The raider craft ghosted across to the very center of the mile-and-a-quarter triangle of dark still water.
Quillain had explained that in reality they would actually be safer after they’d entered the harbor than they’d been loitering around outside. The “psychology of the camp” would be working for the boarding force. The harbor garrison, by instinct, would focus outward, toward a perceived external threat, and not inward, toward what they would subconsciously consider as “safe” territory.
Still, Amanda felt horribly exposed in the presence of her enemies. Were it not plastered down wetly, she was certain the hair on the back of her neck would be standing up like that of a startled cat. Lifting a pair of night glasses to her eyes, she scanned the shoreline from south to north.
Quillain’s objective, the tanker Bajara herself, lay moored outboard alongside the oiling pier, bow to the breakwater and her stern to the harbor channel. Her hull was backlit by the pier arcs and lights glowed golden around her deckhouse. With her boilers cold, she’d be drawing her power from a pierside land line, and that would be all for the better here presently.
Amanda panned the glasses across to the massive Bong Mining Company pier a mile north along the Port’s shoreside. There, tied up at the far end float, she saw her target, the harbor tug Union Banner.
No lights on the float. Only the dim glow of what looked like cabin lights aboard the tug itself. The thermographic scans made by the recon drones indicated that a skeleton crew manned the craft at night. Also, there would be sentries and a series of dockside patrols that seemed to work to a random search pattern.
Amanda started as something bumped her boat. Quillain’s CRRC had come alongside once more. “Okay,” he whispered. “We’re at point of separation. Everything set with you?”
Answer him! He can’t see you nod! Make your damn throat work! “Yes. Ready.”
“We’re by the numbers, then? Ten minutes to position. Then the strike. Then we go.”
“By the numbers. Carry on, Stone.”
“See you after the show, Skipper.”
Quillain pushed off, and his raider motored silently away. The other four CRRCs of the boarding team followed. Blackness swallowed them, and Amanda’s boat drifted alone. She scooped up a palmful of salt water and rinsed the parch from her mouth with it. Spitting the water out over the side, she keyed her transceiver. “Moonshade to Palace. At point of separation. Strike in ten. I say again. At point of separation. Strike in ten.”
The distant thump of Claymore mines and the angry clatter of autoweapons fire issued from the overhead speakers in the briefing trailer. The taut voice of the Treestump force team leader followed.
“Palace, Palace, this is Treestump! We have hostile forces advancing north along coastal highway toward our positions. Estimate company strength. Secondary ambush has been triggered. Ambush team falling back to our perimeter under fire. How long until we are cleared for extraction?”
Christine windowed up the wallscreen segment that covered the Treestump diversion mission. “Treestump, this is Palace,” she replied into her command headset. “We see your situation. It looks like you are being probed by the King Grey’s Town militia garrison. We project fifty to sixty light infantry, small arms only.”
“Concur, concur on that. Southern ambush team is back within perimeter. They report hostile infantry probe is retreating. We’re not worried about those guys, Palace, but intel indicates we have heavies coming in from the north. Request instructions, over.”
“Acknowledge that, Treestump. Stand by.”
Christine looked first to the wall graphics and then to the Admiral. Red target hacks marched steadily southward toward the diversion site — the gunboats offshore and the mechanized column along the coastal highway. Hands on hips, Macintyre scowled at the graphic imaging. “The Union’s moving faster than you figured, aren’t they?” he commented.
“Yes, sir, they are. We counted on the Port Mech column losing more time passing through the city. It’s not happening. And those gunboats are pulling a higher rate of knots than we projected as well.”
She looked up at Macintyre. “Sir, we need to get those guys out of there soon. But if we pull them out too soon, it could give Belewa time to realize that this is just another fake out. He could reorient on the harbor area in time to bitch the boarding ops.”
Macintyre leaned forward to the map. Not bothering with the computerized scale, he used a V of fingers as a compass, gauging distances. “This extraction is going to be tight, very tight. Can we kick any of those SeaSLAMS loose to kill those Union gunboats?”
“We only have twelve cells out there, sir. Every round’s committed to taking out a key node in the Monrovia power and communications net.”
“Hell, and we can’t sic the seafighters on them without leaving the boarding teams in the lurch. Those damn gunboats are the problem, Chris. I’m willing to risk having the Marines swap a few rounds with that Union armor, but the Santana is going to be out there alone with three hostiles moving in on her. If she gets driven off station before she can recover the Treestump team…”
Macintyre stepped forward again, callused fingers measuring times and distances once more. The land-based armored task force had pulled ahead just slightly. Macintyre assessed, then spoke. “Get me an open channel to Treestump lead.”
Christine pointed to the signals operator and snapped her fingers. The S.O. executed the fast call-up and nodded back to the intel.
“You’re up, sir.”
“Palace to Treestump, do you copy?” Macintyre spoke levelly into his lip mike.
“Treestump ’by, Palace. Standing by for instructions.” The tension in the young Marine officer’s voice had ramped up minutely.
“Lieutenant Southerland, I believe it is. This is Admiral Elliot Macintyre. You’ve done your job, son, and I think it’s time we start getting you out of there.”
“Aye, sir! Whatever you say, Admiral.”
“I’m going to walk you through something here, Lieutenant. We are showing that you still have an ambush group out on the highway north of your primary position. Do they have AT capacity?”
“Yes, sir. They have a couple of Predators left.”
“Good. Leave that ambush in place and pull your primary perimeter back to the beach, right back to the waterline. Do it now. Get your boats ready to launch. In about four to five minutes, your northern ambush is going to see a light armored force moving in fast down the highway toward your position. Instruct them to kill the lead vehicles, then have them lay down anything they have that can cause confusion or delay — smoke, tear gas, area denials, anything and everything they’ve got. Then have them fall back to your beach position. At that point, extract out to Santana. Dedigitate expeditiously, son. You’ll just have time to pull this off, but there will be none to spare for fooling around.”
“Understood, sir. Will do. This is Treestump, out.”
Macintyre went off circuit and glanced at Christine, one iron-colored eyebrow lifting. This is my improvisation, Commander. Let’s sit back and see just how magnificent it is.”
From his station behind the helm console, the signals talker called out sharply. “Captain, word in from the landing party. The northern ambush has just engaged the Union mechanized column. The ambush force is falling back and the Marines say they are beginning extraction.”