Sea fighter

by James H. Cobb

  Christine palmed the projector controller again. “The Union navy also has a single squadron of larger vessels.”

  Click. Thumbing the key, she called up the first of the next sequence of images.

  “This is the Unity, formerly the Moa of the Sierra Leone navy. One hundred twenty-seven feet in length, 135 tons displacement. A Chinese-built Shanghai II-class patrol boat. Primary armament consists of six 25mm autocannon in three twin mounts.”

  Click.

  “This is the Allegiance, a Swift-class patrol cutter. A hundred and five feet, 103 tons, another acquisition from Sierra Leone. Currently she’s carrying a bow-mounted Bofors L70 40mm cannon and an Oerlikon twin 20mm astern plus machine guns amidships. There is also evidence that both she and the Unity also carry shoulder-fired antiaircraft missiles, either the British Blowpipe or the Egyptian-made copy of the Russian SA-9B.”

  Click.

  “And this is the Promise. The flagship of the Union fleet. Formerly, she was the minesweeper Marabai of the Nigerian navy. However, when General Belewa made his move in Liberia, the crew of the Marabai came over with him. A hundred sixty-seven feet in length. Displacement 540 tons. Her sweep gear has been unshipped and she’s been rearmed as a light gun corvette with an Emerson twin thirty forward and two pairs of Russian-made ZPU 57mm pom-poms aft. And we know for sure she carries antiair missiles.”

  Christine tossed her pointer onto a nearby table. “This heavy squadron bases out of Monrovia. From there, it can rapidly deploy to support either the eastern or western Boghammer force. They haven’t been used in action against Guinea yet, but you can bet that they’re going to be out there waiting for you.”

  Squadron Leader Evan Dane frowned and spoke up. “Pardon me, Commander, but if the West African Union is claiming that they aren’t at war with Guinea, how does their navy get off with shooting the hell out of the place?”

  “Easy. The same way the Union’s Special Forces get off with blowing up bridges and army barracks inland. They just stand up in the U.N. General Assembly and swear across their heart and hope to spit that they aren’t doing it. The line they’re peddling is that rebel factions inside of Guinea are committing these acts and that the Guinean government is using the Union as a scapegoat. You’d be surprised how many diplomats are willing to buy that line. However, out here in the real world, we all know that it’s a crock.”

  She clicked the projector control a final time, calling up a theater map. “As you can see, the West African Littoral is an almost continuous tangle of river and creek estuaries, saltwater lagoons, and mangrove swamps, thinly inhabited and almost inaccessible in many places. Taking advantage of this, the Union navy has established a series of boat hides and supply points along the Guinea coast.

  “The Boghammer strike groups infiltrate across the line from their main base at Yelibuya and stage their operations out of these hides. After a few days of raising hell, they sneak back into Union territory to rest and re-outfit. These hides also make convenient insertion and resupply points for Union Special Forces units going deep inside Guinean territory. Hopefully, once we get TACNET up and our interdiction patrols running, we’ll be able to stop them.”

  “I don’t think we’ll have all that much trouble with this outfit, Commander.” Captain Emberly spoke with a casual confidence. The dimness of the room couldn’t conceal the condescendingly cocky smile on the U.S. TACBOSS’s lips. The expression on his face and the tone in his voice grated on Christine Rendino’s nerves.

  “These guys have been doing pretty good so far, sir,” she replied in a low voice.

  “That’s true, Commander. But face it, so far it’s just been the locals versus the locals. When I get my people out there, I think we’ll be able to get things cleaned up in pretty short order.”

  Christine found herself flashing back to the words of an old friend and former commanding officer: Ships, battles, and wars have been lost because an enemy no one expected to be able to fight, could.

  There had been another part to Amanda Garrett’s quote as well: Arrogance is a weakness that I will not tolerate …

  “That’s a damn dangerous attitude, sir,” Christine found herself saying.

  Emberly’s smile became a mild frown of annoyance as he sat forward in his chair. “Let’s keep a little grip on reality here, Commander. Beyond this trio of home-baked gunboats you’ve just shown us, all that we’re essentially facing is an outboard motor navy.”

  Christine shrugged her shoulders. “And your point? If you happen to be a Guinean subsistence-level fisherman commanding a pirogue that’s one evolutionary step above dugout canoe, a Boghammer mounting a couple of machine guns and a grenade launcher might just as well be a Kirov-class battle cruiser.”

  “But that is the point, Commander,” the TACBOSS continued obstinately. “We aren’t a bunch of subsistence-level fishermen. By African standards, these guys are probably pretty good. However, I don’t see anything to match what we can bring to bear.”

  Christine crossed slowly to Emberly’s table, the projector light blazing momentarily on her whites as she passed through the beam. “This is true, sir,” she replied quietly. The Union navy is, in fact, limited in many respects. They don’t have atomic submarines or cruise missiles or aircraft carriers or stealth bombers. What they do have, though, is a valid combat doctrine that permits them to effectively utilize the resources they do possess to reach their tactical, operational, and strategic goals.”

