Sea fighter

by James H. Cobb

  “Radio Monrovia and Radio Freetown are broadcasting continuous storm warnings and instructions to evacuate,” Brigadier Atiba replied. “All village chiefs are also receiving telephone notification from the provincial councils.”

  “And what of the villages that do not have working radios or telephones? It’s not enough, Sako. We must do more, and quickly.”

  Belewa’s personal command center was jammed to overflowing, not only with a doubled duty watch but also with a steady stream of couriers and functionaries from the other government agencies within the building. Some were there to deliver urgently needed reports and information. The majority, however, had come to receive even more urgently needed orders and instructions. Belewa and Atiba had been on their feet since before first light, moving from desk to desk, issuing commands and motivation in equal amounts.

  “I want full mobilization on all militia and labor companies. All Police and Special Police reserves as well. All cities and townships will go under full martial law at sundown tonight, and the Special Courts are authorized to conduct field trials for looters and shirkers. There will be no looting, and order will be maintained.”

  “Yes, sir. What about the regular army and navy?”

  “Stand down from combat operations. Divert all elements to emergency services. Everything except for the Guinea border garrisons and patrols.”

  “As you order, General,” Atiba replied, “but we should consider the fact that this storm will likely be as disruptive to the United Nations blockade as it will be to us. We may have an opportunity here to take some action.”

  “That is something to consider, Sako, and as soon as we have a free minute to do so, we shall. For the moment, we have a more dangerous enemy to fight.”

  Beyond the command suite’s windows, the cloud cover could be seen building to the southward. Belewa paced slowly before those windows, his eyes half closed and his words following the flow of his thoughts. Atiba’s pencil swept across the pages of his daybook, racing to keep up.

  “I want foot and motorized army patrols to sweep the coastal zones. All coastal villages, or at least as many as we can reach, are to be ordered to evacuate inland immediately. Army Transport Command and the Civil Travel Commission are to dedicate all available assets to the task. Authorize the immediate dispersal of an extra week’s fuel ration—”

  At that moment, a signals officer entered the central room, a stunned expression on his face. Crossing swiftly to Atiba, he spoke a few quiet, urgent sentences. It was the Chief of Staff’s turn then to wear the stunned expression.

  “Obe … General Belewa, there is … an unusual development.”

  Belewa paused in his pacing. “What is it, Sako?”

  “It’s the satellite phone, the international diplomatic link. A woman is on it who claims that she is the commander of the American interdiction squadron. She asks to speak with you directly, Obe.”

  Belewa froze in place, his eyes widening as he shared in the disbelief. Then he broke the mental lock and shot a glance out of the window in the direction of both the American Off shore Base and the looming storm front.

  “Tell her that I will be there presently. Brigadier Atiba, you are with me. The rest of you, carry on.”

  They crossed the hall to the communications center in the opposing hotel suite. The plate-size satellite dish had been set up on the balcony, and Belewa snapped his fingers, pointing to both the tape recorder and the remote speaker unit before accepting the handset. With Atiba and the commo officer listening in, he lifted the phone to his ear.

  “This is Premier General Obe Belewa of the West African Union. To whom am I speaking?”

  “This is Captain Amanda Lee Garrett of the United States Navy, currently commanding the U.S. elements attached to the United Nations African Interdiction Force. Thank you for accepting my call, General.”

  It was a good woman’s voice, a strong and level alto, yet with a purring huskiness to it. The words it spoke were crisp and businesslike. Still, Belewa caught himself wondering just for a moment how that voice might sound whispering a love poem. Angrily, he shook the thought away.

  “What is it you wish to speak to me about, Captain Garrett?” Somehow it never occurred to him to doubt his caller’s identity.

  “Matters that I suppose should be dealt with through proper diplomatic channels,” the woman replied. “However, neither one of us really has the time for that at the moment. I’m sure that you are already aware of the developing weather situation?”

