Sea fighter

by James H. Cobb

  “Aye, aye, Captain,” Amanda replied meekly, harking back to her days as an Annapolis plebe.

  Quillain caught himself as well. “Yeah, well, it is kind of important, ma’am.”

  “I know it, and I do appreciate you showing me the ropes, Stone. What now? A couple more boxes through the pistols?”

  “Naw, let’s go to the M-4 for a while. You’re shooting pretty good sitting and kneeling, but you need to work on your offhand.”

  “Okay, but we’ll have to wait for a few minutes. We’ve got some fishermen downrange.”

  Half a mile out, a black silhouette ghosted along between Floater 1 and the brushfire tropic sunset. A single pirogue running before the wind on a muttonchop sail.

  Quillain snorted. “You don’t think those guys are actually fishing, do you?”

  “Of course not. When they tack about, you can see the lens glinting on their field glasses. They’ve got somebody out there pretty much all the time now. We know they’re Union recon, but under the rules of engagement, we have to accept them at face value.”

  “Why is that?” Quillain grumbled, popping the clip out of his M-9 and jacking the live round out of the chamber. “I mean, every damn little tin-pot terrorist and dictator out there can do anything he likes to the United States—blow up our embassies, torture our POWs, kill our kids in the streets and nobody says boo. But when it comes to hitting back, man, we sure have to play by the Marquis of Queensbury, else the whole damn world screams bloody murder. Just why is that?”

  “It’s for the best reason in the world,” Amanda replied, picking up the carbine and adjusting its sling. “One that I wouldn’t change for anything I can imagine.”

  Quillain’s brows knit together. “What reason’s that?”

  She smiled back at the big Marine. “It’s because we’re the good guys, Stone.”

  Conakry Base, Guinea 1525 Hours, Zone Time;

  July 9, 2007

  “You men are going to have to learn that while you might be stationed on the coast of Africa, you are still members of the United States Navy!”

  The young ensign paced righteously in front of his field desk, his shoulders square and the creases of his tropic whites crisp. It was his first watch as duty officer of the day for the Conakry Shore Patrol detachment, and, as young ensigns have done since time immemorial, he was taking his job most seriously.

  “There is a reason we set uniform standards,” he expounded, “and a reason we expect them to be maintained!”

  Danno and the Fryguy stood at an uneasy parade rest. The only “standard” to their own state of dress was that they were clad alike. Their sleeveless and buttonless dungaree shirts bore no ratings badges, only a “Three Little Pigs” squadron patch over the left breast. Both gunners also wore the black beret of the seafighter task force, sweat-stained and bleached dull by the sun.

  “In fact, you men should be setting an exceptional standard out here. You are serving under the command of one of the most capable, most respected, and most honored officers in the fleet. I have no doubt that Captain Amanda Garrett expects her personnel to comport themselves like real man-of-wars-men and not like a bunch of cheap Rambo clones!”

  At that moment, just as the ensign’s tirade peaked, there came a knock at the office door.

  “Enter!”

  “Excuse me, Ensign. I understand you have a couple of my people here. Is there a problem?”

  Amanda Garrett stood in the doorway. The eagles on the collar of her khaki shirt were sea-tarnished, and the shirt itself was oil-stained, sleeveless, and sun-faded to near white. Her slacks had been slashed short at midthigh, and a webbing belt, cut down from the quick-release strap of a MOLLE harness, rode low on her hips, supporting a Navy Mark IV survival knife and an obsolete and salt-cracked leather pistol holster. Her bare feet were slipped into a pair of native-made tire tread sandals and a frayed Cunningham baseball cap was tugged low over her mildly inquiring eyes.

  There was a moment of profound silence in the little office.

  “No, ma’am,” the ensign sighed. “No problem. It was all just … a misunderstanding. Your men are free to go at any time.”

