Sea fighter

by James H. Cobb

  “But the day of the colonies passed and the Europeans all went home, taking our administrators and garrisons with us. But we left behind our lines on the map. We left Africa divided into all these damn little boxes, each box inhabited by broken and separated peoples and by nervous and fragile little governments. The people do not like the way things are. The people want for things to be better. But the governments are afraid to change those little lines on the map for fear of losing what they do have.”

  Trochard took another sip of bitter wine. “Africa is no longer a collection of colonies. But it is not yet Africa again, either. Africa does not know what it is, and that is the problem.”

  “And what would you say the solution is, Commander?” Macintyre asked.

  “A solution? Here is a solution for you. Not the one Paris or Washington would propose, but the one I, Jacques Trochard, would propose. Let us all step back and let the whole bloody thing collapse—the lines, the boxes, the governments, everything. Let it all go to hell and then let the Africans pick up the pieces and put it back together to suit themselves.”

  “And how many people would die in that kind of collapse, Commander?” Amanda’s voice held low.

  “The Admiral asked for a solution, my good Captain, and I gave one. I do not say it is a good solution, it is just the only one I have.”

  Macintyre gave an acknowledging grunt and picked up his beer chaser. “I have to admit I don’t have any patented answers either.”

  “Nor do I,” Amanda said, picking up her own glass. “But may I make a proposal, gentlemen? Let’s try and buy Africa a little more time. Maybe somebody smarter than we are will come along.”

  Three glass rims rang solemnly together.

  Commander Trochard’s melancholy assessment lingered on after his departure.

  “Do you think Trochard is right, Admiral, and that we are bucking a lost cause?”

  Macintyre shook his head. “It’s hard to say, Amanda. But I do know that for every true lost cause in this world, there are half a dozen that people just gave up on too soon.”

  She flashed a heartening smile. “I agree. And if I have to fail, I prefer a futile but valiant struggle to an apathetic acceptance.”

  “Hear, hear.”

  A distant droning wail drifted across to the hotel from the east side of the peninsula. Amanda’s head came up as she listened intently. “That’s the Queen coming in,” she said after a moment. “If you will excuse me, Admiral. I’ll have to be getting back to the base.”

  “Of course, Captain,” Macintyre replied, suppressing a pang of regret. “My driver can take you out.”

  “Thank you, sir.” She smiled and brushed back a lock of breeze-ruffled hair.

  “No problem, Captain,” he replied gruffly. “May I escort you to my car?”

  “I’d be honored, sir.”

  They were crossing the busy hotel lobby to the main entry when Amanda glanced over toward the small glass-fronted gift shop. Abruptly she came to a halt, so suddenly in fact that Macintyre bumped into her.

  “Anything wrong?” he inquired.

  “No, sir.” She shook her head, still peering into the shop window. “It’s just that they have something over there that’s given me an idea … and, well, if you’ll indulge me for a moment, I think I have to buy a hat.”

  “Captain Garrett’s aboard, Skipper.” Chief Tehoa’s voice issued from the Queen of the West’s interphone. “She’s on her way forward to the cockpit.”

  “Gotcha, Chief,” Steamer Lane replied amiably into his headset. “Start getting her buttoned up back there. We’ll be firing up in a minute.”

  “Aye, aye, sir. And, by the way, the Captain comes bearing gifts.”

  Steamer and Snowy Banks exchanged puzzled glances. As they heard footsteps clank on the cockpit ladderway, both hover pilots twisted in their seats to look aft.

  “Oooh, that is so cool!” Snowy breathed.

  Preening a little, her head lifted proudly, Amanda entered the cockpit. She was still clad in tropic whites, but instead of the standard women’s uniform hat, she wore a rakish black beret. A silver U.S.N. lapel insignia gleamed in place as a cap badge.

  “Oh, yeah, Snow.” Lane grinned. “That is cool. When do we get ours, Captain?”

