On the bridge of the Corvette La Fleurette, Commander Jacques Trochard glanced at the bulkhead chronometer. “Very well, gentlemen,” he said crisply. “Let’s become obvious.”
Lights blazed on the decks. Running lights. Work lights. Pulsing helipad markers. Astern, the squadron mate of the little French man-of-war illuminated up as well, a constellation of glowing red, green, and white against the blackened sea.
The corvette’s Sea Lynx helicopters lifted into the sky, their navigational beacons set to “bright flash.” With their spotlights sweeping the wavetops, the helos led the way as the formation swept in toward the Union coast.
“What do we do next, Capitaine?” Trochard’s exec inquired from behind the helm station.
“To my regret, Andre, nothing more,” Trochard replied wistfully. “However, we shall endeavor to look most impressive while we are doing it.”
“Sighting! The militia post at Po River reports enemy warships and helicopters approaching the coast. The outpost commander says that a landing attempt appears imminent. He requests reinforcements.”
Belewa and his staff clustered in around the map table.
Holding in a diamond formation, the flight of big helicopters thundered in toward the Union shoreline, holding so low to the sea that their rotorblast flattened troughs in the wave crests beneath them.
In the cockpit of the lead British Merlin, Squadron Commander Evan Dane scanned the darkness ahead through the night-vision visor of his helmet. Gradually, delineated in the hazy greens of the photomultiplier system, he made out the pale sand of the beach and darker forest line beyond it.
His thumb came down on the transmit key atop his collective controller. “Squadron leader to squadron. Enemy coast ahead.”
Lifting his thumb, he let the system revert to intercom mode. Chuckling softly, he spoke to his copilot. “You know what, Mick? I’ve always wanted to say that.”
Crossing the beach, the helos lifted a meager twenty feet above the treetops and drove inland.
“Sighting report! The Klay highway motor patrol reports a formation of helicopters crossing the highway at a point eight miles northwest of the port area, proceeding inland. The patrol leader reports several heavy troop carrier-type machines flying at very low altitude.”
More marks were scribbled on the acetate cover of the table map.
“It must be that flight that launched from the American platform,” Belewa pondered aloud. “First they divert to break radar contact. Now they return and cross the coast above us. What could they be up to?”
“A commando landing somewhere in our rear areas, no doubt,” Brigadier Atiba said decisively. “The Americans favor airmobile operations. That must be it.”
A murmur of agreement drifted from the other staff officers crowded into the command track. Belewa made no further comment.
The boat crew hauled the two wet-suit-clad figures over the rubber gunwale.
“You guys okay?” a whispered voice demanded.
“Yeah, yeah, take off! Take off!”
Aft, at the helm station, the coxswain opened the throttle of the Zodiac’s powerful outboard. Snarling, the twenty-four foot semirigid sheered away from the coast, trailing a broad and foaming V of wake behind it. Peering astern, the Marine swimmers and the navy boatmen counted seconds.
The numbers ran out. A blue-white glare illuminated the coastline and, in the heart of it, a frozen image of a warped ship’s hull standing up on end and disintegrating. The shock wave followed through the water and the roar of the explosion through the air.
The coxswain swung the Zodiac parallel to the coast once more, backing off on her speed. “Okay, start heaving ’em over the side,” she ordered.
They began to pitch the remainder of their cargo into the sea at ten-second intervals: smoke floats, flashing emergency strobes, flare buoys.
“Sightings! The wrecked ship off Yatono Village has just blown up!”
“What?” Brigadier Atiba demanded. “Confirm that. What wreck?”
“The old hulk grounded on Yatono Reef. Many confirmations now. All beach patrols north of the St. Paul are reporting in. It was a very large explosion.”
Atiba shook his head in puzzlement. “It must be the Americans, but why in God’s name would they blow up a shipwreck?”
“Not the ship, but the reef it’s grounded on,” the naval liaison officer exclaimed. “They must be blowing a gap in the reef line to permit the passage of amphibious assault craft. That can be the only explanation, General.”
Belewa did not reply. He only gazed broodingly down upon the map table.
“More sighting reports coming in, General. Beach patrols now see lights on the water beyond Yatono reef. They hear boat engines and report what could be a smoke screen forming offshore…”
With fans of spray flaring back from her sharp cutwater, the USS Sirocco charged the Union coast. In her wheelhouse, her captain grimly shifted his eyes between the computer graphics chart on the quartermaster’s console and the fathometer screen, gauging how much water he had left off his bow and below his keel.
“Helm, come left to heading zero zero zero.”
“Coming left to zero zero zero, sir.”
The patrol craft leaned into her turn, clearing her bow and stern autocannon mounts. Gunners buried their faces into night-bright scopes and slender gun barrels indexed, the whine of the servo drives lost in the tumbling hiss of the sea along the PC’s flanks.
“Bow and stern mounts report they have acquired initial target, sir,” the wheelhouse talker barked. “Range six double oh meters. Mounts are tracking and are standing by to commence fire.”
“Very well. Bow and stern mounts. Commence firing!”
The 25mm Bushmaster cannon began hammering out precise and deliberate three-round bursts, the tracers arcing away through the mist toward the shadowy coastline.
“Attack report, General! The garrison at the mouth of the St. Paul River is being fired upon from the sea. They are returning fire!”
Multiple tracer streams lashed out wildly from the shore, spraying the night. Mortars thudded and recoilless rifle back flares blazed like gigantic flashbulbs along the beach line. Shell plumes lanced up and out the sea in the Sirocco’s wake. None too close, but all close enough.
“Helm! Come hard left to one nine zero! All engines ahead full! Bow mount, cease fire! Stem mount, continue to engage while you have the range!”
The PC arced away from the coast, dancing out of the reach of the destruction hurled after her. As the coast receded beyond its reach, her stern gun fell silent The shoreside weapons continued to rage, however, blazing away madly at specters seen in the darkness.
The Surrocco’s captain took a deep breath and flexed the taut muscles in his shoulders. They’d haul off a bit and let the Union troops waste their ammunition for as long as they had a mind to. When things quieted down again, they’d make another pass.