“I know. We had that too. Only, there’s a whole wall in between ‘taking casualties’ and your people dying. Casualty is just a word that lies flat on a page. Your people dying is… Oh, damn it, Steamer, it’s the Chief!”
“I know it, Snow. Even if they did try and tell you, it wouldn’t do any good. It’s one of those things you have to live. It can’t be taught in a way that would mean anything.”
The silence closed in once more, barring the lap and slosh of the waves between the barge hull and the Kevlar armor curtains. Gradually Steamer became aware of a growing patch of warmth on his shoulder. Not touch, only proximity. As still as a statue, his little exec looked off toward the distant coast, her head turned carefully away.
Steamer urgently wished for that cigarette again. Instead, he found his arm closed around Snowy’s shoulders. She turned into him, burying her face in his chest. They could even embrace in silence and still say what needed to be said.
Fourteen days passed.
At first Amanda had been more than grateful for the lull in the action. The battle damage to the Queen of the West and Carondelet had been repaired, the backlog of maintenance accrued during the doubled patrols of the OK Corral operation had been dealt with, and her crews had been given a chance to rest and recover.
By the start of second week, however, the drop-the-other shoe syndrome came into play. Amanda eyed her silent interphone deck more and more often, and curt, inquiring calls were made to the Intelligence and Operations Centers with growing frequency. Sleep became harder to come by and explosions of temperament easier. The death of Chief Tehoa on top of six months of continuous campaigning on the Gold Coast had taken its toll. Raw nerve endings drew taut, and all she wanted now was to finish it.
On the fourteenth day, after a morning spent restlessly prowling the decks of the platform, she sought out Christine Rendino.
The interior of the Intelligence Division’s Control Node trailer was possibly the coolest place on Floater 1. The massively augmented air-conditioning mandated by the computer systems made the space chilly for someone who had just stepped out of an equatorial noonday. Likewise, Amanda’s eyes had to adjust to a darkness lit only by glowing wall screens and CRTs.
The row of duty systems operators bent intently over their consoles, downloading data dumps, guiding reconnaissance drones, and performing the other esoteric tasks of the military intelligence gatherer. The cooling units rumbled softly beneath the deck and the voice of a Union Army officer issued from an overhead speaker, casually involved in a phone call to a subordinate and totally unaware that his every word was monitored.
Christine sat at the head of the trailer at her minute workstation, shaping her nails with an emery board by the light issuing from her personal monitor. She glanced up as Amanda edged down the line of S.O.s toward her. “Top of the morning, boss ma’am.”
Amanda replied with a soft and noncommittal grunt. “Anything new to report?”
“Not a solitary flippin’ thing. Just as it was at the 0600 briefing this morning and at the 1800 hour briefing last night. Nada. Zip. Zero. Peace has busted out all over and is growing like a dandelion in a field of cow pies.”
“Agh.” Amanda leaned back against the trailer’s bulkhead. “Why does that make me feel so nervous?”
“Because it should.” Christine blew lightly across her nails. “Because you were right and I was wrong back there before OK Corral. That convoy operation was only the warm up act. Elvis has yet to enter the building.”
“Thanks. I came in here hoping you’d convince me that I’m getting delusional in my old age, and that Belewa is, in fact, quietly turning belly up on us.”
Christine shook her tousled blond head. “Not a chance. Right now, in my expert opinion, Belewa is busy ‘fighting the fight of sit-down,’ as the Zulus used to call it.”
The intel gestured at the row of drone display monitors. “He’s ramped everything way back. Insurgency operations inside Guinea have almost come to a halt. He’s stopped shifting his political DPs into the border-crossing camps. He’s even closed out his smuggling pipeline in Côte d’Ivoire. He’s hunkering down and channeling whatever dribbles of fuel he has left into maintaining his civilian transportation and communications nets.”
“That sounds more to me as if your scenario was correct. He’s packing it in without a last gambit.”
“Not so.” Christine gestured pointedly with the emery board. “If that were the case, we’d be seeing endgame diplomacy. Belewa would be negotiating with the U.N., trying to cut the best deal he could. As is, he isn’t talking with anyone, except maybe the Algerians.”
“Then what is he up to, Chris?”
The little blond started on another nail. “He’s established a holding pattern and he’s waiting for something.”
“For what?”
“That is the problem. I don’t have a tenth of a percentile point of a clue. Whatever Belewa is setting up, we’re not seeing it. Our drone sweeps and our Elint downloads aren’t showing anything out of the ordinary. Whatever he’s hitting us with is something new, and it’s coming from way the heck out in left field.”
“Come on, Chris, this isn’t like you. There’s got to be something showing.”
“I’m sorry, boss ma’am. But the old crystal ball’s burnt out. Belewa isn’t giving me anything to work with. The only blip on the boards at all for the past two weeks has been some extra Algerian Airlines traffic into and out of Monrovia. This could be significant.”
Amanda crossed her arms. “How so?”
“I suspect that the Union and the Algerians are involved in some kind of negotiations or joint planning and they’re doing it all the old-fashioned way, face-to-face or by courier. They know how strong we are in signal and electronic intelligence, and they’re locking us out by not using any form of telecommunications in reference to this operation.
“Probably Belewa has set up the same kind of security protocols for any briefing and preparation work taking place in country as well. He isn’t taking the chance of even a single electron leaking out about whatever it is he’s planning.”
“Do we have anyone working the problem from the Algerian end?” Amanda inquired.
“LANTFLEETCOM and the Office of Naval intelligence are querying DIA and the National Security Agency for us on any unusual activity inside Algeria. Again so far, nothing outstanding.
“It sounds like he’s got us behind the curve again, Chris.”
“He does, fa’-certain-sure.” Christine glanced up soberly at Amanda. “I’m sorry, Amanda. I’m letting you down. I’ll keep working the problem, but I think he’s going to blindside us on this one.”
Amanda reached down and lightly ruffled her friend’s hair.
“It’s okay, Chris. I know you’ve given it your best shot. Besides.” she went on with a wry shrug, “I always did like surprises.”
The big Colt roared repeatedly, its barrel tracking along the arc of the hurled Coke can. A few inches above the wavetops, the can jerked sharply sideways, one end opening out in a blossom of frazzled aluminum.
“Yes!” Amanda yelped as the remnants splashed into the sea. “Yes, yes, yes!” Slapping the empty automatic down on their mess-table shooting bench, she looked over at her instructor in triumph.
Beyond the barge’s rail, the morning sun burned redly on the low wave crests, presenting its usual promise of steel-sizzling heat. Stripped to the waist and with his utility cover tugged down low over his eyes, Stone Quillain gave a single, sour shake of his head. “First time’s always luck. When you can do that twice in a row, maybe then we’ll be getting somewhere.”