use the gunboats? When the Americans move on us, do I counterattack and send the navy out after them? Or do I keep the cork in the bottle?
Belewa had a full regular infantry battalion covering the breakwaters and port facilities, and a Military Police company guarding the tank farm. He’d also brought in a company of the Union Mobile Action Force, his personal “Praetorian Guard” grown out of his beloved old mechanized troop. The other three companies of the mechanized battalion stood by at the Barclay Training Center, ready to move at a moment’s notice as his reserve counterstroke. Other regular and militia units covered the beaches and city and harbor land approaches.
Belewa lowered his glasses. I wait for you, Leopard. Come out of the night and let’s finish this, you and I.
There was no answer. But he could sense her moving out there, somewhere beyond the curtain of mist and shadow.
Belewa dropped down from the top of the vehicle and climbed inside through the tailgate. The command track’s two radio operators hunched in front of their sets while Sako Atiba brooded over the deployed map table, his dark features hollow cheeked in the dim map light.
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