Again, a sleeting storm of high-velocity metal swept over the tug. With no glass left to shatter, the bullets glanced and whined off the heavier fittings and punched through the bulk heads with a dull pock, pock, pock sound like the opening of a string of pull-top cans.
Suddenly something smashed into Amanda’s back with the impact of a sledgehammer. It hurled her forward onto the glass-covered deck, the air smashed from her lungs in a choked shriek. She lay facedown in the darkness, unbreathing, unable to breathe, a searing heat centered in her back. Dazed, she hung on to the edge of consciousness, asking a question of the Universe. Is this death?
The Universe answered: No … It was a voice on the Leprechaun circuit. Christine …
“Moonshade! Moonshade! Do you copy! Moonshade! You have motor launches converging on you. Amanda, do you hear me?”
Amanda pushed herself up to her knees. You can die later! Move, goddamn you! Move!
She broke the lock on her lungs and dragged in an agonizing load of oxygen while fumbling for the switch of the tactical communicator. “On deck!” She couldn’t recognize the rasping croak that emerged from her throat. “Repel boarders! Repel boarders!”
“Roger,” the terse response from the fire team leader snapped back. “Engaging!”
Another kind of repIy raged from the Banner’s lower deck, as the Marines opened up on the new threat. Pulling herself upright at the center console, Amanda fought to regain situational awareness.
The Port Monrovia pilot’s launch had been pressed into service as an ad hoc Boghammer. Running twenty yards off the Banner’s port side, Bren guns flamed from its foredeck while Union soldiers packed its cockpit. Flank to flank, the two commandeered craft exchanged small-caliber broadsides like Napoleonic ships of the line.
Amanda forced her eyes to focus on the miraculously intact compass dome. God, We’re failing off course again. Helm, come right ten points! She gave the command to herself, as she would have to a duty quartermaster. Spinning the wheel, she kicked the rudder over, ignoring the scalding pain that still radiated from her back.
“Amanda,” Christine’s voice sounded in her headset again, an electronic guardian angel looking down from on high. “Watch it! A second boat’s coming in on your starboard side.”
And the Marines were already committed. Damn! Damn! Damn!
She clawed the interphone out of its cradle. “Engine room! Repel boarders to starboard!” Dropping the handset, she threw herself across to the far side of the bridge.
A small outboard skiff carrying half a dozen Union soldiers was trying to come alongside. Bucking the wash that churned down the tug’s flank, the soldier in the skiff’s bow groped for the rail.
Amanda couldn’t recall making the conscious decision to draw her weapon, but the .45 came up on target, both of her hands closing around its grips. The wavering flare light made for poor shooting, but the long hours of relentless drill under the instruction of Stone Quillain compensated. The big Colt roared as its sights came in line, the seven-round clip consumed in seconds.
Her target toppled limply over the skiff’s side and the open boat staggered off course, someone aboard it rattling off a wild answering volley from a machine pistol. Then a pair of shotguns opened up from the Banner’s engine-room hatch, lashing the small craft with a storm of buckshot. Silenced and with no living hand at its engine tiller, the skiff whirled away astern.
So did the pilot launch that had come in from the other side. The Marine grenadiers scored with multiple 40mm hits and the launch exploded into flames. In the glare of the blazing hulk, Amanda caught the silhouette of a buoy sweeping past down the port side.
The marker for the entry channel! Turn her! She got back on the helm, bringing the tug’s nose around, aiming her for the gap in the breakwaters.
Easy! Easy! Not too sharp. Follow me, you big bastard!
Amanda played the wheel and engine controls, attempting to keep excessive strain off the towline as the Bajara’s stern slowly indexed around, aligning in the channel.
All right! Well done, Helm!
The tug and its tow were almost at the dead center of the harbor now, temporarily beyond the reach of effective shore fire. Amanda attempted to take a deep breath and found that she could. The burning near her spine had faded to a mere hotness. She reached back to find a lump embedded in her flak jacket. Distorted first by its penetration of the steel bridge bulkhead and then again by its impact against the vest’s ballistic plate, the machine-gun bullet popped out into the palm of her grimy hand.
