“Sako, get me confirmations!”
Brigadier Atiba looked up from his crouched station beside the track’s radio console, one earphone pressed to the side of his head. “Confirmation on both reports, General. We have American Marines ashore in force in the southern beach sectors, and we have a second beach outpost in that area now reporting they can hear the engines of the American hover craft group offshore.”
Belewa’s fist smashed down on the map table. “This is what they were trying to divert us from. She’s down there! This is the real attack.”
Atiba scowled. “General, this engagement is miles south of the port area. What could they hope to accomplish down there?”
“I’m not sure, Sako. But I do know Garrett will be at the heart of the attack and she will have the hovercraft with her! They’re her single most powerful force element. This must be the primary effort! What’s the status of the Mobile Force at Camp Barclay? Can they move out?”
“Heavy losses in equipment and personnel reported, sir. They are regrouping.”
“Damnation!” Belewa’s fist exploded onto the table once more, the pain of the impact helping to restore his focus. “We have to break this landing up now, before they can consolidate and launch the next phase of whatever she’s planning. Order all Southern Sector Militia outposts to initiate reconnaissance in force toward the landing site. Engage the enemy on contact and get me their strength and intent. Detach the Mobile Force Company here at Port Monrovia and get them headed south with all speed. They are to launch an immediate spoiling attack down the coastal highway against the American beach head. What’s the status of the helicopter unit at Payne Air field?”
“They have one night-capable gunship armed and ready to launch.”
“Hold it on the ground until we have a target established.” Belewa spun around to face the navy liaison huddled back in the far corner of the track’s central compartment. “Lieutenant, contact the Promise. Inform Captain Mosabe that the gunboat squadron is to sortie immediately and proceed southward down the coast with all speed. Locate and engage the enemy!”
“The armored fighting vehicles are starting to move out,” Macintyre noted, studying the low-light television imaging on the wall monitor.
“Yeah, looks like the Mobile Force Company’s being redeployed,” Christine agreed. “Amanda would call that chocolate frosting on sugar pie. The big question, though, is going to be the gunboats. Drone Ops, get us some coverage out over the mouth of the harbor.”
“Aye, ma’am.” At his workstation, the Eagle Eye pilot delicately worked his joystick and throttle gain.
Fifteen miles away, his small robotic command responded to the cybernetic impulses coming in over its datalinks, pivoting and darting across the night sky like an aluminum and composite hummingbird.
The image on the wall monitor swooped and bobbed, then stabilized again, focusing in on the trio of anchored gunboats.
“Stay on the Promise and zoom in on the foredeck.”
“Doing it, Commander.”
Half a dozen figures swarmed around the forecastle of the Union flagship.
“Does that look like a sea and anchor detail to you, Admiral?
Macintyre nodded. “Couldn’t be anything else but. Back us off to normal range and go to thermographic imaging.”
The image field expanded, encompassing all three of the Union gunboats once more and shifting from the light and dark grays of the low-light television to the more vivid black and-white photo-negative effect of the infrared scanner. The gunboats became pale phantom vessels afloat on a shadow sea, a glowing white flame pulsing rhythmically in their midships sections and a faint luminescent mist hovering above them.
“All right,” Christine exclaimed. “Exhaust plumes and engine heat. They’re getting under way. Belewa’s bought the package! He’s committing the gunboats!”
The Promise began to move, pulling away from its anchorage in the channel and heading out through the gap in the breakwaters. The Unity followed in the corvette’s wake, then the Allegiance.The gunboats made the turn southward as they reached deep water beyond the harbor mouth, all three pouring on speed.
“Wouldn’t it have been a hell of a lot simpler to just sink those damn things at anchor?” Macintyre grunted.
Christine shook her head. “It would have drawn too much attention back to the harbor area,” she replied. “Besides, for what the boss ma’am has planned next, she can’t afford to have any burning hulks drifting around lighting things up.”
The intel looked back over her shoulder. “Communications. Inform Moonshade and Strongbow that the gunboats are clearing the harbor. They are go for penetration phase. Then inform the Treestump team they have company coming their way.”
To the southeast, the Treestump Platoon Leader took stock. “Sergeant,” he called to his Platoon top. “Casualty count?”
“Two men wounded, sir,” a nearby patch of shadow replied. “Dyksra in third squad’s caught it pretty bad.”
“Right. Have a detail evacuate the wounded out to the Santana immediately. Have a second detail check for Union survivors. The rest of the platoon will reorient for area defense. Second squad will establish a centralized perimeter here, while first and third squads will reposition north and south along the highway and set up new hasty ambush sites. Deploy area denial munitions and Claymores. Make sure a clear path of retreat is maintained back into the defense line.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” the shadow said crisply. “Sounds like you figure we got trouble coming, Lieutenant.”
“Trouble and the Union army, Guns. We’re going to have to keep their attention for a while.”
“No sweat, sir.” The shadow faded back into the deeper blackness of the underbrush, whispering orders over the radio link.
The lieutenant swiped perspiration from his forehead. No sweat, huh?
Standing in a clump of brush beside the service road, Private Thomas Kajenko gave a profound sigh of relief and rezipped the fly of his fatigue trousers.
“Kajenko, is that you?” The hated voice of Corporal Kuti rang hoarsely out of the night, abruptly erasing the pleasure stemming from Kajenko’s relieved bladder. “What the hell are you doing away from your post?”
“I had to take a piss. That is all, Corporal,” Kajenko replied, not verbalizing his heartfelt wish that it might have been Kuti’s face he’d been pissing into.
“Damn you, Kajenko, are you trying to make trouble for me with the patrol sergeant? Get back on lookout! We’ve got a job to do out here. Next time you bloody well piss in your pants before you leave your outpost.”
“Yes, Corporal, at once.” Kajenko slung his FALN and began to pick his way back down to the water’s edge. A fat lot that hulking bully Kuti cared about any job this squad had to do. He had assigned Thomas and his friend, Robert Smith, the two junior men in the unit, as lookouts along the water’s edge while he and his cronies huddled around the watchfire drinking tea. Be damned that he and Robert were soaked to the skin in the rain. Be damned that they had not been given relief for hours. Be damned to all NCOs, especially Nigerians.
Moving with caution, Kajenko worked his way down the ten-foot-high tumble of sharp-edged boulders that made up the seaward facing of the breakwater. The sullen flickering light from the bonfire atop the breakwater hindered more than it helped, serving only to deepen the shadows in the rock clefts.