Sea fighter

by James H. Cobb

  “Chris,” she said into her lip mike, “are you seeing this?”

  “Yeah, I see it, “the intel replied, “I’m getting grody vibes off this one, boss ma’am. Grody to the max.”

  “Acknowledged. Are we seeing any other Union activity anywhere else?”

  “Roger on that. The Predator we have circling over Port Monrovia is observing a definite ramp-up in activity. A lot more security and a line-handling crew is standing to at the oil pier. We’re also monitoring an exchange of communications between the Bajara and Union naval headquarters. It’s some kind of verbal numeric code that we can’t read. Probably another one of those one-use, tear-pad ciphers.”

  “What about the Union’s heavy gunboats? Are they moving out?”

  “Not yet. They’ve got their crews aboard, however, and they’ve singled up all lines. They’re ready to haul out fast. For the moment they’re still alongside the docks, though.”

  “Keep an eye on them, Chris. If they sortie, I want to know about it. What’s the status on Manassas and Carondelet?”

  “They have both aborted patrol and are inbound. The Carondelet will be a factor in about an hour. The Manny in about two.”

  “Very well, Operations. Keep us posted.”

  Amanda glanced over her shoulder at Quillain. “Observations and suggestions, Captain?”

  Quillain shook his head slowly. “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but let’s not screw around with this guy. Let’s take him down hard and fast. Direct-action drill.”

  “Are you smelling an ambush too?”

  “I’m smelling something. Whatever it is, I figure the less time we give ’em to get set up, the better.”

  It was Amanda’s turn to nod. “I concur. In the vernacular of the Corps, hey diddle diddle and straight up the middle.”

  “There you go, Skipper.”

  Steamer Lane called back from the front of the pilot’s station. “Target bearing off the bow, Captain. Enemy in sight.”

  The sea and sky had grown crowded around the racing Algerian vessel. The La Fleurette hung back a quarter of a mile off the tanker’s port quarter, paralleling her course. The fast motor launch carrying her thwarted boarding party held midway between their mothership and their intended target.

  The French warship’s dark blue Sea Lynx helicopter buzzed angrily overhead, accompanied in the sky by the flashing marker strobes of the small American Eagle Eye recon drone and the more massive CH-60 assault chopper carrying the Marine fast-rope team. Higher yet, a French Atlantique ANG patrol plane loitered, circling watchfully on its throttled back turboprops.

  The Queen of the West moved in on the tanker’s starboard quarter, her tail ramp dropping as she launched her own boarders.

  “La Fleurette, La Fleurette, this is Little Pig Leader. What is your situation?”

  Glancing out of the windscreen, Amanda watched as the hovercraft’s miniraider sheered away toward the tanker, its snarling outboard ripping a white foaming gash across the dark blue of the wavetops.

  “Captain Garrett, this is Commander Trochard,” the Corvette captain replied. “We have no change. We have hailed on all standard ship-to-ship radio bands for forty-five minutes. We also attempted contact via blinker and loud-hailer. We have received no reply or response of any nature. However, when we attempted to go alongside, they turned into us, trying to ram. At that point, I considered discretion the better part of valor and called for assistance.”

  “A wise call, Commander. It appears you’ve already dealt with all of the appropriate preliminaries. I propose we give him one more challenge and then we go for a forced three point boarding. My helicopter team will go aboard at the bow and my boat team on the starboard side astern. Your people will hit port side astern. Do you concur?”

  “I concur, Captain. We will go on your command. And of the warning?”

  “I’ll give him one last radio hail, and if we don’t get an answer, I’d like for you to put a three-point-nine across his bow. If that doesn’t work, I’ll hit his bridge with some fifty caliber. That should get his attention. When he heaves to, we position to cover our boarding parties and we send them in.”

  Behind her, Amanda was aware of Stone Quillain speaking into his own headset, already passing the word to the Marine boat and helicopter crews.

  “Very good, Captain Garrett,” the French officer’s filtered voice came back. “We are standing by.”