  “The hurricane? Yes, Captain. We know of it.”

  “We here within the UNAFIN task force are aware of the danger this storm represents to your civilian population along the coast. We also know of the difficulties you will face in getting adequate warning to them. We wish to offer our assistance.”

  Belewa looked up and met the startled gaze of his officers. “Assistance?”

  “That’s correct, General,” she replied evenly. “I have already instructed the signals stations in my net to commence broadcasting weather warnings on the civil AM radio bands, supplementing your own coverage. Also, while we know you have the standard Internet weather accesses available to you, we can feed you direct downloads from both our National Hurricane Center and from Atlantic Fleet Command’s Meteorology Division. Can you provide us with a datalink?”

  Damnation! What was he supposed to say to that! He could only nod and gesture affirmatively to the communications officer. Yes, for the love of God, set it up!

  “We are arranging for the datalink, Captain,” Belewa replied, his mind racing. What was she planning? What kind of trap could this be? “I … thank you for your consideration. This is most unexpected.”

  “Why should it be, General?” the level alto continued. “We are both professional military officers, involved in a confrontation between our nations. However, I believe we are both wise enough to know that there is a time and a place for such confrontation. This is not one of them. The United States and the United Nations have no conflict with the civil population of the West African Union, and they are the ones most at risk at this moment.

  “Accordingly, I propose a truce, a cease-fire, beginning now and extending for a period of forty-eight hours beyond the termination of the coming hurricane, permitting us both to focus our assets on disaster relief and rescue. From what I judge, the most critical problem confronting us is the evacuation of your low-lying coastal regions prior to the storm coming ashore, and disaster assessment afterward. We are prepared to assist in both of these areas.”

  “In what way?” Belewa inquired cautiously.

  “You are aware of our reconnaissance drones and our intelligence assessment capacity, General. I am prepared to put them at your disposal in the same way we are aiding the government of Guinea. Many of your isolated coastal communities are without radio or telephone communications. We can spot the communities that appear to be evacuating and those that are not, allowing your emergency services to concentrate their efforts on the villages that have not received a warning yet. Following the hurricane, we can pinpoint those areas along your coast that have been hardest hit, again allowing you to concentrate your efforts. If we work together on this, General, we can hold down the loss of life your nation is facing.”

  God, but she was right. What reason had he to refuse such an offer? Beyond personal pride or suspicion, at least.

  “How do you wish to administer this truce, Captain Garrett? What guarantees do you require?”

  “Your word of honor as an officer, sir,” the reply came back fearlessly and without hesitation, “as I offer mine in return.”

  “Accepted, Captain. The truce goes into effect one hour from now until forty-eight hours after the storm’s passage. I … thank you on behalf of the people of the Union.”

  “On behalf of UNAFIN, I thank you for allowing us to aid. Might
I suggest we turn this matter over to our staffs at this time for the arrangement of details? I suspect we both have a great deal of work to do.”

  “Indeed, Captain.”

  Belewa restored the phone to its cradle. How very strange. How can it be that one who is your blood foe could also be one with whom you could place an instinctive and implicit trust? Obe Belewa silently made a pledge that he would look into this Amanda Garrett’s eyes someday.

  Granted they both survived.

  From his station at Belewa’s shoulder, Brigadier Atiba spoke softly. “Obe. Was this wise? To accept our enemies’ handouts like this? It will look to the world as if we are not capable of taking care of our own citizens.”

  Belewa glanced at his chief of staff. “No, Sako, I do not know if this was a wise thing for me to do. I only know that it had to be done. Establish the links between National Emergency Services and the American offshore base. Time is short. No matter who offers it, let us not squander this gift.”

  Mobile Offshore Base, Floater 1 0305 Hours, Zone Time; July 23, 2007

  It was a night when adrenaline and black coffee took the place of sleep. Dog it down, get it secured, strike it below. If it can’t be readily moved under cover, lash it in place. And then, when you’re sure it isn’t going anywhere, throw an extra loop of line around it, just to be certain. You have to be certain, for the Wrath of God is rolling up from the south.

