"Buuut," Peters said to his jarhead opposite number, "the odds of our hitting anything, even by direct lay, from a corkscrewing ship, are, at best, shitty."
"Yeah," agreed the Marine, Sergeant Benevides, a stubby, stocky Ecuadorian immigrant to the United States. "But it'll be fun."
As soon as Mrs. Liu dumped the last of the target containers over the side, Kosciusko ordered a long, wide and slow, one hundred and eighty degree turn. As soon as he was about two miles opposite the line of bobbing containers, he ordered the ship to come to a full stop in place and then turned to the senior of the forward observers, saying, "You may fire when ready."
Flukes, much like shit, sometimes just happen. After missing by as much as five hundred meters, the eleventh round managed to actually hit one of the container targets. Better, it passed through the side above the water, through the side below the water, and then detonated a very short distance into the water. The container was blown skyward, spinning end over end before reaching apogee and beginning to plummet back to the sea.
"You couldn't do that again if your life depended on it," Peters said.
"Nope," the Marine agreed. "And, in light of that, I think we ought to retire the guns on a positive note."
"I concur," said Peters. "Out of ACTION!"
Kosciusko shook his head, watching the sundered container fly up and then splash down. Some people have all the luck.
The chief observer announced, "Skipper, they're striking the guns."
"Works for me," Kosciusko agreed. He jabbed the intercom and announced, "Reilly, get your Eland and antitank crews on deck to test fire. I'll have Mrs. Liu bring up the containers holding them and the ordnance."
D-13, MV Merciful, 211 miles south of Cape Town,
South Africa
Mrs. Liu plopped a container on a section of deck covered with PSP. Immediately, the container was opened on both sides, and a small crew of men entered it, scrunched over, and began pushing out sections of the matting to other teams that waited to either side. She then moved the gantry to pick up and move another.
A siren blared, then the loudspeakers carried Kosciusko's voice. "Cease work. Cease work. The time has run and we are not done. All decking teams, break down the flight deck. Gantry, replace the containers in their hide positions as they are filled.
"We're going to work on this all fucking night and tomorrow night, too, people, until you can assemble the flight deck to standard and on time. Section leaders and company commanders, report when we are stowed and ready to begin again.
"That is all."
D-8, MV Merciful, 355 miles east of Dar es Salaam, Tanzania
Lana was squeezed in with Reilly on a single width, folding Army field cot. She awakened, startled by the horrific sound coming from the other side of the closed doors.
Reilly listened, too, for a moment, then began to laugh. "The Boers or the Brits, do you figure?"
"Huh?" She really hadn't a clue what he was talking about.
He shook his head and said, "That sound you heard outside our little nest was a bugle." The call it was playing was, Dismount."
"Fucking Viljoen."
"That's Dumisani's job," he said.
PART III
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Regard your soldiers as your children,
and they will follow you into the deepest valleys;
look on them as your own beloved sons,
and they will stand by you even unto death.
-Sun Tzu
D-2, MV Merciful, fifty miles southeast of Aden, Yemen
It wasn't a moonless night. Indeed, it would be a nearly full moon when that body arose. This, however, was not going to happen until just before one in the morning, local. Thus, barring the minimal lights permitted on deck and the red lights of the bridge, it was darker than the proverbial three feet up a well digger's ass at midnight.
"Yep; darker than three feet up a well digger's ass at midnight," pronounced Stauer with satisfaction. "A UAV we sent out about an hour ago says your landing area is clear. You and your boys ready, Konstantin?"
The Russian breathed deeply then released a sigh. "As ready as we're going to be," he answered. "Assuming we can cut off the target from communication and take it down before any of Yemen's roughly two-hundred and eighty modern jet fighters and bombers come to take us out."
"I wouldn't worry about it too much," Boxer said. "If one in ten of the things are working I'd be surprised. And if the Yemenis knew which ones in ten, I'd be amazed. And if there are pilots on standby for that thirty or so . . . and if they're fueled and armed . . . and if they don't need permission from echelons above God to launch."
"No," Boxer summed up. "As long as you go in low, make it a ground rather than an aerial attack, and evac quickly you should be fine. Even if you have to call the choppers in for some close support to cover your egress, it should be fine. These people just suck."
"It's that word ‘should' that bothers me," Konstantin said.
"You don't have to do it," Stauer said.
Again Konstantin sighed, this time with a fatalism that could only be Russian. "No. The old chief wants that man out of the picture. And I owe favors and have obligations from way back. We'll do the mission."
Somehow, I was sure you would, Boxer thought. After all, he'd met the old man, Victor's father-in-law, and had sensed the kind of abilities that engendered long-term loyalty, to say nothing of everlasting fear.
"It is confirmed by your people that the target is at home," Boxer said. "How they know this I wouldn't speculate."
"If the old man says the Arab's home; he's home," Konstantin said. "Though I, too, wouldn't care to speculate on how." Because I know the old man has someone in the house . . . .errr . . . palace. Code Name: Lada. Or maybe his . . . or more likely her . . . real name. And that's all I know . . . .well, and that I'm supposed to get that person out when we go. Wonder why he didn't give us a picture with the target folder.
And I shudder, because some of what the old man wants me to do . . . I just don't think I can.
With the ship's gantry whining to the sides and overhead, Konstantin left the superstructure by the hatch most level with the container-supported flight deck. He passed between eight inward-facing, small short take off and landing-STOL-aircraft. These were idle with their pilots standing by or sitting inside or on the deck as the mood took them. Two LCMs were exposed, as were the empty space for another and the cradle that had once held the patrol boat, The Drunken Bastard. Those craft were already moving to the south, toward a rendezvous on the coast.