September 7, 2007
The two raiders bumped softly together, Stone Quillain’s hand catching one of the carrying loops on Amanda’s craft. Beyond the faint hissing of the raindrops on the sea, the distant, sporadic gunfire of the St. Paul River garrison could be heard away to the north.
“How we doing?” Quillain inquired, lifting a corner of his boat’s RAM hood.
“So far, so good,” Amanda replied, doing the same. It felt good to admit a puff of comparatively cool air to the rank and humid interior of the little raft. “The northern diversions have all gone in. As we expected, Belewa is too smart to bite at them. Drone recon indicates he’s standing pat.”
Quillain gave an acknowledging grunt. “Yeah, but right about now he’s got to be looking back over his shoulder, wonderin’ just where the real crunch is coming from.”
“So we hope.” As per instruction, Amanda had turned the luminous dial of her watch inward to her wrist. Now she flipped the worn Lady Admiral face up for a moment to check the time. “We’ll be giving him a suggestion as to where he can look in another few seconds here. The MADCOIL strike should be going in now.”
Barclay Army Training Center
South of the City of Monrovia 0004 Hours, Zone Time; September 8, 2007
Most of the officers and men of the Union army’s 1st Mobile Strike Force were too keyed up to linger inside their humidity rank cinder-block barracks this night. Not with a fight in the offing.
Instead, they loitered around their combat-readied vehicles in the motor pool areas, talking the rambling inconsequential talk of soldiers caught in the inevitable military cycle of hurry up and wait. Shielded from the drizzle, cigarette tips glowed in cupped palms.
This urge to be out in the open instead of under the roofs of the camp’s buildings would save many of their lives in the minutes to come.
They were given no warning beyond a soft droning in the distance, a droning that grew rapidly into a thudding roar. Men looked up, confused. The threat they had been told of lay out to sea, but this sound was coming from inland, from over Union territory.
An officer broke through the hesitation, bellowing a command. The base alarm Klaxons started their urgent metallic honking. Men scrambled for stacked weapons. Vehicle crewmen started engines and scrambled to clear the antiaircraft machine guns atop their trucks and tracks.
All too late to make a difference.
Strike group MADCOIL had followed a devious flight path since crossing the Union coast. With a pair of Eagle Eye recon drones flying point like a pair of cavalry scouts, the helicopter formation had snaked its way inland, hugging the forest canopy to evade the minimal Union radar coverage. Swinging wide around the outlying outposts of the Monrovia defenses, they picked up the meandering track of the Mesurado River.
Here, the helos had turned west, following the track of the river channel back toward the city. Dropped even lower, the aircraft skimmed the surface of the sluggish estuary, the beating of their rotors contained between its thickly forested banks.
In his night-vision visor, Evan Dane saw the shoreline of Bank Island loom ahead. With Bally Island on his right hand, he banked the Merlin to starboard, trailing the curve of river around to the west-northwest.
Shore lights flickered past in the rain, all but invisible to the naked eye, yet piercingly bright in the night optics. The water shimmered two men’s heights below.
Dane risked a single split-second glance down at the GPU screen. Right, still in the slot! Clearing Bank Island to port. The river turned fully to the north here, so their course now angled them across to a point on the west bank.
“On base leg to attack! All aircraft stand by! Come left to two seven zero on my mark!”
More lights dead on off the Merlin’s nose. The riverbank and Capitol Hill beyond it.
“Flight break left and climb! Climb! On attack leg!”
Hard back on pitch and collective! War power to the turbines! Up and into a bank and a zoom beyond anything the big ASW helo had ever been intended for. They were over the shoreline now, the shacks and streets flashing past beneath them. Momentary images of night-wandering Africans gawking upward at the howling monster-birds that had swept in from the darkness.
Shack-street-shack-street shack … Clear sky and over the crest! No hellish glare in the side-view mirrors to announce the failure of a flight mate to clear the hill.