She fingered the little cooling lump of death for a moment and found herself grinning a tight feral grin. This wasn’t the one.
She held the Banner on course for the harbor mouth.
Mobile Offshore Base, Floater 1 0204 Hours, Zone Time;
September 8, 2007
“Damn near there,” Macintyre muttered.
“Getting close,” Christine agreed wearily. “Signals, advise the seafighter group to power up and stand by for extraction.”
“Latest situational update from Queen of the West indicates they are already up on the pad and standing by for the word, Commander,” the S.O. replied.
“Very good, Sigs. You can advise Commander Lane that he can expect the word shortly.”
“Aye, aye.”
Christine knew the trailer air-conditioning was already pushed to its maximum setting, but her uniform shirt was sodden with sweat. Even Admiral Macintyre, for all his stone faced stoicism, had darkening circles of perspiration under the arms of his flight suit.
“What else can the Union hit us with?” he demanded quietly.
The intel’s temples throbbed, her thoughts thickening in her brain. Hey, God, isn’t there anybody else out here who can answer questions?
“I think the gunboats are the Union’s last hole card, Admiral,” she replied.
Closing her eyes, Christine leaned back against the conference table, wishing for just one true lungful of cool dry air. Maybe like you could get out on the Mojave in the early morning. She let that mental image wash out reality for a moment, seeking that breath of desert breeze.
“Commander Rendino! Radar has acquired a bogey launching from Payne Field!”
The mental image exploded and Christine’s eyes snapped open. “Identify!”
“Single target. Possibly a helicopter. On heading for Port area. Coming in fast.”
Port Monrovia Oiling Pier 0204 Hours, Zone Time;
September 8, 2007
“Do we have radio contact with the helicopter?” His leg hastily bandaged, Belewa pulled himself upright in the open rear door of the command track. The numbness had gone from his torn limb, and he spoke through gritted teeth.
“Off and on, sir,” the radio operator replied. “Jamming is still intense, but we are getting burn-through as he gets closer.”
“There he is!” a guard yelled from outside. The whistling drone of a light helicopter echoed beneath the overcast. Belewa twisted in the hatchway and looked up just as the Messerschmitt-Bolkow BO 105 gunship swept past overhead, flare light reflecting palely from its underbelly.
“Order them to sink the tug! Sink it!”
Union Army Gunship Owl Three Five 0205 Hours, Zone Time;
September 8, 2007
The attack order came in faintly over the warble of the American jamming, but plain enough to be made out by the gunship’s pilot. “Owl Three Five acknowledges,” he replied casually into his headset mike, not unduly concerned as to whether his reply was heard or not.
Holding his course, he angled out across the harbor area, weaving to snake through the pattern of slowly descending star shells. The target was easy to acquire. The Algerian tanker was a black cutout against the shimmering metallic silver of the harbor, the tug a smaller shadow off the tanker’s stern, the silver water roiling behi
nd it.
A simple matter. The only trick would be to get close enough to ensure that no round could wander and hit the larger vessel.
“Arm rockets. One and four,” he commanded over the intercom. The BO 105 carried four Matra 68mm rocket pods on its snub wings. Two of the six-round clusters would be adequate for the task at hand.
His copilot hit the arming switches and the glowing blue rings of the cartwheel sight materialized on the cockpit heads-up display.
Crossing the harbor, the pilot swung wide beyond the northern breakwater. Coming around again, he set his attack run, pulling the little twin-turbine gunship through an unnecessarily steep bank, deftly flying by instruments and enjoying the drag of the G forces. With the latest fuel restrictions, he needed to draw every bit of pleasure he could from his limited air time.
The night swirled past beyond the rain-streaked wind screen, going level again as they lined up on the target. Smoothly, the pilot eased the helicopter over into a shallow accelerating dive, the crossbar in the center of the weapon sight resting on the tug’s deck, the vertical stroke passing through the pilothouse. Now, to hold that sight picture until they reached firing range.
