“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.
“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!”
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.
MR. FRANK COCHRAN:
WOULD YOU PLEASE ACCESS THIS LINK IMMEDIATELY?
THIS IS A MATTER OF UTMOST IMPORTANCE.
A lengthy and underlined net address followed that Cochran didn’t recognize. He suspected it was either an invitation to a porn site or an assault by one of the new cyber evangelists. Either way, he didn’t have anything better to do at the moment. The oilman pointed and clicked.
The check light on the fastcam atop his monitor blinked on as the visionphone circuits activated. His systems tower purred and a hiss of static issued from the computer’s speakers. A test pattern flickered across his screen for a moment and Cochran suddenly found himself looking into the sober and attractive face of an auburn-haired and hazel-eyed woman. Clad in a well-worn khaki uniform, she sat outlined against what looked like the interior of some kind of aircraft cockpit.