Above and beyond being an office and living quarters, the little room was also obviously being used as a planning center. An intricately Scotch-taped mosaic of maps, charts, and aerial photography covered almost every inch of wall space. Interspersed were sheets of computer printout, some of them flowing down almost to deck level, the hard copy extensively annotated and underlined with multicolored marker pen. Only the top of the neatly made bunk was completely clear, and even it had a small pile of reference books stacked near its head.
Orderly stacks of file binders sat on the desk, and a mil spec Panasonic laptop computer sat open and ready for use beside the large and sophisticated interphone deck.
He recognized her, of course. Almost any individual who even casually followed recent world affairs would recognize America’s heroine of both Drake’s Passage and the China Coast: the thick, blended auburn and amber hair, the large and alert golden hazel eyes, and the striking, fine-lined features that didn’t need the accent of makeup to highlight their attractiveness.
What the news bites hadn’t brought out was the natural dynamic vibrancy that seemed to radiate from the woman. Quillain couldn’t help but note the phenomenon, even though he’d come into the room grimly intent on not finding anything to like about his new commander. Likewise, he found himself unable to resist noting the unemphasized but definite swell of firm breasts beneath her soft uniform shirt.
Quillain savagely yanked his mental focus away from that particular image, turning it instead to the half of the telephone conversation he could overhear.
“Frankly, Lieutenant,” Garrett was saying, “I don’t care what our replenishment schedule is. We need an additional allocation of small-arms ammunition right now and we’re going to require a lot more in the future. We’ve got a major live-fire training program going out here. … We’re cross training our service personnel to serve as auxiliary gunners aboard the PGs. … That’s correct. We’re going to be running at least three new light-weapons mounts per hull, so you can junk all of your prior expenditure projections. … I know I have a quarterly training allotment, Lieutenant. We’ve already expended it and we’re burning into our operational reserves. … We need everything: 5.56 NATO, forty-millimeter grenade, all types, fifty-caliber, lots of fifty-caliber. And a couple of dozen more M2 barrels. We need our ammo allocations doubled all across the board.”
Those golden eyes flicked in Quillain’s direction. “No, cancel that. We’ve got our Marines here now. Triple them. … That’s right, triple them! And we need the stuff flown in. We don’t have the time to wait around for sealift.”
Quillain frowned behind his fixed expression. He’d taken part in this kind of argument himself often enough, trying to pry more training ordnance out of the quartermasters. This was shooter talk.
Apparently she was still dissatisfied with the response she was receiving. Her dark brows knit together and a steely edge came to her voice. “That, I’m afraid, is your problem, Lieutenant. You can take it up with Captain Stottard and he can have a talk with Admiral Macintyre about the situation. I don’t want to have to. Get it done!”
She forcefully returned the phone to its cradle and returned her attention to Quillain, her flash of annoyance dissipating as rapidly as it had come. She stood behind the desk and extended a hand to the Marine, exchanging a firm dry-palmed handshake.
“Sorry about that, Captain. I had to clarify a few matters with our logistics people. I’m Captain Amanda Garrett, your theater TACBOSS. We’re glad you and your people are here.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Quillain replied stiffly. “I’ve just come aboard with my first platoon—”
“Is the rest of your company still on the ground at Conakry?” she interjected swiftly.
“Yes, ma’am. We’ll be bringing them out—”
“Fantastic! As soon as we’ve finished here, get on the horn to Main Base. Go ahead and bring both of your other two rifle platoons out to the platform, but hold your weapons platoon at Conakry. I’ve got a special job for them.”
“A special job, ma’am?” Quillain found himself falling behind the curve.
“Exactly. A pretty important one that we’ve got to move fast on. Let me show you what the situation is.”
Garrett moved swiftly from behind her desk, crossing to a wall-mounted admiralty chart of the African Gold Coast. Brushing closely past Quillain in her intentness, she forced the Marine to take a couple of awkward steps back out of her way.