  Amanda went off radio and back down to intercom. “Everybody get that?” she inquired.

  “Aye, aye, ma’am,” Steamer called back over his shoulder. “Where do you want me to keep her parked? Back here on his quarter?”

  “For the moment. When he stops his engines, I want you to move us up to his midships line and hold us bow-on to him at about a hundred yards. I want to be able to put covering fire in for both the boat and helo teams.”

  “My boys are set,” Quillain added grimly. Reaching over head, he slid back the gun-ring hatch. Chief Tehoa’s beloved twin-mount fifties belonged to him now.

  “Very good, Stone. Danno, this is the cockpit.”

  “Fire control ’by. What can we do for you, ma’am?”

  “Rig for heavy antiship. I want Hellfires on all the rails. If I pass the word, I want you to take apart this tub’s bridge and deckhouse. If we’re going to have trouble, that’s where it’s likely coming from. We’re going to need precision and called shots. We’ve got an awful lot of gas and oil out there, and we don’t want to make it mad at us.”

  “All you have to do is tell us which portholes you want ’em through, ma’am.”

  “Will do … and heat up the Harpoons as well. Just in case.”

  “Aye, aye.”

  Amanda ran down a fast mental checklist, seeking for any point she might have left uncovered. There didn’t seem to be anything. And yet …

  She shook her head, angry with herself for taking the counsel of her fears.

  “All right, then, everyone,” she said. “Here we go.”

  Her fingers played across the communications deck, calling up the international maritime guard frequency. “SS Bajara, SS Bajara, this is the United Nations African Interdiction Force. You are in violation of a U.N. exclusion zone. Stop your engines and prepare to be boarded. I say again, stop your engines and prepare to be boarded. This is your last warning. If you do not heave to immediately, we will open fire. I repeat, if you do not heave to immediately, we will open fire.”

  Her decks still eerily empty, the tanker continued on its drive for the African coast.

  “That’s it. She’s had her chance. La Fleurette, this is Little Pig Lead. Put one across her bow.”

  A moment later, the forward gun turret of the corvette spat out a single round. The flat crack … wham of the cannon shot and shell detonation sounded over the moan of the Queen’s turbines and a geyser of white spray jetted out of the sea just off the bow of the Algerian tanker.

  “No reaction so far,” Christine Rendino reported over the link from the drone control center. “Wait a minute…. We’re getting men on the decks…. We got a lot of uniformed men on the decks! They look like Union soldiers…. I’m seeing missile launchers! We got launchers setting up all over the place! Get those boats and helos out of there! That thing’s a Q ship!”

  Amanda’s finger smashed down on her own transmitter key. “Boarding craft sheer off! Helicopters! Evade! Evade! Evade!”

  The French Sea Lynx and the U.S. Blackhawk flared out like a pair of startled quail. Turning steeply, they dove for the wavetops, accelerating away from the threat. The Queen’s miniraider came hard about as well, almost capsizing as a wave broadsided it. Shaking off its burden of white water and foam, it clawed away from the Algerian vessel, opening the range.

  A gout of orange flame pulsed at the tanker’s rail and a shell exploded in the wake of
the fleeing boat. At her stern, the green and white banner of the Algerian flag dropped away, replaced by the blue and white of the West African Union.

  “Queen of the West and La Fleurette,” Amanda yelled into the command mike. “Target the tanker! Guns free! Engage! Engage! En—”

  “No!” Christine Rendino’s urgent cry overrode the order. “Hold your fire! There are kids on that ship!”

  “Check fire! Check fire! Check fire! Damn it, Chris! What are you talking about?”

  “Check your screens,” Christine said despairingly. “They’ve got kids crawling all over that ship. They’re using children as human shields.”

  Hastily Amanda accessed the Mast Mounted Sighting System and focused on the tanker’s decks. Acquiring one of the weapons crews now on station along the tanker’s rail, she zoomed the camera in.