  Amanda gave a friendly nod. “I thought that might be the case. Danno and the Fryguy here are a couple of my best hands. I couldn’t imagine what they could have done to get crosswise with the Shore Patrol. Thank you for taking care of things, Ensign. Gentlemen, let’s be on our way.”

  Maintaining an appropriately sober and stoic demeanor, Danno and the Fryguy followed their captain out of the hall way. The explosion of hysterical laughter didn’t occur until the door had almost closed behind them.

  United Nations Kissidougu

  Relief Camp Guinée Forestière

  Highland, 15 Miles East of the Union-Guinea Border 1234 Hours, Zone Time;

  July 10, 2007

  Kissidougu relief camp was a sprawling half-mile square patch of raw, muddy, and tightly packed tent rows set in the midst of the rank rain forests. Above it a thin haze of smoke hovered in the humid air, issuing from its myriad of charcoal and scrapwood fires. And below, on the ground, a mass of dispossessed humanity clogged its muddy streets—the newly nationless to whom the U.N. camp had become their sole refuge and home.

  A rutted dirt road and a single spot helipad were the only links with the outside world, in and out. Cautiously, the Marine CH-60 flared out and eased down to its landing.

  “How many DPs do you have here at Kissidougu, Lieutenant?” Christine Rendino asked her guide.

  “Kissidougu is the smallest of the eight transit camps along the border.” The Belgian army nurse wore combat fatigues and had her light brown hair bound in a bun at the back of her neck. She might have been a pretty young woman were it not for the weariness ground into her features. “And, at the moment, we have roughly eight thousand refugees in residence. An exact count is hard to come by. Every day we gain a few from across the line and lose a few to the graveyard.”

  “So Belewa has started to push more of his people across the border?”

  “He has never stopped,” the nurse replied as they clumped along the rain-slick duckboards that led to the field hospital. “We aren’t seeing the big waves as we did at first. Now there are just little groups—ten, twenty, thirty. Sometimes even single families. And the Union soldiers are pushing them across through the heavy jungle and swamp areas now to avoid the Guinea patrols. The ones who reach the camps now are usually in poor condition, with much sickness, hunger, and exhaustion. We do what we can for them with the facilities we have.”

  Christine glanced down the overcrowded tent rows. “I thought the U.N. master plan called for these border camps to just be way stations? Aren’t the DPs supposed to be moved out to the bigger cantonments along the coast?”

  The nurse gave a small, bitter smile. “No one consulted with General Belewa before they drew up the plan. The high way out to Faranah has been mined … again. We haven’t been able to get a refugee convoy out to the coast for a week. Nor have we been able to resupply. Some rations are being airlifted, of course, but we are just one helicopter away from starvation up here. God have mercy if the weather closes in.”

  “I brought some food up with me in my helo. Some cases of MREs, anyhow.” Christine found herself fumbling for words. The offering didn’t seem very impressive in the looming face of famine.

  The nurse found a true smile somewhere inside of herself. “Add enough hot water and one of those ration packs can be made into a soup that can keep an entire family alive for a day. Thank you. It will make a difference. Come this way, Commander. The man you wish to speak with is in this ward.”

  As with the living compound, the tent hospital was jammed far beyond its capacity. Every cot had long since been occupied, and now even the floor space between them was at a premium. The sick, injured, and dying occupied crude pallets on the
canvas floor, and the U.N. and Guinean medical personnel made their way among them as best they could, moving with the zombie like rote of those who had worked too hard at the same task for too long.

  Slowly they passed down the narrow aisle between the rows of cots and pallets. “What kind of wound profiles are you getting with the DPs?” Christine inquired, forcing herself to look to the right and left. “Any indication of systematic mistreatment by the Union forces?”

  “It depends upon your definition of mistreatment, I suppose,” her guide replied, frowning. “If you mean torture, beatings such as that, no. At least not among those who did not try to resist. The Union wants these people in good enough condition to walk away.

  “If you mean families, old people and children, being turned out into a wilderness without adequate food, medicine, or shelter, yes. That kind of mistreatment is universal.”

