“Not good and not bad. Much the same as always.”
“And your granddaughters away at school?”
“Ha! They write their grandpapa letters and my son-in-law reads them aloud to me and to the whole village. They make me proud.”
The Little Ghost smiled. “I am pleased to hear it, my friend. And things along the coast, how are they?”
Now the pleasantries were past and it was time to get to business.
“The Union men have been around recruiting, seeking for more boatmen to haul oil Englishside.”
“And are they finding many who want to try?”
“It is not as easy as it once was. You and your sea monsters, your skimmer gunboats, have taken too many. Of course, the smugglers who have been caught are only sentenced to a month or two in the prisons, less than that if their families can pay dash to the judge. But even a month in the Ivoire Bastille is not a pleasant thing. And when they return home, their boats are gone. They have nothing.”
Felix took another sip of beer. “No,” he said, “this time the Union men have to make big promises to get all the men they want.”
“And do they want many?” Those eyes, the color of a dawn horizon at sea, narrowed just a little.
“Very many. More than ever before.”
“And what promises are the Union men making to get them?”
“More money, almost twice as much for each barrel of diesel or petrol delivered. And this time the Union men are paying for the fuel themselves. And finally, a new outboard motor for every boat that dares the blockade, delivered in advance. My own wife would be tempted to smuggle for that.”
The Little Ghost nodded thoughtfully. “I imagine they are getting their men with that offer.”
“They are.”
“I see. That is most interesting, my friend.” The woman reached into her shirt pocket and produced a folded pad of paper money. West African CFA francs, used bills as always, and in small denominations, money that wouldn’t attract attention. “Thank you for being my eyes and ears.”
Felix stowed the francs away in the pocket of his own ragged shirt. At times he wondered about being a spy on his own people, but then, he wasn’t as young a man as he once was. The fish were harder to catch than when he was a youth and his granddaughters’ school was expensive.
And then, what would happen if the West African Union succeeded in eating up Guinea? At the moment, this Belewa fellow smiled at the Côte d’Ivoire. But then, so does the shark just before taking a bite.
“There is a plan as well,” Felix continued. “When the engines and the fuel are delivered, each boatman is told a night and a time and a place. This time, they are not to make the run to Englishside on their own. All of the smuggling boats are to sail at once and travel together like a great school of fish.”
“And the Union thinks we won’t notice?” the Little Ghost asked.
“They are sure you will. But the Union men have made one last promise. This time, so they say, there will be Union gunboats waiting to escort the smugglers across the line. Many Union gunboats. This time, so they say, the sea monsters will die.”
“I think it’s a Hail Mary play,” Christine Rendino said, cradling a half-empty coffee mug in her hands. “A desperation move. Belewa’s going for broke.”
Following her interview with her informant aboard the Sirocco, the intel had thumbed a priority ride back to Floater 1 aboard a British patrol helicopter. She’d risked the sling lift in the early-morning darkness so she could be back aboard the platform and waiting when Amanda and the other senior tactical officers returned from patrol.
Gathered in the briefing trailer, Christine, Amanda, Stone Quillain, and Steamer Lane drained the coffee urn, striving to keep sleep at bay while confronting this latest crisis.
“Do we have any other intel supporting the word you’ve received from your agent?” Amanda inquired, rubbing her eyes.
“It explains what we’ve been seeing at the naval station at Harper. The two Boghammer squadrons there have been reinforced with every available hull the Union navy can scrape together. We’re estimating between twenty-two and twenty-four Bogs currently operational. These squadrons have also had their fuel restrictions lifted. For the past week they’ve been conducting intensive maneuver and live-fire training. Fa’sure, they’re gearing up for some kind of big push.”
“I don’t suppose your guy could give us the word on when this show is scheduled,” Steamer inquired.
Christine shrugged. “He doesn’t have to. It’s easy enough to figure. The Union plans on making their move at night. That makes sense. They want darkness cover. On the other hand, they’re going to be herding an uncoordinated swarm of fishing boats down the coast, none of which will have night vision systems or even rudimentary navigational equipment. They’re going to need moonlight, as much of it as they can get.”
“And we’ve got a full moon in six days,” Amanda said slowly.
“Yep,” Christine acknowledged. “I’d say their valid operational time frame will extend from two days before full moon to two days after. The long-range weather projection indicates that we can also expect low seas and clear weather throughout that time frame. Conditions will be as good as they get for a convoy run. If the Union misses this gate, it’ll be a month before they can try again. And they don’t have another month to spare.”
No one spoke, and all eyes came to rest on Amanda Garrett.
She seemed to be gazing off into the distance beyond the trailer walls, her golden hazel eyes half closed and shadowed with lack of sleep. Only that slight unconscious action, that light biting of her lower lip in thought, testified to her mental focus. The adding and subtracting of a warrior’s sums.
“I think we can put enough of a package together to take to the U.N. rep,” Christine continued hesitantly. “She can confront the government of Côte d’Ivoire with it. This deal is going to be too big for them to sweep under the rug. They’ll have to take action or run the risk of losing too much international face. If we move fast, maybe we can break this thing before it gets launched.”
“No.”
Amanda shook her head decisively. “We don’t tell anyone ashore about this. Not even anyone at Conakry Base. I will personally brief Admiral Macintyre on this situation. Beyond that, this information stays strictly on the platform. I don’t want Union intelligence to have any chance at all to learn that we’ve been tipped to their plans.”
She pushed back her chair and rose to her feet, pacing, the sudden surge of battle-inspired adrenaline kicking her up and moving. “If Belewa wants to come out and engage, we’re going to let him. This is what we’ve been waiting for since Yelibuya Sound. Another chance for a stand-up fight with the Union navy within our rules of engagement, and another opportunity to take them down hard.”
Steamer Lane looked grim. Stone Quillain smiled wolfishly, one fist lifting in a sharp thumbs-up. As for herself, Christine wasn’t quite sure what her response should be.
“Steamer, start cooking your maintenance schedules. I want full squadron availability during this upcoming full moon phase. Maximum effort! We’re going to have all three PGs out there on station for all five nights. It means a doubled patrol schedule for all hands, but we can hack that for a little while. Pass the word to Santana and Sirocco as well. We’ll be shifting both of them over to support positions on Ivory East. We’ll also need to coordinate operations with the Brit helo group. Everybody gets invited to this party.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am.”
“Stone, I’m not quite sure what all your people are going to be doing yet, but I want all three rifle platoons regrouped here on the barge. Everyone except for our coastwatcher patrols on the eastern Liberian beaches.”