  There were three actual combatants present, the gunner of the antitank team, kneeling and shouldering a Carl-Gustav recoilless rifle, and his two assistants, standing ready to feed reloads into the weapon. Flanking the Union soldiers, however, were a half-dozen small, gaunt and raggedly clad figures. Boys, none of whom could have been more than twelve years old. Lined up at the rail, they stared uncomprehendingly into the camera lens.

  “The goddamn cowards,” Quillain growled. “The goddamn, shit-eating, sheep-fucking cowards. They’re holding babies in front of them.”

  Amanda spoke carefully into her lip mike. “Chris, how many fire teams are you seeing?”

  “Six AT teams on the main deck and a couple of Blowpipe antiair launchers on the bridge wings. All of them with human shields. I think they’ve got some more kids on the bridge itself.”

  “Acknowledged.” She lifted her finger off the radio button. “Stone,” she asked quietly. “Assessment, please. Is there any way we can get past those launcher crews and get aboard that ship without firing on it?”

  The Marine shook his head. “No. No way in hell. Without covering fire, they’d cut us to pieces.”

  Amanda nodded and called up Fire Control. “Danno. This is Captain Garrett. Think about this one carefully. Could you take out that tanker’s rudder with a Hellfire shot?”

  The reply was a long time in coming back. “She’s heavily laden, ma’am. Her rudder post is right down there on the water. I can’t get a line of fire on it. I could try to put one into her steering engine room, but they got a bunch of kids standing on the fantail right above it. If I got a little high—”

  “Okay, Danno. I understand. Stand easy.”

  Christine’s filtered voice came back on the command circuit. “Little Pig Lead, this is Floater,” she said almost apologetically. “I know you guys have enough trouble out there as is, but I have a situational change at Port Monrovia.”

  “Go, Chris. What’s happening?”

  “An army convoy has just arrived at the Port Monrovia tank farm, a refugee convoy. The soldiers are herding a couple of hundred people into the petroleum-storage area. Families, men, women, and children. It looks like they intend to hold them there for a while.”

  “Understood.”

  Amanda signed off, striving to hold back the wave of sickness welling up within her. Belewa in his pragmatism had used the rebellious portions of his population as a weapon of aggression. Why not also as a weapon of defense?

  There was another burst of flame from the tanker’s deck, and another AT shell gouged a chunk off the Queen’s nose. This time the shot was being fired across Amanda’s bow, warning her off. The next one would be aimed to kill.

  “Captain,” Steamer called back uncertainly. “What do you want us to do, ma’am?”

  “Disengage, Commander. Disengage.”

  It was easier after saying it for that first time. Straightening at her console, she issued the string of bitter commands. “Little Pig Lead to all elements. Disengage and fall back. Recover the boat parties. Fast-rope team, return to Floater 1 and stand down. La Fleurette, be advised we’re letting him go. Fall back and shadow at long range. I say again, we’re letting him go.”

  Beyond the rote acknowledgments to the commands, no one spoke in the cockpit or over the radio link. There was nothing to say. Steamer brought the hovercraft around, turning away from the tanker and steering for a rendezvous with the miniraider.

  Amanda rose from behind the navigator’s station. “Stand down from General Quarters. If anything new develops, I’ll be in the wardroom.”

  “Aye, aye, ma’am.”

  Stone Quillain waited until Amanda had descended into the main hull before driving his fist into the bulkhead, the impact of his released rage making the cockpit frames shudder.

  Down in the deserted mess space, Amanda set out to prepare herself one perfect cup of tea. By focusing totally on each minor action of heating the water and getting out the creamer, sugar, and tea bag, she kept at bay the torrent of despair, frustration and anger racing through her mind. She steeped the bag for the proper count of seconds in the water, added the exact spoonfuls of creamer and sugar, and settled herself behind the table. Only then, with the steaming cup in front of her and the first edge of her emotions dulled, did she allow herself to think.