  Leaning forward, she braced her arms on the tabletop and gazed balefully into Emberly’s eyes. “Or, to use the short form, sir,” she continued, selecting her words with care, “these guys are winning this fucking war with what they’ve got. They don’t need anything else.”

  Shielded by the darkness, the pinasse’s crew started to shift cargo. Two heavy planks were lifted into place atop the cargo of rice sacks amidships and more rice sacks were used to weight the plank ends down, anchoring them into place and creating a stable, flat-topped platform.

  The restacking of the sacks also revealed the row of ammunition cases lined up over the boat’s keel as well as the tube, base plate, and bipod of the mortar.

  As the boat’s captain maintained a lookout, two of the crewmen began to break out and arm the shells. The other two began assembling the weapon on its makeshift firing station.

  It was a venerable old piece, a Soviet-made 82mm medium, rusty and battered from thirty years of hard use. In fact, it had been deliberately selected for this mission because of its age and worn condition. It would need to hold together only long enough to fire one last barrage.

  Macintyre had the final word at the briefing. Leaning with his back against the bar, he studied the half-dozen UNAFIN officers for a moment before speaking. He didn’t like what he was seeing, or feeling in the room. British, French, and American, seated apart and thinking apart. The United Nations African Interdiction Force was in a hell of a lot of trouble, and the first shot hadn’t even been fired yet. And what he was about to say wouldn’t make things any better.

  “Miss Rendino, gentlemen, I’m sure you will be interested in learning that certain decisions have finally been made by our respective governments concerning the chain of command for UNAFIN.”

  That had been one of the complicating factors from the start, just as it had been for so many other U.N. operations. Who got to drive the bloody train? The United States, as usual, was contributing the lion’s share of the personnel, funding, and support for the mission. On the other hand, however, Guinea was an ex-French colony that still maintained strong trade and political relations with Paris. Yet again, Sierra Leone, the western half of what was now the West African Union, had been a longtime member of the British Common wealth. And the government of Guinea naturally desired to have a say in what went on within its own territory.

  There were more than enough points of national pride and honor for th
e diplomats to squabble over. And more than enough to put this operation at risk.

  “The question has come up, sir,” Lieutenant Traynor said with an ironic lift to the corner of his mouth. “I think we’d all rather like to know just who we’re supposed to be answering to down here.”

  “We have received no word on this point from our government,” Commander Trochard added. The Frenchman put a light but definite emphasis on “our government.”

  “All commands will be receiving formal notification presently, Commander,” Macintyre replied. “And to answer Lieutenant Traynor’s question, nobody is going to be answering to anyone, at least down here. The decision has been made by the United Nations security council to block out the UNAFIN Mission assignments to the different national task forces and leave it at that.

  “As per the initial UNAFIN charter, France will manage the offshore sea and air patrol and merchant boarding operations. The U.S. has the inshore surface patrol and the theater intelligence responsibilities. Great Britain will handle mine sweeping and inshore patrol aviation.

  “We each will remain answerable only to our respective government and command structures, and all joint operations will be formally organized through these channels. In theater, we will be answerable only to the U.N. Special Envoy for the Guinea crisis.”

  The only sound was the soft creaking of chairs as the room’s occupants shifted their positions slightly, unobtrusively eyeing one another and considering ramifications.

  Macintyre continued, letting his voice harden a little. “This may be a suitable diplomatic solution, gentlemen, but I trust that you will all agree that it’s no damn way to run a military mission. This lack of organization and I’ve got mine, too bad about yours’ mind-set has turned more than one U.N. operation into a bloody fiasco, with the emphasis on ‘bloody.’ You may consider Somalia and Lebanon if you require examples.

  “Our respective governments haven’t been able to come to terms with this problem, so now we have to. We are all a long way from London and Paris and Washington, gentlemen. Putting it bluntly, if our respective governments are incapable of developing an official unified command structure for this operation, the players down here might want to consider setting up with an unofficial one. All of the different elements of UNAFIN will be facing a common foe, and you are only going to have each other to rely on.

  “You have one other thing you can rely on as well. Formally, I’m here to inspect the NAVSPECFORCE elements committed to the African interdiction operation. Informally, however, I am here to assure all of you that the United States Naval Special Forces Command stands ready to provide whatever support and assistance we can to any of the national military missions involved in this operation. Either across the table or under it, as needed. Just give us the word. Beyond that, it’s going to be your show.”

  As each ammunition case was emptied aboard the pinasse, it was cast into the sea. Even the little fuse wrench went overboard after the last of the twenty rounds was armed.

  Now a man stood ready at the bow and stem, each with his knife hovering above an anchor line. The captain sat at the tiller, the boat’s engine idling. The gunner knelt beside the mortar, the first shell held poised over the muzzle, while his assistant stood by with the second ready in his hands.

  The rain had passed for the moment, and a scattering of stars sweltered down through the broken overcast above the air base. The sandbag and oil drum berms around the headquarters building cut off even the faintest trace of a breeze, and Macintyre stepped out past the sentry post at the main entrance, seeking room to think and to breathe. From the HQ’s secured parking area, the Land Rovers carrying the foreign liaisons pulled away from the headquarters building. Each vehicle headed toward its respective national compound, its headlights tunneling through the humid darkness.