There! The stadium just off the line of flight to the right! The large open fenced area dead ahead with its neatly ranked rows of barracks, so different from the jumble of civilian housing they had just flown over. This is it! This is where we’re supposed to be!
“Target ahead!”
They came down off the hill crest, diving balls to the wall; the airframe shuddered as the airspeed redlined. Move, you old cow! D’you want these bastards to get a shooting line on us?
Over the fence line. Over the objective! The door gunners opened up, hosing tracers at the scattering Union soldiers below.
Dane’s finger closed convulsively on the ordnance release trigger. “Bombs gone!”
Racks designed to drop torpedoes and depth charges instead released fifty-gallon oil drums filled with a home brewed napalm of gasoline blended with soap flakes. A doctored 40mm incendiary grenade screwed into the filler hole served adequately as a detonator.
Dane’s night-vision system overloaded, and he tore the dead visor up and off of his eyes. The makeshift incendiaries sprayed across rooftops and splattered in spectacular blossoms of fire across the tarmacked car parks, exploding vehicle fuel tanks joining in the holocaust in the seconds that followed.
The helicopter formation swept across Barclay barracks, surfing on a wave of orange and white flame. Off his port side, outlined against the glare, Dane could see the big U.S. Sea Stallion riding nose high and with a steady stream of oil drums rolling out of its open tailgate like depth charges off the fantail of a World War II destroyer.
The last canister of hellfire dropped clear. Ordnance expended, the strike group raced away from the army base, racing now for the sanctuary of the sea. A scattering of tracers chased them, and Danes guts locked up for an instant as he saw the spark trail of a shoulder-launched antiaircraft missile arc into the sky.
However, like the night-vision visor, the infrared homing system of the little projectile was overwhelmed by its proximity to the inferno raging within the Union military base. After staggering drunkenly across the sky for a moment, the missile dove into the flames, minutely compounding the disaster.
Black sea flashed beneath the helicopters. They were on home ground again. Dane took a second to catch up on his breathing. “Well, I daresay they know there’s a Caucasian in the woodpile now.”
“General Belewa, attack … General! Barclay Barracks has been bombed!”
Belewa’s head snapped up. “That’s impossible! The United Nations has no attack aircraft here. Get a confirmation from Barclay headquarters.”
“Both Barclay headquarters and the Mobile Force HQ Company have gone off the air. No reply on any tactical channel. I am receiving the report from South Sector Militia Command. They say the army base is in flames, sir.”
Belewa hurled his canteen cup to the deck of the track and charged down the tail ramp. Once out in the night, he stared to the south. A dull-orange glow flickered off the low overcast, outlining Mamba Point.
“How did you do that?” His first response was a whisper that barely escaped his lips.
“How did you do that?” His second was a rising shout. Disregarding the staring cadre of the command group, he tore the cap from his head and slammed it to the sodden pavement at his feet. “Damn you! You don’t have any bombers! How did you do that!”
“All right!” Christine exclaimed. “Yeah! On the money!”
She and Elliot Macintyre watched the real-time video download from
the Eagle Eye drone circling over the incandescent ruins of Barclay barracks. Remnants of the Mobile force battalion were fleeing the compound while exploding ammunition reserves took over the task of destruction started by the helibombers.
“I will be damned. Another phase of the magnificent improvisation works,” the Admiral commented, nodding slowly as he studied the monitor.” So far, so good.”
“Yes, sir.” Christine nodded. “We’ve taken one of Belewa’s key mobile reserve elements out of the game for a while. Hopefully, we’ve also got him all jazzed up and waiting for us to make our serious move. Now we feed him Diversion Treestump, the southern landing team.” She took a step to the wall chart and ran a finger down the coastline to the engagement box below Monrovia. “This one is for all the cookies.”
“When does it launch?”
“That’s at the discretion of the Union, but probably within the next ten to fifteen minutes.”
