Amanda flipped the propeller controls into reverse. Prop-wash boiled forward along the tug’s flanks as it shuddered to a stop and then began to back down, sliding in toward the tanker like a car easing into a tight parking slot.
“On deck,” Amanda snapped into her lip mike. “Stand by the line thrower and the towing drum. Prepare to establish the tow.”
“Aye, aye.”
“On deck, aboard the Bajara. Are you set to receive our line?”
“This is the Bajara. Standing by.”
The sharp crackle of gunfire could be heard over the hot mike of the Marine line handler. The steel bulk of the tanker’s hull and the rumble of the Banner’s engines muffled the sounds of battle somewhat on the tug’s bridge. However, Amanda could sense the pierside engagement growing in intensity.
As yet, little of the firepower had been aimed in the direction of the Banner. Huddling in the tanker’s shadow, the tug was still not being considered as a factor by the Union defense forces. How long this fragile immunity would continue was anyone’s guess.
Playing with the throttles and propeller controls, Amanda eased the tug in as close as she dared, killing the tug’s stern way with a last burst of power. The tanker’s quarter loomed over them like a convex cliffside, the outlines of the Marine line team peering over her rail.
“On deck. Cast line!”
At the tug’s stern, a line thrower cracked and a rippling coil of thin nylon cord trailed the throw weight up and over the tanker’s rail.
“On the tug. We have the carrier.”
“Second carrier on. Heave away.” In the best navy tradition, the boatswain’s mate on the Banner’s aft deck didn’t bother with the radio; his own bellow overrode the sound of the gunfire.
The Marines drew up the lead end of a second, heavier nylon line, then the Banner’s towing drum began to clank and rumble and the rusty length of a heavy steel hawser swayed slowly toward the tanker’s deck, drawn upward by the straining muscles of the line handlers.
Copper-jacketed lead ricocheted and a glass panel in the bridge windscreen exploded. Amanda flinched away from the spraying shards, her narrowed eyes focused on the inching progress of the hawser.
It seemed to take hours for the cable to extend upward. At last, the end of the hawser reached the Bajara’s rail and the inexperienced line handlers wrestled with its stiff metallic weight. Oh, God, don’t drop it! Amanda pleaded mentally.
Hogged across to the central towing butt on the tanker’s stern, the towline finally was hooked into place. In the flare light, Amanda saw the acknowledging wave of the line handlers.
“On deck. We have the tow established. Give me some slack—I’m running us out to set a short harness. Stand by to set your wildcat on my mark. On deck on the Bajara! Cast off all mooring lines. I say again, cast off all mooring lines!”
The Tanker Bajara 0151 Hours, Zone Time; September 8, 2007
Emerging from the tanker’s deckhouse, Quillain ran forward, hunkering low to stay out of the arc of fire streaming up from the pier. The volumes were building as more and more Union soldiers joined the fight. Bodies clad in Marine utilities lay sprawled along the rail, some writhing in wound agony, others deathly still.
The demolitions team crouched around an open cargo cell hatch, silently focusing on rigging one of the demolition charges. Quillain passed by without speaking. It was never a good idea to interrupt an explosives man on a job. Continuing amidships, he sought out Sergeant Tallman.
He found the company top lying prone on the deck edge amid a broad fan of empty 7.62- and 5.56-millimeter shell casings, switching off between his overheating M-4 carbine and a captured FALN.
“Situation?” Quillain yelled over the gunfire dropping down beside the noncom.
“Bad, Skipper. The locals are getting their act together.”
Peering over the deck lip, Quillain saw the truth in the NCO’s words. In the unsteady illumination of the dockside fires and the Union star shells he could make out shadowy figures working their way down the pier from one patch of cover to the next. Other Union troopers covered the advance with a steady, hammering barrage of small-arms fire.
“We’re taking casualties, Captain, and we can’t maintain this fire volume much longer. We’re going through ammo like shit through a goose.”
“We won’t have to, Top. Captain Garrett’ll be pulling us out of here in a minute.”
