“The human shields deployed aboard the tanker and around the tank farm preclude a direct hard-kill attack with standoff weapons. In fact, the presence of those hostages nullifies most of the technological edge we have over the Union. Accordingly, we’re going to try something old — in fact, a military evolution that, to the best of my knowledge, has not been attempted since the American Civil War.”
Amanda sank into the chair at the head of the briefing table, crossing her arms on the tabletop. “How many of you have ever heard of a cutting-out expedition?”
Improvise, jury-rig, make it up as you go along…
“A ton of soap flakes?” The stores CPO looked up from his desk, flabbergasted.
“That’s right,” his division officer replied. “They want a ton of soap flakes or powdered soap or whatever we can find along that line out on the platform immediately.”
“A ton, sir?”
“Don’t ask me why, Simpson, I don’t know. Just pallet up what we have in the head and galley stocks. Then send a truck into Conakry to see what we can dig up there. Oh, and keep a lookout for stereo equipment while you’re about it, and no, I don’t know what they want that for either.”
Compromise, negotiate, prevaricate…
The French Corvette captain frowned from the videophone screen. “Captain Garrett, I am as displeased about these events as you are. Yet I cannot take an active role in any such action without the authorization. Maintaining a blockade is one thing. A direct involvement in a, as you say, ‘shooting war’ is another. I wager my superiors and my government will require a degree of consideration before making any such plunge.”
“I understand your position, Commander Trochard,” Amanda replied. “And yet you must also understand the time factor that we are confronted with. While your government considers the issue, our window of opportunity will close.”
The French officer shook his head. “I am sorry, but we are not like you Americans. For all of our much-vaunted French élan, we simply do not have this kind of cowboy blood in us.”
Amanda sighed. In battle, one used whatever weapons were available in the arsenal. She allowed her expression and her voice to soften. “Jacques, please, we need your help with this thing… I need your help.”
Trochard fought his own battle for a moment, then sighed his own sigh and smiled. “A thought does occur to me, Amanda. While we cannot stretch my operational mandate into a direct involvement in this matter, perhaps we could at least appear to be involved…”
…Plot, plan, and prepare…
“Okay, Lieutenant.” Sergeant Tallman passed the youthful lieutenant a stuffed manila envelope. “Here’s all the dope you’ll need. Mission parameters, maps, tide table, beach composition and gradients, Union force deployments in that sector and what we have on their patrol intervals. The Skipper needs your completed plan of operations by no later than 1600 hours. You and your men need to be ready to move by 1800.”
“Got it, Sarge.” Smiling ironically, the platoon leader accepted the envelope. “Damn. Eight months out of ROTC and I’m already planning my first invasion. It ain’t a fuckin job…”
“…it’s a fuckin’ adventure,” the Top wryly joined in, finishing the chorus.
…Adapt, alter, and expedite…
“Bloody hell, sir!” the crew chief exclaimed, aghast, studying the hand-sketched diagrams. “We’re an ASW unit. We’re just not supposed to be doing this kind of thing!”
Squadron leader Evan Dane only grinned and patted the aircrewman on the shoulder. “Well, then, young-sailor-me-lad, let’s just say that we’re going after the 1st African Royal Submarine Regiment and leave it at that.”
…Analyze, assess, collect…
”Guten Tag, Herr Zimmer. Thank you for sparing us this time. It is greatly appreciated. We understand that in 2003, your firm reconditioned and sold an eighty-four-foot diesel harbor tug to the government of the West African Union. If possible, could we get some technical specifications on that vessel? Rated horsepower, power-plant manuals, wheelhouse and engine-room schematics, that sort of thing.”
…Evaluate… consider… project…
“Just asking, boss ma’am, but have you thought about the possible environmental fallout of this little tea party we’re throwing? We’re on the verge of deliberately invoking our own little Exxon Valdez on the African Gold Coast here.”
“Not quite, Chris. That tanker is loaded with light petroleum distillates, diesel and gasoline, and not heavy crude oil. They should evaporate and disperse fairly rapidly in this hot a climate. Besides, if our friends the Marines work it right, there shouldn’t be all that much left to worry about.”
…Designate, assign, and trust in the abilities of subordinates…
“Okay, Corporal. Tankers take a hell of a lot of killing. What have you got?”
“Right over here, Cap’n.” The demolitions man cracked his gum and led Stone Quillain over to the selection of munitions spread out on a patch of tarpaulin-covered deck. They included an innocuous-looking camouflaged shoulder bag, a thick and ominous gray metal disk roughly the size of a hub cap, and a couple of quart-sized gray metal canisters each with the safety lever and pull ring of a grenade fuse screwed into its top.
“We’ve got kind of a package here, sir, put together with a standard Mark 138 forty-pound satchel charge, a limpet mine, and a couple of Mark 34 white phosphorus grenades.”
Quillain nodded. “How’ll she work?”
The demo man knelt down beside the tarp and began indicating components. “Y’ see, we clip the Willie Pete grenades to the satchel charge and then rig the charge on top of one of the tanker’s cargo cells. Then we link the limpet mine’s detonator to the satchel charge with a long-length petroleum-proof det cord.”
“With you so far, son.”
“We drop the mine into the cargo cell through an inspection hatch. The mine sinks to the bottom of the tank. That sets up what you call your chain of events. When the satchel charge detonates, it’ll do a whole bunch of stuff at once. It’ll tear open the top of the cargo cell, set off the two white phosphorus grenades, and fire the det cord. The det cord then flashes down to the bottom of the tank and to the limpet mine, which it detonates a split second later. This not only blows a hole in the bottom of the ship, but it should sort of sneeze the contents of the cargo cell up and out of the hole in the top, where it will then have congress with all that burning white phosphorus that’s lying around.
“We’ve got the goods for about half a dozen of these rigs and we’ll target the cells loaded with gasoline and Avgas. We’ll double-fuse everything with M700 and time for a five minute delay.”
The demo man popped his gum again. “Piece of cake.”
“Lord A’mighty. Did our demo people at Little Creek have anything to say about this setup?”
“Yes, sir. They suggest we stand way back and take photographs.”
…Work fast, faster, watch the clock, if you can’t do all, do what you can.
Night draws nigh.
Unseen, a night rain had started to fall outside of the headquarters building. Vavra Bey could smell the mildewing wetness of it seeping in through the wall of sandbags beyond the empty window frame. She and the others of the U.N. diplomatic mission to Guinea had been pulled back inside the U.N. base compound for the duration of this latest crisis, both for personal security and to be closer to the developing situation.