“Right,” Amanda continued briskly, “we have two aerostat patrol stations established. Guinea East, here off the border of Guinea and the West African Union, and Guinea West off the border of Guinea and Guinea-Bissau.”
Her fingertips swept across the expanse of the chart. “Between them, they give us a full radar coverage of the Guinea Littoral. The problem is that our aerostat carriers are converted TAGOS-class antisubmarine intelligence ships. They’re slow, they’re obvious, and they’re working close inshore. They’re also operated by the Naval Fleet Auxiliary Force, which means they’re civilian manned and totally unarmed. They’d be sitting ducks for a Boghammer raid. That’s where your heavy-weapons people come in.”
“My people, ma’am?” Quillain asked, bewildered.
“Exactly. We’ll divide your heavy-weapons platoon into two Naval Guard teams, and we’ll put one aboard each of the aerostat carriers. What kind of weapons loadout do your people have?”
Quillain struggled to shift mental gears again. “My grenadier and rocket launcher squads have their standard Mark 19 chunkers and SMAWs. I didn’t think we’d be needing mortars for maritime boarding and security work, so I had my mortar men turn their sixty-millimeters in and draw Ma Deuce fifties—that is, M2 heavy machine guns, ma’am.”
“Good call, Captain! That couldn’t be better. We’ll hold your people at Conakry until … oh, day after tomorrow. That’ll give them a chance to rest a little and get properly outfitted for the job. Then we’ll heli-lift them out to the ’stat carriers and fast-rope them aboard after dark. We’ll pull them off again whenever the carriers go into Conakry to replenish. If we can keep the guard teams a secret, we just might be able to hand somebody a nasty surprise.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the Marine could only agree. Captain Garrett was apparently very good at handing out surprises.
She continued studying the chart, her hands crossed over her stomach and her lower lip lightly bitten in concentration. “That takes care of that,” she continued after a moment. “Now, about your rifle platoons. I know that your men are jet-lagged and are going to need some acclimatization time, but how soon do you think you’ll be ready to start operating?”
“It depends on the mission profile,” Quillain replied promptly, grateful to be back on firmer ground. “What have we got?”
“A series of amphibious recon probes.”
Again Garrett’s hand arced gracefully across the map; this time the gesture encompassed the coasts of Sierra Leone and Liberia as well as Guinea. “Here’s our problem, Captain. We have eight hundred miles of coast to cover and two missions to perform with your hundred and sixty men and my five gunboats and patrol craft. We have to simultaneously protect Guinea from Union sea raids while cutting the coastal smuggling line into the Côte d’Ivoire, the one the Union is using to breach the U.N. embargo.”
She glanced at Quillain. “In effect, we have an east war and a west war, and we can’t fight them both at the same time. No way do we have the assets. At least not if we try and fight conventionally.”
Quillain found he was becoming intrigued in spite of himself. “What are your intentions, then, ma’am?”
“We eat the apple one bite at a time by dividing the problem into sections.” Her fingernail tapped lightly against the acetate cover of the map, indicating the coast of Guinea. “Our first move will be to destroy the Union’s network of coastal bases inside Gui
nean territory.”
“The West African Union has naval bases inside Guinea?”
“Boat hides, anyway. Small, concealed moorages located in isolated areas along the coast. The Union Boghammer groups use them as rest-and-replenishment points for their raiding. We believe that Union Special Forces teams are using them for insertion and supply when they’re going deep in country. Taking out those boat hides would be a major blow to the Union’s insurgency campaign. If we play it right, we can also cost the Union some equipment and personnel they can’t afford to lose.”
“We got these sites targeted yet?” Quillain inquired, studying the chart.
“We’re getting there.” Garrett smiled enigmatically. “I presume that you’ve heard about how we’ve been making fools of ourselves out here.”
“Uh, I understand that the patrol force has been having some difficulty coming up to speed, ma’am,” Quillain replied, with more diplomacy than he thought he could muster.
