Black sea flashed beneath the helicopters. They were on home ground again. Dane took a second to catch up on his breathing. “Well, I daresay they know there’s a Caucasian in the woodpile now.”
“General Belewa, attack… General! Barclay Barracks has been bombed!”
Belewa’s head snapped up. “That’s impossible! The United Nations has no attack aircraft here. Get a confirmation from Barclay headquarters.”
“Both Barclay headquarters and the Mobile Force HQ Company have gone off the air. No reply on any tactical channel. I am receiving the report from South Sector Militia Command. They say the army base is in flames, sir.”
Belewa hurled his canteen cup to the deck of the track and charged down the tail ramp. Once out in the night, he stared to the south. A dull-orange glow flickered off the low overcast, outlining Mamba Point.
“How did you do that?” His first response was a whisper that barely escaped his lips.
“How did you do that?” His second was a rising shout. Disregarding the staring cadre of the command group, he tore the cap from his head and slammed it to the sodden pavement at his feet. “Damn you! You don’t have any bombers! How did you do that!”
“All right!” Christine exclaimed. “Yeah! On the money!”
She and Elliot Macintyre watched the real-time video download from the Eagle Eye drone circling over the incandescent ruins of Barclay barracks. Remnants of the Mobile force battalion were fleeing the compound while exploding ammunition reserves took over the task of destruction started by the helibombers.
“I will be damned. Another phase of the magnificent improvisation works,” the Admiral commented, nodding slowly as he studied the monitor.” So far, so good.”
“Yes, sir.” Christine nodded. “We’ve taken one of Belewa’s key mobile reserve elements out of the game for a while. Hopefully, we’ve also got him all jazzed up and waiting for us to make our serious move. Now we feed him Diversion Treestump, the southern landing team.” She took a step to the wall chart and ran a finger down the coastline to the engagement box below Monrovia. “This one is for all the cookies.”
“When does it launch?”
“That’s at the discretion of the Union, but probably within the next ten to fifteen minutes.”
“Platoon alert! Road north. Vehicles incoming. Prepare to engage.” The curt whispered commands issued from the Treestump team’s little PRC-6725 tactical communicators.
Twice since their landing, the Union motorized patrol had swept past along the highway and twice the Marines had let it pass unmolested, huddling down out of sight in the undergrowth.
Not this time. Weapons were silently lifted, cleared, and aimed. Hands came up to swipe water droplets away from nite-brite optics.
“North scout here,” another whisper leaked through the radio circuit. “Same outfit as before. Land Rover first. Ferret scout car second. Truck with infantry squad at tail of column. Vehicles traveling illuminated. Antennas on Land Rover. I say again, antennas on Land Rover.”
The engines could be heard now, growling complaints as the little convoy lumbered along in low gear. Headlights reflected off the wet pavement and the big spotlight mounted on the turret of the armored car slashed slowly through the darkness like a blue-white sword blade probing along first one side of the road, then the other. The Marines pressed closer to the slimy mud floor beneath the brushwood tangle.
“All hands. Remember the drill,” the platoon leader breathed into his lip mike. “Do not fire on the Land Rover. I repeat! Do not fire on the Land Rover! Do not take out those radios!”
Transceiver buttons clicked in dubious acknowledgment. The natural way of the Marine was that if you could see it, you could hit it. And if you hit it, you should kill it.
Unknowing, the Union patrol approached out of the night, rolling slowly into the center of the ambush zone.
The Marine platoon leader gave the order to fire with the trigger of his carbine. A single shot rang out, then thirty-seven other weapons joined into a composite roar of firepower.
The truck at the tail end of the Union patrol had no radio and thus no immunity. Half a dozen 40mm grenades slammed into it in the first second of the engagement, shredding the vehicle and its soldier cargo before they had a chance to dismount. Then a Predator missile fired at point-blank range gouged into the pavement underneath the ten-wheeler, flipping the big vehicle over on its side and detonating its diesel tanks in a smoky fireball.
Second in line, the Ferret armored car tried to turn into the threat, the light machine gun in its turret hammering a reply to the Marine barrage. A storm of 5.56mm NATO sleeted off its armor, smashing its headlights and search light mount, and smoke grenades burst around it, blinding the driver and gunner. The Ferret’s front wheels slipped off the roadway into the ditch and the scout car high centered, howling and shuddering like a trapped and blinded rhino. But only for a heartbeat. A second Predator round caved in its frontal armor and sent golden flame spewing from its hatches and observation slits.
In the lead spot, the driver of the patrol leader’s Land Rover knew his business. He floored his accelerator and powered clear of the ambush zone, the Rover’s machine gunner wildly hosing the night behind them while the patrol commander yelled into his radio mike. All three men would escape unscathed and later attribute their survival to divine providence.
In actuality, they should have given thanks to the meticulous preplanning of Amanda Garrett.
Offshore, just beyond the surf line, the USS Santana held position, her throttled-down engines barely giving her steering way. Blacked out and with all hands at their battle stations, the PC had awaited the moment to play its next role in the growing elaboration of the deception program. The cue came with the first crackle of gunfire ashore.
The Santana’s skipper nodded to the electrician’s mate at his breadboarded control panel. The enlisted hand in turn switched on a CD player and ran a set of gain levers up to their highest stops.
It was an old trick, a variant of something first used by Commander Douglas Fairbanks, Jr., and his “Beachjumpers” during World War II. But perhaps it was something old enough to work again. The “main battery” of loudspeakers lined up along the PC’s main deck came to life, the amplifiers blasting the prerecorded turbine howl of the Three Little Pigs into the night.
“Word in from operations, Commander,” the signals S.O. reported, looked up from her station. “Treestump has engaged. The ambush has been executed.”
On the wall map, a flashing red engagement box blinked into existence around the Treestump ambush site.
“Very good. Keep us advised.” Christine glanced down the table to a second operator. “Elint, talk to me. Do we have any Union transmissions from the Treestump event yet?”
“Stand by a second, Commander.” The intelligence link held poised for a second, listening to the voices in his headset. “Yes, ma’am. Elint says that a contact report has been radioed in to Port Monrovia. Belewa’s field headquarters is acknowledging… and we have an alert coming in from the militia garrison at King Grey’s Town. They are reporting that their outposts hear the seafighter squadron offshore, near the engagement site.”
“Yeah!” Christine slapped her palm down on the briefing table. “The Santana is working it! Get me the real-time video link with our drone over Port Monrovia.” She spun to face the wall monitor. “Okay, big guy,” she murmured. “There’s the real bait. Come on and take it.”