Damn it, woman, Quillain beamed the fervent telepathic message into the night, you are pulling us out of here, right?
She must have heard him. Amanda’s reply came back crisply over the tactical radio link. “On deck on the Bajara! Cast off all mooring lines! I say again, cast off all mooring lines!”
Thank you, Lord … and Lady!
“Cast off!” Quillain took up Amanda’s call and bellowed it fore and aft. “Cast off all lines!”
A Marine lunged for one of the spring lines near the gangway, struggling to draw the heavy manila python up and off of its mooring butt. Before he could finish the task, his head snapped back and his helmet went flying. He fell backward, a thin, catlike wail escaping him.
“Corpsman,” Quillain roared, “Corpsman!” He rolled and crawled down the deck to the mooring butt. Slugs tore at the deck lip, hot metal fragments raking his hands as he tore at the heavy fiber cable, horsing it off the butt and over the side.
Harbor Tug Union Banner 0153 Hours, Zone Time; September 8, 2007
Peering back over her shoulder, Amanda gauged the widening distance between her craft and the tanker. All right. That’s about enough for a good short tow.
“On deck. Set your wildcats. Snub her off!”
The boatswain spun the brake wheel and the towing drum locked with a rusty shriek. On the tug’s bridge, Amanda rocked the throttles forward and the diesels responded with a rising growl of power and a churning flurry of foaming wake. Slowly the massive steel hawser rose up out of the sea.
Port Monrovia Oiling Pier 0153 Hours, Zone Time; September 8, 2007
Obe Belewa saw the mooring lines falling away from the tanker’s sides. Somehow they were getting the ship under way. There was no more time left. There was only now! Gun in hand, he rose to his feet and lifted his voice above the crash and chaos of the fighting.
“Soldiers of the Union! Follow me!”
The Tanker Bajara 0153 Hours, Zone Time; September 8, 2007
A deep roiling shout lifted simultaneously from a multitude of throats. Scores of figures rose up from behind cover along the shattered pier and charged headlong for the tanker’s gangway.
“Captain,” Tallman yelled, “this is it! They’re starting their big push!”
“Then push ’em back!” Quillain snarled. Ignoring the saturation of hot lead in the air, Quillain came up on one knee at the edge of the deck, sweeping the Mossberg 590 to his shoulder. Then he started killing.
A computerized fire-control system might well have been operating his weapon. Reload … seek target … lock on … shoot! Reload … seek target … lock on …shoot! The slide of the pump action sang and smoking shell hulls accumulated at his side. Three … four … five … half a dozen Union soldiers fell to the slug load thunderbolts cast by Quillain’s 12-gauge.
The last round in the magazine slammed into the chamber and the Mossberg’s foresight traversed, seeing new prey. The ghost ring acquired another figure, a tall, running man. Brandishing an upraised pistol, he led a cluster of Union troopers toward the base of the gangway.
The calculating machine that had taken over Stone Quillain’s mind analyzed for a fragment of a second. Officer … priority target … lock on! The Marine’s finger tightened on the trigger.
Two hundred feet aft, at the Bajara’s stern, the Union Banner’s towing hawser snapped taut.
The tanker’s deck lurched as the shotgun roared, its m
uzzle bobbling slightly. The figure caught in the ghost ring fell, but not with the shock-borne decisiveness of a square hit.
“Shit! Shit! Shit!” Quillain rolled back from the deck edge, fumbling in a harness pouch for more ammunition. Then he caught himself and relaxed. It was okay. All of a sudden, one miss didn’t matter. They were moving.
Port Monrovia, Oiling Pier 0154 Hours, Zone Time; September 8, 2007
Something seared across the calf of Belewa’s right leg, exploding into the decking at his feet, the shock and spray of wood splinters taking him down.
Get up! Get up! Get up! he screamed at himself, forcing his half-paralyzed leg to move. He clawed the Browning from where it had fallen and staggered to his feet, forcing himself onward a few hunched steps more. Then he realized the exchange of gunfire had slackened abruptly and that the charging Union soldiers around him were stumbling to a halt.