“That’s good. Actually we’ve been working very hard for the past few weeks to make ourselves look like the biggest bunch of goobers ever commissioned by the United States Navy. We’ve been faking equipment breakdowns, botching intercepts, aborting patrols, anything to make us look inept to the locals and to the Union’s intelligence service. And it’s been paying off.”
Quillain rested his hands on his hips. “How so, ma’am?” he asked, puzzled.
“The Union navy is losing its fear of us. Beyond the raid on Conakry base, the Union scaled their coastal operations way back when the U.N. blockade went into effect. Our analysis was they were trying to gauge our effectiveness before risking their forces against us. So we’ve been striving to make ourselves look totally ineffective. Apparently our Three Stooges act has made the proper impression, because they’re ramping up their operational tempo again.
“We’ve got Boghammer groups back out there, marauding all up and down the Guinea coast. And every time they do, our TACNET recon drones and aerostat radars backtrack the raiders to their staging points.”
She indicated a series of bloodred circles that had been drawn on the map’s surface along the Guinea coastline. “We have four of the boat hides boresighted already, and we think there are just a couple more to go. That’s where you and your Marines come in, Captain. I want to insert recon patrols at each of these sites. I want them to scout out the terrain, verify that these are actually the Union deep-strike bases, and deploy remote antipersonnel sensors so that we’ll know when these bases are occupied, all without being detected. Can do?”
Quillain nodded decisively. “Can do, ma’am. Just say the word. What’s the next move?”
“Then, Captain, we take out all of the hides in a single coordinated strike, choosing a moment that will maximize the cost to the Union in equipment, supplies, and personnel.” A quiet fierceness crept into her voice as she spoke. “By all accounts, General Belewa and his people are tough, smart, and adaptable. Well, we’re not going to give them a chance to adapt. We’re going to smash the whole damn network in one shot and not leave them anything to rebuild.”
Those were good Marine-sounding words of a kind Quillain hadn’t expected to hear. “Looks like a solid package to me, ma’am,” he said cautiously. “But I hadn’t figured on my boys operating ashore on this cruise. Our mission briefing was sort of vague about whether or not we were authorized to operate on the ground in Guinea.”
Garrett lifted an ironic eyebrow. “I’ve noted that vagueness myself, and I’m going to be very careful about not asking for any clarification until after we get this job done. That way, if I get called down for exceeding my authority on this mission package, I can blush prettily and say, ‘Oops, I misunderstood my rules of engagement.’ ”
She turned away from the chart and faced Quillain, levelly meeting his gaze. “Don’t worry, Captain. When we make our move, you’ll be operating under my written orders. If there’s any official flak coming on this operation, I’ll be the one catching it. Putting it bluntly, the shit does not slide downhill in my command.”
“That wasn’t a concern, ma’am,” Quillain replied gruffly. Damn it all entirely, he wasn’t used to having a five-foot something slip of damned attractive female assure him of her protection.
She gave him a flash of her sober smile. “I’m sure it wasn’t, Captain, but I like to make clear the way I do things right from the beginning. At any rate, I know you’ve got a lot of work to do, so I won’t keep you any longer. Take care of those immediate points we discussed and get your men squared away. We’ll see you in the officers’ mess for dinner and then at the Operations Group meeting this evening at 2000 hours. You and your people will get a chance to meet the rest of the task force commanders, and we can continue with the mission orientation at that time. We’ll be needing your input.”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.”
Sergeant Tallman straightened from his leaning posture against the side of the quarters module as Quillain exited from its door. He noted that his company commander had a slightly stunned yet thoughtful expression on his face.
“How bad is it, Skipper?” Tallman asked.
“Top, I can tell you two things right now,” Quillain replied after a moment’s consideration. “One is that we’re in for one hell of an interesting cruise. And as for the other”—he aimed a thumb back at the office doorway—“that ain’t no candy-assed female.”