  The nurse paused and indicated a small and very still form on one of the cots. “An example,” she said, lowering her voice. “This little girl, five years old. Shortly before she and her mother were picked up by an Army sweep, she was bitten by a snake. A boomslang. There is no anti-venom for a boomslang’s bite. She will die sometime this afternoon.”

  Her face held emotionless, the nurse continued down the line. “We do get some wounds in. Frequently we see DPs who have been beaten, shot, and stabbed. But generally, that happens only after they have come across the line. The locals barely have enough food for their own families, and they look upon the DPs as a threat, a kind of two-legged locust. If a refugee is caught robbing from a field or storehouse, it goes hard for them.”

  They reached the end of the ward and halted at the last cot in line. “Here, Commander, I believe this is the man you wished to see. But please be brief. He is old … and very tired.”

  “I’ll try and take it easy, Lieutenant. Thank you.”

  Christine reached up and keyed on the minirecorder in her shirt pocket, then knelt down beside the hospital cot. “Excuse me, sir,” she inquired softly, “but are you Professor McAndrews? Professor Robert McAndrews?”

  The man in question was thin to the point of emaciation, the whiteness of his thinning hair a stark contrast to the deep brown of his weathered skin. The eyes, though sunken deep into the fine-boned skull, were still bright and alert as they opened.

  “Southern California,” he said. “Am I correct?”

  “That’s right, sir.” Christine found herself smiling. “Ventura, a Valley Girl.”

  “I thought so.” The elderly man gave a slight nod. “I taught at UCLA for four years. A very colorful and rich dialect. Yes, I am Robert McAndrews. And you?”

  “Lieutenant Commander Christine Rendino, United States Navy, currently attached to the United Nations Interdiction Force. If you wouldn’t mind, Professor, I’d like to have a talk with you.”

  “And why not? A visit with an attractive young woman is a thing to be welcomed.” McAndrews struggled weakly for a moment to roll over onto his side and face Christine. “How may I be of assistance to you, the United States Navy, and the United Nations?”

  “Professor, I’m an intelligence officer gathering information about what’s going on within the West African Union. And I’m hoping you can help me.”

  McAndrews frowned slightly. I’m not sure how I could, Miss Rendino. If you are seeking for military secrets or troop deployments, I will be quite useless to you. I did not travel greatly in those circles.”

  “I didn’t expect that you had, Doctor,” Christine said, rear ranging herself to sit cross-legged beside the cot. “I was hoping you could help me out in a much more critical area.”

  “And what area is that?”

  “I’m hoping you can help me to understand just what is going on inside of the Union, and inside of the head of General Belewa.”

  The old man on the cot managed a rasping chuckle. “That will make for quite a dissertation, young lady. I hope you aren’t planning to stand on one foot for it.”

  Christine smiled and shook her head. “Okay, then. Let’s start with something simpler.” She leaned forward to meet McAndrews’s eyes. “Look, Professor, I’ve been able to learn quite a bit about you over the past few days. Your doctorates are in the fields of history and political science, and you also have a noteworthy reputation in both. You were also born and raised in Liberia. When your country started its slide into hell back in the eighties, you got out and went on to teach at some of the most prestigious universities in the world. However, when General Belewa came to power, you went home again and you were made welcome. We know you were prominently involved in the reorganization of the Union educational system, and we know you were the driving force behind the move to open the Union’s first university.

  “The next thing we know, however, is that you come staggering out of the jungle as one of Belewa’s displaced political enemies. If you wouldn’t mind talking about it, we’d like to know what happened.”

  McAndrews grimaced. “There is no reason not to speak about it, Miss Rendino. I made a cardinal error. I became an inefficiency.”

  “An inefficiency?

  “Quite so. I elected to disagree. To have a differing opinion. And that brand of inefficiency is a grievous offense within the West African Union.”

  “Inefficiency. That’s an interesting way to phrase it, Professor. Just what did you do that was so inefficient?”