  The 1-MC speakers warred with the thudding of helicopter rotors. “Status Bravo Personnel! Starboard watch! Report to Helipads Red One and Green Two for evacuation! Expedite!”

  Amanda prowled through the shadows and glare of the worklights, supervising and spotting weak points with a mariner’s eye. Floater 1 was like no vessel she had ever helped to see through a storm before, but there were lessons she had learned that were still applicable.

  “Hey, you men on that trailer,” she yelled across to one of the work parties. “Let the air out of that thing’s tires and bleed the hydraulic pressure out of the jackstands before you strap it down. Reduce the wind resistance as much as you can and get the center of gravity as low as possible.”

  “Will do, ma’am,” the senior petty officer acknowledged.

  “And put about another dozen bights around that roll of sunshade. If the wind gets under that canvas, it’ll tear like Kleenex.”

  “Aye, aye.”

  “Captain,” another voice, this one with a British accent to it, hailed her. Lieutenant Mark Traynor hobbled across the deck on his wound-stiffened leg. “I beg your pardon, Captain Garrett, but I need to ask you for another favor.”

  “Ask, Leftenant. Whatever we can do.” Amanda and the other U.S. personnel aboard Floater 1 had come to admire the fight the company of the HMS Skye had been making to save their crippled ship. A number of her crewmen, her wounded captain included, had stayed on aboard the platform to help keep the battle-damaged little minehunter afloat.

  “I’d like to move the Skye a little more amidships along the lee side of the platform, if we may,” the Englishman said apologetically. “It will give her a bit more shelter. We could use some help walking her down, if you could spare the man power.”

  “No problem at all, Leftenant. I’ll have Commander Gueletti authorize a work detail to assist you. I’m sorry that heavy lift ship didn’t show up in time to haul you out before this blow. Do you think you’re going to have any problems tomorrow?”

  “Not to worry, ma’am,” Traynor replied resolutely. “We’ll keep the water out of her if we have to drink it.”

  As Traynor went on his way, an attention tone sounded in Amanda’s command headset. Shifting from one crisis to the next, Amanda stepped back between a pair of Conex containers to reply. “Garrett here,” she said into the lip mike, cupping her hands over the earphones to eliminate some of the deckside clamor.

  “This is Chris, boss ma’am. We’re shutting down the Floater TACNET node at this time. All system operations are switching over to Conakry Base.”

  “What about the Bravo and Valiant?”

  “Both successfully recovered their aerostats and they’re beating out to sea now,” the intel replied. “Those old TAGOs hulls were built to operate in the North Atlantic. They can take a little heavy weather. Santana is riding it out at Conakry, and Sirocco is heading Frenchside to Abidjan.”

  “Good enough. How about our data dump to Monrovia?”

  “They’re still accepting. We’ll feed ’em weather from Conakry Base for as long as the satellite links stay up. I’ve had to secure the drone recon, though. We’re approaching gust limits for the Predators at the higher altitudes, and we’ve flown all of the Eagle Eyes off the platform.”

  “Understood. When do you and your people haul out?”

  “My guys and me go on the next shuttle flight. Hey, when we get on the beach at Conakry, how about we throw a good old-fashioned hurricane party?”

  Amanda hesitated a moment before replying. “Maybe, Chris. I’ll see you later.”

  She worked her way aft, heading for the hover hangars. Everything within the squadron area appeared well battened down for the coming tempest. Even the “Three Little Pigs” placards on the exterior bulkheads had been unshipped and placed under cover. Running lights flashing, the PGs themselves stood ready to launch, the last of the service crew scrambling aboard.

  “Hey, Captain!” As Amanda stepped out onto the turning platform, Steamer Lane jogged across to her, Snowy Banks trotting at his heels. “We were looking for you, ma’am,” Lane said. “We’re all set to haul out. Do you need a hand getting your gear aboard?”