Mobile Offshore Base, Floater 1 0632 Hours, Zone Time;
June 4, 2007
“Clearly what we’re seeing in Guinea is another example of the Pentagon’s overdependence on high-tech gadgetry. They’ve put another conglomeration of complex and fragile technical systems out in the field in the hands of a bunch of undertrained and undisciplined high school kids, and now they wonder why they can’t get them to work.”
The program was CNN’s Defense Today video newsmagazine, and the speaker was an elderly ex-Army Special Forces officer who had built a second career as a journalist sniping at U.S. military policy.
“And so, Colonel,” the moderator took up smoothly, “you put stock in the stories coming out of Conakry concerning the effectiveness and reliability of the Navy’s new seafighter squadron?”
“I could have told you from the start that these Buck Rogers hovercraft were going to turn into another expensive Navy boondoggle. The Navy knows it and they’re running scared. That’s why they attached their current wonder woman, Amanda Garrett, to the seafighter group, in the hope of drumming up some kind of favorable PR out of this fiasco. But even she’s going to have a hard time making a good show out of this …”
Amanda clicked the television remote, killing the taped satellite broadcast. “Good work, ladies and gentlemen. Over the past couple of weeks, that’s what we’ve managed to get the pundits saying about us. Unfortunately for him, General Belewa has been listening to these people. Now it’s our turn to make them all look like fools.”
A chuckle rippled around the interior of the briefing module. The narrow space was filled with the tactical officers of the Tactical Action Group, the captains and execs of the seafighters and the Cyclone Patrol Craft, Stone Quillain and his Marines, and the senior S.0.s of the TACNET system. Some sat at the narrow central table; others leaned against the walls; all were attentive and waiting.
Amanda turned from the wall-mounted flatscreen to the old-fashioned blackboard beside it. Swiftly, she chalked a series of words upon it.
POWER PROJECTION
MAINTAIN SEA LINES OF COMMUNICATION
MAINTAIN FLEET IN BEING
“These are the three classic maritime missions currently being performed by the navy of the West African Union,” she continued, speaking over her shoulder. “Taking the fight to the enemy via power projection, keeping open the Union’s sea lines of communication, and maintaining a fleet to serve as a strategic threat. As soon as we eliminate
the Union’s ability to perform these three missions, we get to go home. Tonight we’re taking the first step … here.”
Decisively, she drew a line through the words POWER PROJECTION.
Using the remote once more, Amanda called up the mission chart on the wall screen. She turned back to face the room, her hands on her hips.
“You all know the setup, ladies and gentlemen. TACNET and our Marine recon probes have verified the existence and location of six Union boat hides along the coast of Guinea, three of them large, three of them small. We’re taking them out. All of them.”
The briefing program progressed on the wall screen, graphics targeting blocks blinking into existence around each objective. “Of the three larger hides, the two westernmost, L1 at Rio Compony and L2 at Cape Varga, will be taken out by the Sirocco and Santana, each PC carrying a full Marine assault platoon. The three smaller hides, S1 at Conflict Reef, S2 at Margot de Avisos, and S3 at Reviere Morebaya, will be taken out by the PGs, each carrying a single Marine squad.
“This first wave of strikes will be coordinated to go in simultaneously, or at least as close to simultaneous as the tactical situation will permit. The two Cyclones will sortie from Floater 1 at 0900 Hours. The PGs will follow this afternoon at 1500. All units will make landfall after dark and will be at their point of assault by 2200. The landing forces will take departure at that time.
“We won’t have enough recon to provide full real-time coverage for all of the assaults. However, all L Sites will have a Predator on station overhead, and everybody gets at least one drone pass over their objective within an hour of their scheduled assault time.
“Following the initial assault wave, the seafighters will recover their assault squads, regroup, and proceed to the final objective, L3 at Reviere Forecariah, taking it out at first light. For final operational details, check your onboard mission data modules and your briefing hard copy. Any questions?”
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