  “Right now.” Amanda handed forward a large paper sack. “I got enough for the Queen’s whole crew. There are smalls, mediums, and larges, and they’re adjustable to fit. There are some spare cards of insignia in there as well that I picked up at the Conakry PX. They’ll do until we can get a real cap badge designed.”

  “Are these standard now, Captain?” Snowy asked, rummaging with interest in the bag.

  “They’re authorized for the Tactical Action Group as a whole and for your seafighters specifically, Steamer. I’ve already cleared it with Admiral Macintyre. I’ve also made arrangements with a shopkeeper over at the Hotel Camayenne to keep a big batch of these in stock for us. Our people can order them through him.”

  “All right, Captain, this is sharp.” Steamer examined his own new headgear with interest. “Didn’t I read somewhere about another Navy outfit that was authorized a black beret?”

  Amanda nodded. “The PBR squadrons in Vietnam. We’re doing very much the same kind of work they did, and I liked the thought of the continuity. We’re a new outfit, and this gives us a proud history to look back and draw on. I think that’s important.

  “There’s another reason as well,” Amanda continued with an impish grin. “A far more personal one. Ever since I’ve joined this man’s navy I have hated, loathed, and despised that damn flat ashtray of a hat they stick you with as part of the women’s uniform. I swore that should the day ever come when I would have the rank and influence to do something about it, I would. And, ladies and gentlemen, that day has arrived.”

  Mobile Offshore Base, Floater 1 1405 Hours, Zone Time;

  June 29, 2007

  The sound of a seafighter spooling up to power disrupted the two-person conference in the briefing trailer. Both Amanda and Christine had learned it was an act of futility to try to speak over the wailing turbines. Patiently, they waited for the hovercraft to take its departure down the launch ramp before continuing.

  “Okay, Chris,” Amanda said as the moan of the PG faded to a tolerable level, “you were saying about the goody bag program?”

  “Just that we have it up and running and that so far it seems to be a success.” The intel tossed a resealable plastic sandwich bag onto the conference table. Beyond a printed card with the Three Little Pigs Unit badge in the corner, the watertight envelope contained a pack of chewing gum, a book of matches, a notepad and pencil, and a roll of black electrician’s tape.

  “This is just an example. We’ve got a bunch of different stuff that we put into the bags in different combinations: candy, fish hooks, coils of fishing line and wire, razor blades. Odds and ends that the local fishermen and boatmen can make use of. The card in there is printed in both English and French and explains about the UNAFIN mission and what we’re trying to accomplish down here. We hand one of these out to every small craft we inspect to make up for the inconvenience of the boarding and search.”

  Amanda nodded her understanding. “Does it help any?”

  “Seems to,” Christine replied. “At least with the boatmen from Guineaside. We’ve also been taking a digital photograph of every boat we stop to add to our intelligence database. We give big eight-by-twelve color printouts of the picture to every crewman and passenger aboard. Even the Union guys get a kick out of that.”

  “Just don’t make those grab bags so good that they deliberately hang around our patrol zones, hoping to get inspected.”

  The intel chuckled. “We’ll aim for a happy medium.”

  “Good enough.” Amanda nodded. “As soon as we get two spare seconds to rub together, I’d
like to organize a hearts and minds program with the fishing villages. Aid visits by our medical personnel, having the Seabees help with village development projects, that kind of thing. Having the coastal tribes on our side will make a big difference.…”

  Amanda let her voice trail off. The sound of the departing seafighter patrol had faded almost to the point of inaudibility. Now, however, the familiar vacuum cleaner moan was growing in intensity again. She reached for the desk phone, but it trilled before her hand came to rest upon it.

  “Garrett here.”

  “Captain, this is Operations. Commander Lane reports that the Queen of the West’s had a systems casualty. They’re aborting and returning to the platform.”

  “Did the Commander say how much of a casualty he has?”

  “He wasn’t sure himself, Captain. He indicated some kind of hydraulics problem.”

  Amanda frowned. “Hydraulics” could cover a lot of territory aboard a vehicle as complex as a PGAC. “Very well. Operations, I’ll check it out.” She dropped the handset into the phone cradle and came to her feet. “Stay with me, Chris. We’ve got trouble.”