  The Admiral didn’t bother to look after them. Following the briefing, he’d spoken briefly, one on one, with the British and French UNAFIN representatives. The responses had been the same: politely worded neutrality toward the concept of a joint command and an adroit buck-passing in the direction of higher echelons. Even among the U.S. personnel, a definite “who needs them” attitude prevailed.

  At least inside of NAVSPECFORCE, he could hurl a few lightning bolts at that attitude over the next couple of days. With the foreign missions, however, there wasn’t anything to be done until experience taught the need for a cohesive structure within the U.N. mission.

  How many people would have to die before that point was proved?

  He’d paced only a few steps out toward the flight line when someone called after him. Christine Rendino overtook him a moment later. “Begging your pardon, sir, but would you mind a little company out here?”

  “I wouldn’t mind yours at the moment, Commander.” Macintyre matched his rangy stride to the little intel’s pacing as she came to walk at his side. “I think we have some more to discuss.”

  “We do, sir,” she replied. “Admiral, do you want me to keep up with that straight talk we were doing earlier today?”

  “At all times, Commander.”

  “Then, sir, we have a whole hell of a lot of problems.”

  “You noticed too? Which ones did you spot?”

  “Attitudes. Bad ones. Point one, we’ve already talked about, Captain Emberly. If he goes out there and tries to overawe the natives, he’s going to get his head blown off. From the way I’m seeing the situation down here, our tech edge might just give us parity against the Union’s superior numbers and home-ground advantage. Beyond that, the Tactical Action Group is going to need a game plan, and a damn good one. If we don’t get our act together, and soon, we are going to get clobbered. And Gutzon Borglum can carve that on a mountain.”

  Macintyre scowled in the half-darkness. “I wish to God I didn’t agree with you. Unfortunately, I do. We can’t afford a disaster down here. Congressional support for UNAFIN is weak as it is. Commander Emberly has got to pay attention to the realities of the tactical situation down here. If he can’t handle it, then I’m going to have to find someone that can. I’ll hate having to replace him; he’s done genuinely good work with the seafighter program.”

  “Yes, sir. But the fact is that the seafighters now need a real sea fighter. The whole interdiction force does.”

  Macintyre gave an acknowledging grunt. “And what did you make out of the rest of that mess?”

  “Stinkin’ group dynamics, sir. What we essentially have is a bunch of very capable officers doing their jobs well. What we don’t have is a team, and I doubt if one is going to gel as things stand. You don’t have a single natural-born leader in the whole outfit. That is, someone who can pull these people together and make them listen and follow without the artificial support of an enforced chain of command. And that’s who you’re going to need to pull this U.N.-invoked can of worms together.”

  Macintyre paused in his pacing and braced his hands against his hips. “You live up to your reputation, Commander. You are indeed a most insightful young woman. Tell me, do you ever make a mis-call?”

  Backlit by the blue dimness of the airfield’s arc lights, she gave a shrug and an ironic grin. “I suppose it could happen someday.”

  “Admiral Macintyre,” a voice called. “May I speak to you a moment, sir.”

  As if summoned up by the concerns being voiced about him, Captain Emberly emerged from the sandbagged entry way and started across the tarmac toward the Admiral and the intel. “Sir, I’d like the opportunity to explain about the briefing tonight …”

  They never had the chance to learn what the TACBOSS wanted to explain. Macintyre heard a sound beyond the turbine whine of the flight line and the diesel roar of the head quarters generator, a soft fluttering whisper just on the edge of comprehension. It was a sound that he had heard only once before, on a fire-and oil-stained beach near the Kuwait-Iraq border. However, it was a soun
d that, once heard, was never forgotten.

  Christine Rendino stood at his right, perhaps six feet away. Reacting with the ancient masculine instinct to protect the female, Macintyre launched himself at her in a headlong dive. The sweep of his arm caught her around the hips, taking her down to the tarmac with him, his bellowed warning drowning out her startled yip.

  “INCOMING!”

  Shielding Christine’s body as best he could with his own, Macintyre drew in another breath. But before he could yell again, the world blazed glare-white and the steel-hard shock wave of the first shell hit bludgeoned the air from his lungs.

  The Union mortarman was good, one of his army’s best. He had four rounds in the air before the first had even impacted. He never looked up as the explosions and fire plumes danced over the U.N. air base. Instead, he focused on feeding the shells into the smoking maw of his weapon. There was no need to aim. They were aligned with the target, and with the base range set, the rolling of the boat in the low waves dispersed their fire along the full length of the flight line.

  So intent was he that he didn’t even count the outgoing shells. His loader had to slap him on the shoulder to advise him when the entire twenty rounds had been expended. With the fire mission completed, the mortarmen grasped the base plate of their weapon and heaved, toppling it over the side with a splash. The two support planks followed a moment later.

  Fore and aft, knives flashed and the anchor lines were severed. The captain engaged the propeller clutch and opened the throttle, getting them under way once more.