Diversion Point Treestump
6 miles East-Southeast of Cape Mesurado 0016 Hours, Zone Time; September 8, 2007
“Platoon alert! Road north. Vehicles incoming. Prepare to engage.” The curt whispered commands issued from the Treestump team’s little PRC-6725 tactical communicators.
Twice since their landing, the Union motorized patrol had swept past along the highway and twice the Marines had let it pass unmolested, huddling down out of sight in the undergrowth.
Not this time. Weapons were silently lifted, cleared, and aimed. Hands came up to swipe water droplets away from nite-brite optics.
“North scout here,” another whisper leaked through the radio circuit. “Same outfit as before. Land Rover first. Ferret scout car second. Truck with infantry squad at tail of column. Vehicles traveling illuminated. Antennas on Land Rover. I say again, antennas on Land Rover.”
The engines could be heard now, growling complaints as the little convoy lumbered along in low gear. Headlights reflected off the wet pavement and the big spotlight mounted on the turret of the armored car slashed slowly through the darkness like a blue-white sword blade probing along first one side of the road, then the other. The Marines pressed closer to the slimy mud floor beneath the brushwood tangle.
“All hands. Remember the drill,” the platoon leader breathed into his lip mike. “Do not fire on the Land Rover. I repeat! Do not fire on the Land Rover! Do not take out those radios!”
Transceiver buttons clicked in dubious acknowledgment. The natural way of the Marine was that if you could see it, you could hit it. And if you hit it, you should kill it.
Unknowing, the Union patrol approached out of the night, rolling slowly into the center of the ambush zone.
The Marine platoon leader gave the order to fire with the trigger of his carbine. A single shot rang out, then thirty-seven other weapons joined into a composite roar of firepower.
The truck at the tail end of the Union patrol had no radio and thus no immunity. Half a dozen 40mm grenades slammed into it in the first second of the engagement, shredding the vehicle and its soldier cargo before they had a chance to dismount. Then a Predator missile fired at point-blank range gouged into the pavement underneath the ten-wheeler, flipping the big vehicle over on its side and detonating its diesel tanks in a smoky fireball.
Second in line, the Ferret armored car tried to turn into the threat, the light machine gun in its turret hammering a reply to the Marine barrage. A storm of 5.56mm NATO sleeted off its armor, smashing its headlights and search light mount, and smoke grenades burst around it, blinding the driver and gunner. The Ferret’s front wheels slipped off the roadway into the ditch and the scout car high centered, howling and shuddering like a trapped and blinded rhino. But only for a heartbeat. A second Predator round caved in its frontal armor and sent golden flame spewing from its hatches and observation slits.
In the lead spot, the driver of the patrol leader’s Land Rover knew his business. He floored his accelerator and powered clear of the ambush zone, the Rover’s machine gunner wildly hosing the night behind them while the patrol commander yelled into his radio mike. All three men would escape unscathed and later attribute their survival to divine providence.
In actuality, they should have given thanks to the meticulous preplanning of Amanda Garrett.
Offshore, just beyond the surf line, the USS Santana held position, her throttled-down engines barely giving her steering way. Blacked out and with all hands at their battle stations, the PC had awaited the moment to play its next role in the growing elaboration of the deception program. The cue came with the first crackle of gunfire ashore.
The Santana’s skipper nodded to the electrician’s mate at his breadboarded control panel. The enlisted hand in turn switched on a CD player and ran a set of gain levers up to their highest stops.
It was an old trick, a variant of something first used by Commander Douglas Fairbanks, Jr., and his “Beachjumpers” during World War II. But perhaps it was something old enough to work again. The “main battery” of loudspeakers lined up along the PC’s main deck came to life, the amplifiers blasting the prerecorded turbine howl of the Three Little Pigs into the night.
Mobile Offshore Base, Floater 1 0024 Hours, Zone Time; September 8, 2007
“Word in from operations, Commander,” the signals S.O. reported, looked up from her station. “Treestump has engaged. The ambush has been executed.”
On the wall map, a flashing red engagement box blinked into existence around the Treestump ambush site.