  Amanda shook her head. “Not necessary, Steamer. I’m going to ride it out here aboard the platform.”

  The two hover pilots swapped startled glances. “Begging the Captain’s pardon, ma’am,” Snowy said carefully, “but, given the situation, are you sure that’s wise?”

  “I suppose it depends on your definition of ‘wise,’ Snowy.” Amanda smiled back. “I spent two years commanding a Fleet Ocean tug in the Atlantic. I know a little bit about barge operations and heavy-weather work, and I think I can make myself useful. Commander Gueletti and his Seabees are going to have their hands full out here when that blow hits.

  “And speaking of that blow,” she continued, cutting off any further protest on the part of her officers. “You’d better get under way. You’re tight on time, and you have a long run to Conakry Base.”

  “As you say, Captain,” Lane responded reluctantly. “I wish you were coming with us, though.”

  “I’ll be fine. You just watch yourselves out there tonight.”

  “No sweat, Captain. If the sea starts kicking up on us too bad, we can always haul out on the beach.”

  “Even so, be careful. I’d hate to be the first task force commander in naval history to lose a ship by having a tree fall on it.”

  Amanda looked on as the seafighters fired up and took their departure. One by one, they lumbered forward to the edge of the launching ramp, slipping over and slithering down to the uneasy sea. Crossing to the starboard rail, Amanda watched the running lights of the squadron fade into the murky night.

  Even with a couple of hundred people remaining on the platform, Amanda felt suddenly very much alone.

  “The squadron get off okay, ma’am?” A massive form moved up beside her at the rail.

  Startled, Amanda looked up at Ben Tehoa. “Chief? What are you still doing here?”

  “Same thing you are, Captain.” The big CPO grinned back. “These Construction Battalion guys are real good at building airports and grading roads and such, but they’re going to need the help of a couple of real sailors before this show’s over.”

  Dawn found the platform’s skeleton crew still hard at work, making final preparations for the oncoming storm. The sun rose in colors of dirty green and tarnished bronze, and the moistur
e-saturated air hung deathly still, lying on the chest like a coffin lid. The sea roiled, the wave patterns broken and irregular now, as if the waters themselves had grown fearful and were seeking escape.

  Working with Chief Tehoa, Amanda supervised the deployment of a last few yards of lifeline. But suddenly she brought herself up short, her ears clicking and popping in response to a drop in barometric pressure so abrupt as to be physically sensed.

  Looking up, she found that a stillness had fallen on the decks of Floater 1. Almost everyone else on the decks had paused as well, staring away to seaward.

  It was as if the sea and sky to the south were coagulating, the horizon wrinkling and collapsing inward like melting cellophane. And then Amanda realized that it was no optical illusion. She was looking at the leading edge of Hurricane Ivan, sweeping down upon them like an atmospheric avalanche.

  “Well,” Chief Tehoa commented mildly. “Here she comes.”

  Mobile Offshore Base, Floater 1 1021 Hours, Zone time;

  July 23, 2007

  To Amanda it was an anarchistic, Wagnerian symphony played by an orchestra of insane gods. The wind instruments were the winds themselves, treble howl and base bellow and a thousand heterodyned variants between. The strings played from the platform’s network of guy wires and tie-downs, thrumming and shrieking as the tempest plucked at them madly.

  And the sea mastered the percussion section. Towering ranks of spume-fringed waves beat upon Floater 1. Crashing down upon the inundated decks, they drove the barge segments together with a kettledrumming boom, the impact of each comber radiating upward through the platform structure. Gritting her teeth in a snarl of effort, Amanda drew herself forward from the core barge along one of the fore-and-aft lifelines. Her tightly laced life jacket served more as a shield against the high-velocity bite of the windblown rain than it did as a protection against a possible drowning. No one going over the side in this sea-spawned holocaust could hope to survive.