  McAndrew cocked one frost-colored eyebrow. “I endeavored to reintroduce politics to the West African Union. Since the establishment of the Belewa regime, we’ve only had ‘government,’ and the two are quite different affairs.”

  “I understand that concept. What kind of reintroduction did you try?”

  The old man smiled gently. “Liberia was a democracy once. Perhaps not the best of democracies, but a democracy nonetheless. I found that I rather missed it, and so I attempted to found a political party.”

  “A political party?”

  “Yes. Such things are outlawed currently, and that was one of the things I wished to change. I even had the opportunity to discuss the matter quite extensively with General Belewa himself on one occasion.”

  “What did he have to say about it?”

  “I received a nod of the head and a ‘someday when times are better.’” The old man’s expression hardened. “I was not willing to wait for ‘someday,’ Miss Rendino. I felt there were issues within the Union that needed to be addressed immediately.”

  “Such as?”

  “Oh, I think you can make a fair guess. Our acts of aggression against our neighboring states. The disenfranchisement and banishment of entire blocks of our population. Our belligerent confrontation with the United Nations. The restoration of a democracy was, in a way, the least of our concerns. Yet there were those of us who thought it might be the first step in addressing the rest of these problems.”

  “And so you formed your political party.”

  “Quite so.” Another sad smile crossed McAndrews’s face. “My idea was to organize the party covertly at first. When we had gathered a degree of strength, we would then go public as a ‘loyal opposition,’ as it were, and commence a dialogue with the Belewa government, promoting reform and a gradual integration of democratic principles into our society, as well as calling for debate upon the course our international affairs were taking.

  “It was quite magnificent, really. We named ourselves the ‘United Democratic Party of the Union of West Africa.’ We had a signed membership of twelve people from within the educational community, a most impressive letterhead, and fully half a manifesto drawn up … Then the Special Police came for us.”

  “That’s how you became a DP.”

  “Indeed.” Bitterness crept into McAndrews’s voice. “In the Union under Belewa, you are not lined up against the wall and shot for being an enemy of the State, nor are you thrown into a
dungeon or tortured. That wouldn’t be ‘efficient.’ Instead, you are just thrown away, like a used cleansing tissue.”

  “And yet, Professor, you have to admit that you voluntarily went back to Liberia and that you worked with the Belewa government for a period of several years before you attempted to start this political rebellion of yours. You had to know what you were getting yourself into.”

  “This is very true, Miss Rendino. But you see, in my own folly, I elected to put stock in a myth.”

  “A myth?”

  “Yes, the myth of the benevolent dictator. I have since learned that there is no such creature. There is only ‘dictator,’ period.”

  The professor lifted his head from the pillow, his eyes intently studying Christine’s expression. “Now you tell me something, Miss Rendino. What do you feel about General Belewa? Not what your government’s policy is, but what you, yourself, feel about him and what he has done.”

  The intel had to pause and consider for a moment. “Well, fa’sure he’s flat-out wrong in launching a war against his neighbors and in causing all of this mass suffering on the part of the DPs. But on the other hand, I have to say it seems he’s also done a lot of good.”

  “Exactly, Miss Rendino! And there lies the great tragedy of the West African Union and of the man who leads it. Obe Belewa has indeed done a great deal of good. Of him, it may honestly be said that he is a great man and leader. Yet each of his accomplishments is tainted by the fact that he is still an ironhanded tyrant! For each life he has made better, a myriad more have come to suffer.”

  “Say what you like about Mussolini,” Christine murmured. “At least he made the trains run on time.”

  “A very apt quote, Miss Rendino. Currently General Belewa has a dream of a united, peaceful, and prosperous West Africa. No man can argue with that goal. But he made room in the Union for only his version of that dream. If any one else has a dream of their own, they are cast out! There is only one straight line drawn. His way! His concept! His ideal! And in the end that will lead to the downfall of both Belewa and the Union.”