The tanker was moving, the black wedge of water widening between her after end and the pier even as they watched. The squeal and groan of distorting metal sounded from amidships as the gangway twisted laterally and then slipped from the dock’s edge to crash into the harbor. Outlined in the glare of the falling starshells, the Bajara slowly gained way astern, backing out toward the central channel, slipping beyond reach.
“NO!” Belewa’s leg buckled beneath him again, his scream a cry of rage and denial.
Mobile Offshore Base, Floater 1 0154 Hours, Zone Time; September 8, 2007
“Moonshade to Palace.” Amanda’s slightly hoarse but matter-of-fact voice issued from the overhead speaker in the briefing trailer. “Tow established. We are under way.”
“Acknowledged, Moonshade,” Operations replied with equal matter-of-factness. ”Bajara is under way. You are inside the time line.”
“She’s done it! By God, she’s done it!” Macintyre emphasized his words with a crushing arm around Christine Rendino’s shoulders. The intel’s reply was a wordless, joyous squeal of relief.
Via the electronic vision of the hovering Eagle Eye, the Algerian tanker could be made out on the wall monitor, edging slowly astern, the Union Banner straining at the tow line like a husky attempting to drag a railway car. The enormity of the task and the tug’s inching speed restored sobriety rapidly.
“How far out to the scuttling site?” Macintyre demanded.
Christine reached back for the display controller and called up the Monrovia harbor chart. “In the main channel, out toward the harbor entrance, far enough so that they won’t be able to get another deep-draft ship past her. They’ve got about two-thirds of a mile to go.”
“Two-thirds of a mile,” Macintyre scowled. “That’s one hell of a gauntlet to run at five knots. When will the seafighters be committed to cover the extraction force?”
“Amanda’s tasked to make that decision, Admiral,” Christine replied. “Covering the extraction, the PGs are going to burn through their ammo load awful fast. She wants to hold off committing for as long as possible to maintain a firepower reserve.”
Maclntyre’s brows knitted together. “So she intends to just sit out there and take it?”
“Something like, sir.”
A systems operator looked up from his work station. “Commander Rendino, TACNET indicates that the Union gunboats have picked up on the attack against Port Monrovia. They’ve come about and are heading back to the port at full speed. We estimate they will be a factor within the next twenty-five minutes.”
Port Monrovia Oiling Pier 0157 Hours, Zone Time;
September 8, 2007
Atiba had brought the Steyr command track up to the base of the oiling pier. Its headlight glared into Belewa’s eyes as he hobbled toward it, the leg of his jungle fatigues sodden with blood.
“The General’s been wounded,” one of the staff called out. “Get an aid man up here.”
“Never mind that,” Belewa yelled back over the idling engine. “Where is Brigadier Atiba? I need Atiba!”
“Here, General.” The Chief of Staff swung down from the track’s lowering tailgate. “Your orders, sir.”
“Communications status? Where do we have contact? What have we got left to fight with?” Belewa’s damaged leg refused to support him any further, and he slid down to the tarmac of the access road, his back to one of the track’s bogie wheels. The summoned aid man knelt beside him, hastily tearing open his medical kit.
“We have regained communication with Roberts Field, General,” Atiba replied coolly, standing over Belewa. “They are launching the gunship now. We also believe the gunboat squadron has received its recall order and is returning.”
“Good.” Belewa pulled himself upright. Taking the canteen from the aid man’s belt pouch he took a long pull of the tepid water, clearing the dryness and smoke taint from his throat. “The damned Americans are using one of our own harbor tugs to move the tanker. Redeploy the harbor defense units along the breakwaters. Concentrate all fire on that tug boat! Sink it at all costs! Then commandeer any small craft you can find and organize a force to retake the tanker before they can get it out of the harbor.”