From what he had heard, the ground-pounders and the navy had been fumbling around with the Americans out here all night. Now it was time to put an end to this children’s play. The pilot grinned tightly and flipped the thumb guard up and off the firing button on his collective lever. The arming tone squalled in his headset.
Mobile Offshore Base, Floater 1 0205 Hours, Zone Time;
September 8, 2007
The silhouette of the Union gunship cut across the monitor as it passed beneath the hovering Eagle Eye.
“Where the hell did he come from?” Macintyre exclaimed, straightening.
“The Aviation unit at Payne Field. Belewa must have been able to keep one of his night-capable helicopters operational. Shit!” Christine spun around to face the S.O. at the drone control station. “Stay on that helo!”
“Aye, aye.” The systems operator’s hands flew across the controls of his remote terminal as he took the RPV out of station-keeping mode. The image on the wall monitor swooped and pivoted as the robot tilt-rotor transitioned to level flight and moved out in pursuit of the manned aircraft.
Macintyre stared at the monitor screen, his fists clinched. “How much armament can that gunship carry?” he demanded.
“Enough!”
The Admiral spun around to face the intel, his voice rising. “To hell with Captain Garrett’s tasking options. Move those seafighters in now! Kill that helo!”
Christine could only shake her head wildly. “It’s too late! Stinger antiair missiles weren’t included in the cell load-out! Surface-to-surface armament had priority! And they’ll never get within gun range in time!”
The Union helicopter completed its overflight of the port area. Centered in the Eagle Eye screen, it kicked up and around in a steep turn, coming back over the northern break water and diving in toward the helpless tug.
“God save us all!” Maclntyre’s fist crashed down on the tabletop.
A choked sob escaped from Christine Rendino. She literally threw herself at the drone operator, knocking him aside and out of his chair. Leaning in over the drone control terminal, she grasped the joystick. Staring intently into the pilot’s view monitor, she slammed the throttle scale to its highest mark.
The image on the wall monitor tilted insanely, as the drone peeled off into a screaming split-S maneuver, the Remotely Piloted Vehicle pitching into a maximum boost dive.
The recon camera automatically restabilized and recentered on the Union gunship. The image of the helicopter swelled explosively in the center of the screen as the course lines of the gunship and drone converged. In the last seconds of transmission, the low-light video imager looked down through the BO 105’s rotor arc and into the canopy bubble, catching the shock and horror on the helicopter pilot’s face as he looked up and opened his mouth to scream.
The wall monitor went abruptly dead.
Christine straightened and took a deep, deliberate breath. Extending a hand, she helped the startled drone operator back to his feet. “Call the flight deck and see if they can set us up another bird,” she said. “I think I sort of busted this one.”
Macintyre palmed the sweat from his brow, brushing back his dampened hair. “Nice move, Commander,” he said, taking a deep breath of his own. “Very nice move indeed.”
“The coward’s kamikaze, sir. You gotta love it.”
Harbor Tug Union Banner 0206 Hours, Zone Time;
September 8, 2007
The sky lit up, but with an orange glow instead of the harsh eye-stabbing whiteness of burning magnesium. Startled, Amanda looked up in time to see a blazing mass of wreckage rain down into the harbor a quarter mile off the tug’s starboard side. She didn’t have the vaguest clue as to what might have happened out there, but she suspected that someone might have just taken care of a problem for her.
If so, whoever it was, Amanda was grateful. She had enough to deal with just then.
A column of water jetted out of the sea ahead, the WHAM CR-A-A-A-CK of the shell detonation following a split instant later. Heavy weapons this time. The two armored cars, positioned like Scylla and Charybdis at the harbor’s mouth, were opening fire. Aiming low, they attempted to walk their 90mm rounds in on the Banner without hitting the tanker behind the tug.
Amanda shot a final look to port and starboard, gauging their position against the channel buoys. This was as good as it was going to get. Reaching over, she slammed the engine throttles closed, then she touched the transmit pad on her Leprechaun transceiver. “This is Moonshade to all Wolfrider elements. Cutter, Cutter, Cutter! I say again, Cutter, Cutter, Cutter!”