  The Queen came in slowly, still on her air cushion but wavering as if she were having difficulty holding her course. As Amanda strode up to the platform rail, she could hear the sound of the seafighter’s airscrews rising and falling erratically. She realized then that the Queen’s pilots were steering the hovercraft with the drive engines.

  Some twenty yards off the lee side of Floater 1, the Queen of the West came off pad, powering down and settling onto the wave tops. Even as the drive propellers flickered to a halt, hatches swung open on her weather deck and figures emerged onto the hover’s broad back. Scrounger Caitlin and Chief Tehoa surfaced amidships, while Steamer Lane slid down from the cockpit dome. All three made their way aft to a point near the stern antenna bar.

  “Hey, Steamer.” Amanda cupped her hands around her mouth. “What happened?”

  “Hydraulic fade on the air rudders,” he shouted back. “Lost pressure. Not sure why.”

  Scrounger flopped onto her belly at the deck edge. While Chief Tehoa held the belt of her dungaree shorts, she lithely reached over and down to an access panel on the side of the hovercraft’s hull. She popped the release catches, and as the panel swung open, broad streaks of wine-colored hydraulic fluid flowed down the Queen’s side. Hanging casually inverted, she studied the interior of the systems bay for a time, then signaled to be drawn back up to the deck. She conversed with the Chief and Lane for a few moments, then yelled across to the platform.

  “We either blew the pressure seal on the reservoir or we lost an actuator. Either way, it’ll be about two hours for repairs, ma’am.”

  A subliminal warning tone sounded in the back of Amanda’s mind and the faintest of shivers rippled down her spine.

  “Very well,” she called back after a moment’s hesitation. “But get a move on with it. Expedite the job, Commander.”

  “Sure thing, Captain. What else?” Lane yelled back, mildly puzzled.

  Amanda’s internal alert bell continued to clang. Frowning, she glanced back at the hangar bay area and at the grounded Carondelet. The seafighter’s servicing crew were in the middle of a skirt replacement job on her, a task Amanda recognized as also requiring two to three hours to complete. Her alarm level ramped up another degree.

  “Chris. Let’s get over to Operations.”

  Brushing past the light curtains, Amanda and Christine entered the screen-lit dimness of the Operations trailer. “Captain in the con,” the quiet call went down the row of systems operators.

  “At ease, all,” Amanda said, moving down the line to the central display. “Lieutenant Dalgren?”

  “Right here, ma’am,” the duty officer replied, a shadow within the shadows. “Is there a problem?”

  “Very possibly. The Queen’s going to be delayed in relieving Guinea East. Contact the Manassas and tell Lieutenant Marlin he’s going to have to hang on station for at least an extra two hours.”

  “Uh, begging your pardon, ma’am, but we may have another problem there. Manassas has just called in a request for an early relief on station.”

  “What? Why?”

  “They’ve declared a critically low fuel state, ma’am. Lieutenant Marlin is asking permission to break off and return to the platform.”

  “A low fuel state?” Amanda spun to face the big tactical display that showed the force deployments and coastal traffic around the Guinea East patrol station. “What in blazes was Marlin doing out there to run himself dry like that?”

  “It’s not Tony’s fault, Captain. The Santana, the Patrol Craft we have escorting the Guinea East aerostat carrier, had to go into Conakry this morning to refuel. She won’t be back on station again until this evening. Manassas has been diddy-bopping around out there by herself all watch, trying to keep the Valiant covered while still conducting boarding and search operations.”

  “Damn, damn, damn!” Amanda studied the computer graphics wall chart of the Union-Guinea border zone. The display revealed the friendly blue glow of only three U.N. unit hacks: the limbering aerostat carrier, a single British mine-hunter running an inshore sweep, and the Manassas, the last being the only real fighting unit in the group.

  “Where is the French offshore patrol?” she asked in frustration.