Belewa gulped another mouthful from the canteen, then grimaced as the aid man clamped a compress over the oozing leg wound. “It will not end this way. I will not let it end this way!”
The Tanker Bajara 0158 Hours, Zone Time;
September 8, 2007
Quillain stuck his head in through the door of the tanker’s main crew’s mess. “You got ’em ready to go?”
The space was jammed with a combination of the vessel’s civilian officers and crew, the sniffling and red-eyed children of the human shield force and the few soldiers of the ship’s guard who had managed to throw their hands up in time to surrender. All had been strapped into life jackets and all sat uneasily on the mess-room benches, their hands behind their heads. Submachine-gun-armed Marines covered them from one end of the compartment.
“Yes, sir,” the guard leader replied. “Ready to move ’em out.”
“Okay, we’ll put ’em over the port side. We’re still getting land fire to starboard. Single file! Let’s go! Hurry it up!”
The grim-eyed guards herded the prisoners down a short passageway to the starboard side of the deckhouse and to a weather-deck hatch. Beyond the hatch another pair of Marine sentries stood by at a gap cut in the tanker’s cable railing. First in line, the Algerian captain goggled at the cut railing and at the black waters of the harbor beyond. Frantically, he stammered what must have been a protest in Arabic.
“Pipe down and get on with it,” Quillain growled. “The longer you wait, the farther you swim!” Grabbing the captain by the back strap of his life jacket, he marched the man the two steps across the deck and launched him over the side, the Algerian’s despairing wail climaxing with a splash.
The other prisoners followed in short order, alternating between the children and adults until the mess room was empty and a string of blinking life-jacket beacons trailed in the wake of the tanker. The tanker crew and the boy soldiers would have to make their own way to shore. There was no more that the Marines could do.
The Union gunnery had dropped off when the Bajara had first pulled clear of the dock, but now the intensity of the shoreside fire was growing again. The occasional thud of a grenade launcher or the snarl of a SAW replied from the tanker’s deck and upperworks.
Quillain hurried across to the starboard side, dropping down beside Tallman at the deck edge.
“What’s happening?” Quillain demanded.
“The Union’s starting to pour it on again, Skipper. Only this time they’re not shooting at us. They’re going for the tug.”
“Well, we knew they weren’t stupid.”
Looking forward, they could see the Union Banner straining at the end of the towline, a blunt arrowhead at the tip of the white foam shaft of her wake. Tracer streams arced toward the little craft
and a backflash flared atop the shadowy line of the breakwater. A recoilless rifle round detonated alongside the Banner an instant later.
“SAW teams and grenadiers,” Tallman barked into his tactical mike. “Carl Gustav on the breakwater at ten o’clock. Take him out.” Marine gunners responded and another series of explosions danced along the top of the breakwater, incoming this time instead of outgoing.
“That’s the stuff, Top. Keep ’em off the tug.”
Tallman looked across to his C.O. “That’s just the thing, sir. We can’t. Not for much longer. Ammo’s getting real tight. We burned a whole lot of our base load holding them off at the pier. Only a few rounds of forty left, and the SAWs are eatin’ M-4 clips. Another five minutes and we’re gonna be down to pistols and K-Bars.”
“Lord A’mighty.”
Harbor Tug Union Banner 0159 Hours, Zone Time;
September 8, 2007
The remainder of the bridge windscreen dissolved in a jagged shimmering spray as automatic-weapons fire raked the tug’s upperworks. Amanda threw her arms up, shielding her face from the stinging bite of the shattered glass. Sinking to her knees beside the wheel, she hunched down, keeping under the minimal cover of the steel bulkheads below the now-empty windscreen frames.
Peering forward, she held her course, her right hand on the wheel. The Bajara was fighting the tow. Running stern foremost with no one at her helm, the big tanker kept falling off the line of advance, veering erratically at the end of the hawser. Amanda had to keep correcting, hauling the big sullen bitch back into the channel.
God save us all if we ground making the turn.
“Not far,” she whispered aloud. “Not far now.”
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