“Very good. Keep us advised.” Christine glanced down the table to a second operator. “Elint, talk to me. Do we have any Union transmissions from the Treestump event yet?”
“Stand by a second, Commander.” The intelligence link held poised for a second, listening to the voices in his headset. “Yes, ma’am. Elint says that a contact report has been radioed in to Port Monrovia. Belewa’s field headquarters is acknowledging … and we have an alert coming in from the militia garrison at King Grey’s Town. They are reporting that their outposts hear the seafighter squadron offshore, near the engagement site.”
“Yeah!” Christine slapped her palm down on the briefing table. “The Santana is working it! Get me the real-time video link with our drone over Port Monrovia.” She spun to face the wall monitor. “Okay, big guy,” she murmured. “There’s the real bait. Come on and take it.”
“Sako, get me confirmations!”
Brigadier Atiba looked up from his crouched station beside the track’s radio console, one earphone pressed to the side of his head. “Confirmation on both reports, General. We have American Marines ashore in force in the southern beach sectors, and we have a second beach outpost in that area now reporting they can hear the engines of the American hover craft group offshore.”
Belewa’s fist smashed down on the map table. “This is what they were trying to divert us from. She’s down there! This is the real attack.”
Atiba scowled. “General, this engagement is miles south of the port area. What could they hope to accomplish down there?”
“I’m not sure, Sako. But I do know Garrett will be at the heart of the attack and she will have the hovercraft with her! They’re her single most powerful force element. This must be the primary effort! What’s the status of the Mobile Force at Camp Barclay? Can they move out?”
“Heavy losses in equipment and personnel reported, sir. They are regrouping.”
“Damnation!” Belewa’s fist exploded onto the table once more, the pain of the impact helping to restore his focus. “We have to break this landing up now, before they can consolidate and launch the next phase of whatever she’s planning. Order all Southern Sector Militia outposts to initiate reconnaissance in force toward the landing site. Engage the enemy on contact and get me their strength and intent. Detach the Mobile Force Company here at Port Monrovia and get them headed south with all speed. They are to launch an immediate spoiling
attack down the coastal highway against the American beach head. What’s the status of the helicopter unit at Payne Air field?”
“They have one night-capable gunship armed and ready to launch.”
“Hold it on the ground until we have a target established.” Belewa spun around to face the navy liaison huddled back in the far corner of the track’s central compartment. “Lieutenant, contact the Promise. Inform Captain Mosabe that the gunboat squadron is to sortie immediately and proceed southward down the coast with all speed. Locate and engage the enemy!”
“The armored fighting vehicles are starting to move out,” Macintyre noted, studying the low-light television imaging on the wall monitor.
“Yeah, looks like the Mobile Force Company’s being redeployed,” Christine agreed. “Amanda would call that chocolate frosting on sugar pie. The big question, though, is going to be the gunboats. Drone Ops, get us some coverage out over the mouth of the harbor.”
“Aye, ma’am.” At his workstation, the Eagle Eye pilot delicately worked his joystick and throttle gain.
Fifteen miles away, his small robotic command responded to the cybernetic impulses coming in over its datalinks, pivoting and darting across the night sky like an aluminum and composite hummingbird.
The image on the wall monitor swooped and bobbed, then stabilized again, focusing in on the trio of anchored gunboats.
“Stay on the Promise and zoom in on the foredeck.”
“Doing it, Commander.”
Half a dozen figures swarmed around the forecastle of the Union flagship.
“Does that look like a sea and anchor detail to you, Admiral?
Macintyre nodded. “Couldn’t be anything else but. Back us off to normal range and go to thermographic imaging.”
The image field expanded, encompassing all three of the Union gunboats once more and shifting from the light and dark grays of the low-light television to the more vivid black and-white photo-negative effect of the infrared scanner. The gunboats became pale phantom vessels afloat on a shadow sea, a glowing white flame pulsing rhythmically in their midships sections and a faint luminescent mist hovering above them.
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