  Mobile Offshore Base, Floater 1 0818 Hours, Zone time; September 7, 2007

  “Get on the horn to both Conakry and Abidjan. Tell them I want every Predator we’ve got a control channel for in the air. Now! The same for the Eagle Eyes here on the platform. Get some more systems operators in here. Double up on all work stations. We’re watch on watch until further notice! Asses and elbows, people! Asses and elbows! Move!”

  Christine Rendino found herself sounding a little like Amanda Garrett, and the thought pleased her somewhat. Pacing in the cramped monitor-lit confines of the TACNET trailer, she orchestrated chaos.

  “Donovan, we’re going to need more working room. Take half a dozen laptops over to the briefing trailer and get them networked with us. Configure half of them for analysis section, the other half for tactical and mission planning. We’re going to be crunching a lot of data over the next few hours. I want a drone remote and a communications terminal, too.”

  “You got it, Commander.” The named subordinate sidled hastily down the row of workstations toward the door.

  “Vleymann. Get on the Lloyd’s database again. I want a download of everything ever recorded about the tanker Bajara. Who owns her? Who built her? How large a crew does she carry? I want detail! Engine-room specifications, deck plans, photographs, the works. Right down to what grade of steel they used in her and how many coats of paint are on the bulkheads. Pull everything on public file, then start hacking.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The young woman’s fingers danced across her keyboard as she launched herself into the global infonets.

  Turning to the watch operations coordinator, Christine leaned in over his shoulder. “Okay, Jerry, here’s the new game plan. I want saturation coverage of everything around Monrovia out to a range of … oh, call it a hundred and twenty miles. Concentrate your assets and screw the rest of the theater for the time being. Primary focus will be on the Union security forces: Army, Navy, militia, police. If the Liberian Boy Scouts so much as have a cookout, I want to know what kind of wieners they’re roasting.”

  “You got it, Commander,” the senior S.O. replied. “I can give you one thing right now. Ground Scan radar has acquired four major truck convoys moving within that zone of interest. All of them started to roll within the last half hour, and all of them inbound toward Monrovia.”

  Christine frowned and looked up at the ground scan display on the bulkhead. “Let me guess. The points of origin were all major Union supply depots.”

  “You got it. And we’re kicking up a lot of smaller one-, two-, and three-vehicle packages moving on the road net as well. All headed for Port Monrovia.”

  “I’m not at all surprised,” Christine replied. “Probably
every vehicle in the Union that can carry an oil drum is on the move. Belewa’ll disperse that fuel as fast as he can get it off the ship. By this time day after tomorrow, it’ll be scattered out to a couple of hundred little backcountry POL dumps. We’ll never be able to get at it then. The Union will be good to go for another six months.”

  “Hell!” the S.O. shook his head in resignation. “What are we going to do, ma’am?”

  “I don’t know, Chief.” A quirky smile came to the intel’s face. “But we’re going to do something about it. I’m not sure just what yet, but you can bet we are going to do something.”

  Abruptly, the overhead loudspeaker clicked and Amanda Garrett’s voice issued forth, her words very controlled, cool, and intent. “This is Little Pig Lead to TACNET. Chris, this is Amanda. I need the answers to some questions, and I need them fast. We’ve got a job we need to take care of here.”

  “Yes!” Christine lifted a fist into the air and pumped it downward to her chest. “And we’re off!”

  Houston, Texas 1622 Hours, Zone Time; September 7, 2007

  Frank Cochran yawned mightily at his desk and leaned back, wondering what to do with the last half hour of his workday. Not that he was finished with this Christless Spratly Island Project by any means. However, his brain had shut down on him prematurely; the schematics on his desktop screen were fuzzing into meaninglessness.

  Double-saving the program on his computer, the lanky Texas-born petroleum engineer switched over to his Internet server to check his e-mail. If there wasn’t anything that required his immediate attention there, maybe he’d call up Trophy Bass VI on his game file and go after that ten-pound lunker in Lake Pontchartrain again.

  There wasn’t anything of import in the mail file, and Cochran was about to yield to the temptations of cyberfishing when an IM notice flashed up in the corner of his screen.