“I guess we won,” Quillain said in a cracked whisper. “Or at least as close as it’s going to get.”
A vast, roiling cloud of smoke drifted slowly inland, underlit by the burning hulk of the tanker. The Bajara was settling to the channel floor, her hull glowing a dull red and her super structure collapsing in upon itself as the steel softened and buckled.
With the coming of dawn, the pall of burning petroleum would be a banner of disaster that would be seen for a hundred miles.
The defense force was coming in from the breakwaters, the uninjured helping the wounded. Those who could walk carried those who could not. Obe Belewa made himself stand out on the access road and watch as they stumbled past through the headlights of the command track.
There were things in their faces that he had never seen before. Things that he had never wanted to see in the face of his soldiers. Defeat, sullen disillusionment, despair.
They passed in silence, the only sound the scuffing of boots on the road. Muttered conversations and voices that had been lifted in anger out in the darkness, cut off abruptly as Belewa was recognized.
Obe could not blame them. He had promised them victory and now they knew him to be a liar.
Sako Atiba came up to stand at his shoulder. “General,” he said coldly, “the American radio jamming has stopped. We have regained communication with all regional headquarters and with Mamba Point government center. What are your orders?”
The Premier General opened his mouth to reply, but found that he had no orders left to give.
“We’re secure here, Admiral.” Amanda Garrett’s voice was steady as it issued from the speaker, but the effort behind each word could be easily read. ”Sirocco has the Queen under tow and we are inbound to the platform at this time. All wounded and injured have been medevaced. I am releasing Carondelet and Manassas for reservicing, and with your permission I am closing out the Wolfrider time line.”
“Permission granted,” Macintyre replied over the radio link. “Wolfrider is secured. Well done, Captain.”
“No, sir, not this time.” Pain and a faint tremor touched the distant voice. “I cost you, Admiral. They hurt us. More than I like to think about.”
Macintyre grimaced into the microphone. “You know your Kipling, Captain. Remember what he had to say about the ‘savage wars of peace’?”
“I do, Admiral. I’ve recalled that line a number of times lately.”
“Very well, then. When can we expect you back on the platform?”
“Shortly after first light, sir. I’m riding back in with the Queen and her crew. I’ll be available for debriefing at your convenience.”
“Stand down and get some rest when you get aboard, Captain. The debrief can wait. Macintyre out.”
Christine keyed her own headset, relaying Amanda’s orders. “Operations, the Lady says secure the Wolfrider time line. All task force elements stand down from general quarters and resume standard operational protocols. Pass the word to all hands. Mission successful.”
She looked around to the systems operators in the briefing trailer. “That includes you guys. Go get some sleep. We can knock down the workstations later. Well done, gang.”
The wall screens blinked off, one after another, as the systems powered down. Stiffly, the S.O.s levered themselves out of their chairs, stretching out the kinks of too many sitting hours out of their spines. Macintyre and the intel realized just the opposite, that they had been on their feet continuously since well before midnight. As the enlisted hands departed, the two officers doffed their headsets and sank down on opposite sides of the conference table.
Christine remained seated for only a moment, however. Rising once more, she moved to the blackboard on the trailer bulkhead and studied the blurred words printed on it.
POWER PROJECTION
MAINTAIN SEA LINES OF COMMUNICATION
MAINTAIN FLEET IN BEING
Lines had already been drawn through the first two missions. Now she picked up the chalk and drew one through the third. Then, turning to the trailer’s small onboard refrigerator, she knelt down, popped open the door, and removed two cold cans of Mountain Dew soda.
“The last of a good vintage, Admiral,” she said, returning to the table and placing one of the cans in front of Macintyre. “I’ve been saving them for a special occasion.”
“This qualifies, Chris. Thanks.”
“What was that thing you mentioned with the Captain?” the intel inquired, resuming her chair. “That Kipling thing?”
“The savage wars of peace?” Macintyre popped the pull ring on his can with his thumb. “It’s just a line from a poem about the old British colonial times. Not a very politically correct piece of work these days, but one that still holds some truths.” He took a long, deliberate pull of cold soda. “Evaluations, Commander. What happens next?”
Christine shrugged and sipped her drink. “This conflict, as we know it, is over, Admiral. Belewa is out of everything — seapower, fuel, time, everything. The direct threat to Guinea and Côte d’Ivoire has passed, although they’re going to have a new set of problems to deal with as the West African Union breaks up.”
Macintyre cocked an eyebrow. “You think the Union will self-destruct?”
“Unless something radically changes, fa’sure. The West African Union is a very new government and a very tenuous one. It has, in essence, been a tribal union built around a one man personality cult, that of General Obe Belewa. The people of the Union owed their allegiance to him personally and not to any concept of ‘nation.’ ”
Christine rolled the cool side of her drink can across her forehead. “A prime example of this kind of thing is post World War II Yugoslavia. For decades, Josip Broz Tito held a violently diverse ethnic and cultural grouping together by political savvy, personality, and force of will. However, once the ‘Little White Violet of the Mountains’ was removed from the equation, plotz!”
“The same principle applies here. As long as Belewa is a winner, as long as he can deliver the goods and make things better, his people will follow. But once he’s shown up to be a mere mortal… Well, he’s going to have to pull a real miracle out of his ass to salvage this situation.”
“Well, that’s his problem, and that of various kings, potentates, and diplomats,” Macintyre replied grimly. “We held up our part of the bargain, Chris. We knocked Belewa off his white horse. Now they get to figure out who climbs into the saddle next. They’re welcome to the job.”
The Admiral studied the brightly painted beverage container in his hand as if for the moment it had become very important. “She pulled it off for us again, didn’t she? Another of her patented miracle packages.”
Christine nodded. “Yeah, she did. She’s real good at that kind of thing. Sometimes, though, I wonder how many more she has left in her before she hits the big one.”
“The big one?”
The intel gave another sober nod. “Yeah. You know, the job that’s finally going to be so tough that she’s going to have to die to get it done.”
Macintyre glanced up. “You think that’s going to happen to her?”
“Admiral, it’s bound to, barring the sudden onset of the millennium. Amanda is the most totally ‘give a damn’ person I’ve ever met. And the ‘give a damns’ usually get used up pretty fast.”
“That’s all too true.” Macintyre crossed his arms on the tabletop and stared down at a coffee mug ring, his craggy features thoughtful. “You sound like you know Amanda Garrett pretty well, Chris.”