  “The French squadron is conducting a search and boarding over near the Côte d’Ivoire line, ma’am. At least eight hours hard steaming away.”

  “How about Guinea naval elements?”

  “Nothing currently at sea or listed as available, ma’am.”

  “Damn …” She could feel the snowball starting to grow.

  She took a step back, closer to Christine, and lowered her voice. “Evaluation Chris, on Lieutenant Marlin. How close does he cut things?”

  “The man is a charger, boss ma’am,” the intel murmured back. “He is a macho, and he likes to operate. If he’s yelling ‘bingo’ on you, then it probably means he’s already down to his last spare Dixie cup full of gas. If you ask him to stretch it out, he’ll try, but you could end up with a boat without enough fuel to either fight an engagement or get home again.”

  “Right.” This was what Amanda had been dreading. A series of negative factors had converged and a rip had appeared in the thinly stretched coverage she had deployed over her theater of responsibility. A rip she didn’t have the assets to repair.

  Be that as it may, dithering over a critical decision could only make things worse. “Watch Officer. Make signal to Manassas. ‘You are cleared for immediate return to platform. Make all speed within your fuel limitations.’ Then get an advisory to both the Valiant and to that Brit minehunter. Tell them that they’re going to be on their own for a little while. Tell them to keep their eyes open. Also pass the word to the service crews on both the Queen and the Carondelet. Push those repairs! The first hover that’s ready for sea launches immediately.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.”

  Amanda returned her attention to Christine. “Any way you cut it, we’re going to have a hole in our patrol coverage of the border zone, at least two to four hours’ worth. What could the Union do with that?”

  The intel’s silhouette shrugged. “That depends on two factors. One being if the Union spots the hole. That’s a definite possibility given that the Union has a fairly sophisticated network of coastwatchers established.

  “The second is the Union’s reaction time. Are they specifically watching and waiting for this kind of hole to open, and do they have a strike already set up? Are they prebriefed to launch at a moment’s notice? Two to four hours is not a lot of time to organize and get off an operation flat-footed. If they’re set to go though, that’s a whole different deal.”

  “Project to the worst postulate. They’re ready and waiting.”

  “In th
at case, boss ma’am, we’re really gonna get screwed.”

  The crews of the two crippled seafighters worked with the swift and focused precision of an organ transplant team, and still the two-hour repair jobs grew toward three. Amanda paced the decks of Floater 1, grim-eyed and staying silent. Neither ragging at the service hands nor hovering over the shoulders of the duty watch in operations would accomplish anything.

  The Manassas came booming in over the western horizon, her turbines sputtering and dying while she was still a quarter of a mile off the platform. Paddling across in swimmer mode, she nestled against the lee side of the platform and accepted a fueling hose, kerosene cascading into her bone-dry bunkerage cells. Amanda stepped up her pacing, waiting for the first of her command to be ready for sea.

  The Queen of the West, also now moored alongside the platform, won the race. Scrounger Caitlin slammed the last access panel closed. “That’s it,” she yelled. “Ready to crank!”

  “All right!” Lane bellowed back from the cockpit side windows. “Starting engines. All hands stand by to cast off!”

  “Just a second!” Amanda vaulted the platform rail and dropped down to the hovercraft’s deck. “You’ve got a ride along tonight, Steamer.”

  “Welcome aboard, Captain. Crank ’em!”

  The Queen blazed away to the northwest, trailing her spray plume behind her.

  “All speed, Steamer,” Amanda commanded. “Pour it on!”

  “Got ’em to the wall, ma’am,” Lane replied over his shoulder. “We’ll maintain hot cruise all the way. Snowy, what’s our ETA to Guinea East?”

  “We’ll be on station in about two hours, Captain,” the hover’s copilot replied from her station.

  Amanda leaned back in the navigator’s seat and tried to relax. Two hours before the gap in her defenses could be filled. Two hours more before she dare let her weight down. And yet there still was no reaction from the Union. Maybe they’d missed it Maybe they weren’t ready. Please God, maybe today wasn’t the day for the worst-case postulate.