“Acknowledged! ” Steamer Lane’s reply shot back instantly. “The word is Cutter and we are inbound!”
Another Panhard round howled in, this one exploding off the tug’s port side, close enough to rain spray down onto the Banner’s weather decks.
It would be the last.
The Hellfire missiles that arced in from the sea had been designed to destroy the heaviest of main battle tanks. The thin-skinned Union armored cars presented no challenge at all. Plunging downward through the thin turret roofs, the Hell fires dissolved the French-built vehicles, the Panhard’s ammunition stores magnifying the explosion so that both entryway hardpoints were engulfed and devastated.
And through the door thus kicked open came the Three Little Pigs, hunting for a fight.
Howling through the channel entrance, the three seafighters conducted a fleur-de-lys separation, the Carondelet and the Manassas peeling off to the left and right, paralleling the seawalls while the Queen of the West stood straight on for the Banner.
The flanker boats raced down the mile length of each breakwater, trailing fire, death, and destruction as they ran. A raking barrage spewing from their weapons mounts, they buried the Union defenses under a focused storm of rockets, grenades, and shell bursts.
“Yes!” Amanda pounded her fist down on the tug’s wheel. This was why she had so carefully husbanded the fighting strength of the seafighter group until this moment. Stealth and audacity might get them in, but only the guns could get them out again. “Strongbow. Arm your charges and stand by for extraction! Let’s get out of here!”
“Roger D, Roger D, Moonshade! Ready to go here and about time!” Quillain’s jubilant response resounded in her headset. “Hey, you know that Moonshade’s a damn pretty name after all.”
“Acknowledged, Stone. We’ll be alongside for you in a minute.” Shifting communications modes, she grabbed up the interphone handset. “Engine room! Finished with engines. Arm your scuttling charges and get topside on the double. Our ride’s here!”
“Don’t have to tell us twice, ma’am! We’re gone!”
Decelerating, the Queen of the West came around in a wide fish-hook turn, coming alongside the tug, starboard to port. With a final braking flurry from her puff ports, the hovercraft’s inflated skirt bumped softly against the tug’s rail, salt mist boiling up around both vessels. The PG’s starboard grenade launcher mount had been swung back out of the side hatch and the Queen’s hands stood by to help pull the tug’s prize crew aboard.
“Go!” Amanda yelled over the turbine wail as she dropped down the exterior ladder from the wheelhouse. One after another the prize crew scrambled up the slippery skirt slope and into the hatch until only Amanda and the fire team leader remained, standing at the tug’s open engine-room hatchway.
“Set to blow, ma’am!” the Marine yelled over the steady-state engine shriek, holding up the pistol grip of the hand igniter.
“I’ll do it! Get aboard!”
“You sure, ma’am?”
“Yes. Get moving!”
“Okay, ma’am.” He passed her the igniter. “Just pull the pin and squeeze.”
She gave him a second to start up to the hovercraft, then turned back to the tug’s engine-room hatch. They would use the Banner in the same way they had used the hulk of the British minehunter during the hurricane, as an anchor to hold the Bajara in the harbor channel. Shaped, “cookie cutter” charges of plastic explosive had been molded against the tug’s hull plates to sink her.
Amanda yanked the safety pin from the top of the klacker, then hesitated for a second. The Union Banner had been her ship, under her command, if only for a matter of minutes. The little tug served her well, doing all that she had asked of it. The mariner in Amanda felt a pang of regret at what she must do now. She rested her free hand on the hatch frame for a moment, then squeezed the igniter.
She felt a thud under the soles of her boots as two meterwide patches of steel were sliced out of the Banner’s hull. Peering down through the hatchway, Amanda caught a glimpse of water boiling up over the engine-room deck plates just before the interior lighting went out. Willing hands hauled her up into the Queen’s main bay as the tug’s deck began to settle beneath her.
Sea fighter Page 54
