“How do you wish to administer this truce, Captain Garrett? What guarantees do you require?”
“Your word of honor as an officer, sir,” the reply came back fearlessly and without hesitation, “as I offer mine in return.”
“Accepted, Captain. The truce goes into effect one hour from now until forty-eight hours after the storm’s passage. I… thank you on behalf of the people of the Union.”
“On behalf of UNAFIN, I thank you for allowing us to aid. Might I suggest we turn this matter over to our staffs at this time for the arrangement of details? I suspect we both have a great deal of work to do.”
“Indeed, Captain.”
Belewa restored the phone to its cradle. How very strange. How can it be that one who is your blood foe could also be one with whom you could place an instinctive and implicit trust? Obe Belewa silently made a pledge that he would look into this Amanda Garrett’s eyes someday.
Granted they both survived.
From his station at Belewa’s shoulder, Brigadier Atiba spoke softly. “Obe. Was this wise? To accept our enemies’ handouts like this? It will look to the world as if we are not capable of taking care of our own citizens.”
Belewa glanced at his chief of staff. “No, Sako, I do not know if this was a wise thing for me to do. I only know that it had to be done. Establish the links between National Emergency Services and the American offshore base. Time is short. No matter who offers it, let us not squander this gift.”
It was a night when adrenaline and black coffee took the place of sleep. Dog it down, get it secured, strike it below. If it can’t be readily moved under cover, lash it in place. And then, when you’re sure it isn’t going anywhere, throw an extra loop of line around it, just to be certain. You have to be certain, for the Wrath of God is rolling up from the south.
The 1-MC speakers warred with the thudding of helicopter rotors. “Status Bravo Personnel! Starboard watch! Report to Helipads Red One and Green Two for evacuation! Expedite!”
Amanda prowled through the shadows and glare of the worklights, supervising and spotting weak points with a mariner’s eye. Floater 1 was like no vessel she had ever helped to see through a storm before, but there were lessons she had learned that were still applicable.
“Hey, you men on that trailer,” she yelled across to one of the work parties. “Let the air out of that thing’s tires and bleed the hydraulic pressure out of the jackstands before you strap it down. Reduce the wind resistance as much as you can and get the center of gravity as low as possible.”
“Will do, ma’am,” the senior petty officer acknowledged.
“And put about another dozen bights around that roll of sunshade. If the wind gets under that canvas, it’ll tear like Kleenex.”
“Aye, aye.”
“Captain,” another voice, this one with a British accent to it, hailed her. Lieutenant Mark Traynor hobbled across the deck on his wound-stiffened leg. “I beg your pardon, Captain Garrett, but I need to ask you for another favor.”
“Ask, Leftenant. Whatever we can do.” Amanda and the other U.S. personnel aboard Floater 1 had come to admire the fight the company of the HMS Skye had been making to save their crippled ship. A number of her crewmen, her wounded captain included, had stayed on aboard the platform to help keep the battle-damaged little minehunter afloat.
“I’d like to move the Skye a little more amidships along the lee side of the platform, if we may,” the Englishman said apologetically. “It will give her a bit more shelter. We could use some help walking her down, if you could spare the man power.”
“No problem at all, Leftenant. I’ll have Commander Gueletti authorize a work detail to assist you. I’m sorry that heavy lift ship didn’t show up in time to haul you out before this blow. Do you think you’re going to have any problems tomorrow?”
“Not to worry, ma’am,” Traynor replied resolutely. “We’ll keep the water out of her if we have to drink it.”
As Traynor went on his way, an attention tone sounded in Amanda’s command headset. Shifting from one crisis to the next, Amanda stepped back between a pair of Conex containers to reply. “Garrett here,” she said into the lip mike, cupping her hands over the earphones to eliminate some of the deckside clamor.
“This is Chris, boss ma’am. We’re shutting down the Floater TACNET node at this time. All system operations are switching over to Conakry Base.”
“What about the Bravo and Valiant?”
“Both successfully recovered their aerostats and they’re beating out to sea now,” the intel replied. “Those old TAGOs hulls were built to operate in the North Atlantic. They can take a little heavy weather. Santana is riding it out at Conakry, and Sirocco is heading Frenchside to Abidjan.”
“Good enough. How about our data dump to Monrovia?”
“They’re still accepting. We’ll feed ’em weather from Conakry Base for as long as the satellite links stay up. I’ve had to secure the drone recon, though. We’re approaching gust limits for the Predators at the higher altitudes, and we’ve flown all of the Eagle Eyes off the platform.”
“Understood. When do you and your people haul out?”
“My guys and me go on the next shuttle flight. Hey, when we get on the beach at Conakry, how about we throw a good old-fashioned hurricane party?”
Amanda hesitated a moment before replying. “Maybe, Chris. I’ll see you later.”
She worked her way aft, heading for the hover hangars. Everything within the squadron area appeared well battened down for the coming tempest. Even the “Three Little Pigs” placards on the exterior bulkheads had been unshipped and placed under cover. Running lights flashing, the PGs themselves stood ready to launch, the last of the service crew scrambling aboard.
“Hey, Captain!” As Amanda stepped out onto the turning platform, Steamer Lane jogged across to her, Snowy Banks trotting at his heels. “We were looking for you, ma’am,” Lane said. “We’re all set to haul out. Do you need a hand getting your gear aboard?”
Amanda shook her head. “Not necessary, Steamer. I’m going to ride it out here aboard the platform.”
The two hover pilots swapped startled glances. “Begging the Captain’s pardon, ma’am,” Snowy said carefully, “but, given the situation, are you sure that’s wise?”
“I suppose it depends on your definition of ‘wise,’ Snowy.” Amanda smiled back. “I spent two years commanding a Fleet Ocean tug in the Atlantic. I know a little bit about barge operations and heavy-weather work, and I think I can make myself useful. Commander Gueletti and his Seabees are going to have their hands full out here when that blow hits.
“And speaking of that blow,” she continued, cutting off any further protest on the part of her officers. “You’d better get under way. You’re tight on time, and you have a long run to Conakry Base.”
“As you say, Captain,” Lane responded reluctantly. “I wish you were coming with us, though.”
“I’ll be fine. You just watch yourselves out there tonight.”
“No sweat, Captain. If the sea starts kicking up on us too bad, we can always haul out on the beach.”
“Even so, be careful. I’d hate to be the first task force commander in naval history to lose a ship by having a tree fall on it.”
Amanda looked on as the seafighters fired up and took their departure. One by one, they lumbered forward to the edge of the launching ramp, slipping over and slithering down to the uneasy sea. Crossing to the starboard rail, Amanda watched the running lights of the squadron fade into the murky night.