Developed by the Sixth Fleet during the old Cold War days, the Med moor allowed a ship to cast off and scald out of port rapidly without the need of backing and filling or tug assist.
Both ships had emergency engine room and sea and anchor details held ready to get under way at a moment’s notice. Both had anti-SCUBA tactical hydrophones deployed, and both had armed Seawolf gunships spotted on deck, ready to launch.
These bristling defenses were unneeded this time around. The startled motor junk veered away from the anchorage, scurrying away into the evening’s darkness.
Lieutenant Nichols wrapped up her own inspection. Standing her people down, she crossed to where Stone lingered at the rail. Nichols wore skirted tropic whites complete with gloves and pumps and the Sea Fighters’ black beret. Stone had to note that the tall and muscular young woman looked decisively sharp this night.
“Ready to go in the bandbox, Marine?” she inquired in a bantering tone.
“Oh, hell, we were born ready.” Stone had found the Special Boat officer to be both a fellow Georgian and a fellow bass-fishing fanatic, making her more than a worthwhile companion. “How about yourself? Get all that spittin’ and polishin’ done?”
“Barely. I don’t mind that the Lady is using my Raiders as liberty launches. But the way she’s had me set them up… there’s something funny going on.”
Stone nodded an agreement. “I know what you mean. It’s the same with me and my boys. The Lady’s got some kind of notion goin’ in that red head of hers. The thing is, I’ve done a cruise with Captain Garrett before, and she always has a reason for everything she does. When she’s ready, she’ll let us in on it.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” Even with her height and her heels, Nichols had to look up into Quillain’s face. “So, Captain”—she impishly let a touch of the Old South creep into her voice—“y’all goin’ to save me a dance on your card?”
Quillain pretended to think. “I dunno, woman. Those local gals likely haven’t seen anything as pretty as me come down the pike in a long time. But if the Duchess of Argyle stands me up, I reckon I might even let you have two.”
Nichols laughed, the brightness of her smile a pleasing contrast to the warm dark brown of her skin.
Amanda Garrett closed her makeup kit, satisfied with the results of that last careful dab of eyeliner. Stepping back as far as she could within the confines of her sleeping cabin, she critically examined as much of herself as possible in the small door mirror.
She was a naval officer to the core and she was proud of her nation’s uniform, but she was also adequately feminine to savor dressing up when the opportunity presented itself. Her silken cream-colored blouse was long-sleeved and military-cut, and her formal length skirt was of light weight black velvet, with a slash just high enough to be interesting. She was pleased with the effect.
Removing her small jewelry box from a wall locker, she sought for a final touch. Simple golden disk earrings and… a necklace? She pondered for a moment. No, something else. She selected a thin, coiled black velvet ribbon from the box. Vince Arkady had given that to her on one occasion, telling her it was one of the three most stimulating things a woman could wear.
He had refused to elaborate on why, or what the other two articles were, though. Amanda smiled at the memory as she looped the ribbon around her throat. Someday, when some suitable male was available, she’d have to make further inquiries.
Finally, she removed the Navy Command insignia pin from the box and secured to her lapel. A little thing, but a reminder to others and to herself about who she was and that this night was still business.
She slipped her feet into a pair of rubber-soled deck shoes and caught up her evening bag and the pair of evening sandals she’d switch to before hitting the beach. Stiletto heels were definitely not designed for the ladderways of a man-of-war.
Ready.
She nodded to the sentry on duty outside her cabin door. The young Marine gave her a split second’s worth of gawk before catching himself and refreezing at a neutral-faced parade rest. Amanda smiled to herself. Yes, this outfit would do.
The other task force officers attending the reception awaited her in the wardroom. The low murmur of conversation trailed off as she appeared in the entryway.
Christine was present, the only other female officer to opt for civilian dress, in her case a short, golden-sequined sheath, outrageous enough to suit her. Amanda noted with interest that her friend was lingering close to Inspector Tran in a rather nonprofessional matter. And understandably, the Singapore police officer cut a very dashing figure in his white evening jacket.
Captain Carberry had been standing near the entry. “Good evening, Captain…” he began formally, then hesitated. The old-school Navy didn’t provide for moments like this with one’s commanding officer. Then the faintest hint of a smile touched Carberry’s face. “You’re looking lovely tonight, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Commander.” Amanda was pleased to find that she remembered how to curtsy.
And then Admiral Elliot MacIntyre stood before her in razor-creased whites, his uniform cap tucked under his arm. Somehow he looked younger than his years and rank, much as he must have as an Academy midshipman. And there was something in the gaze of his dark eyes.
An unexpected shiver rippled down her spine, and she found herself extending her hand without intending it. Then his fingers closed around hers and he, too, was bowing.
“Amanda.”
“Admiral.” His name had come to her lips first, but she could not use it here. Nor could she permit this moment to last any longer.
Flustered, she made herself look away, slipping her hand free. She also made a note to take Christine Rendino aside sometime soon to slap that smug, knowing expression off the intel’s face.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” Amanda said. “Our transportation is ready to depart, I believe. I think we can expect an interesting night.”
The shore parties filed topside to the Carlson’s boat stations.
The LPD couldn’t spare the topside space or weight for conventional whaleboats or captain’s gigs. Her boat cradles and powered davits had been dedicated to the assault craft of the task force’s Special Boat detachment.
The eleven-meter rigid inflatable Raiders of the Special Boat Squadrons were the Navy’s answer to the Boghammer gunboat. Powered by diesel-driven hydrojet propulsors, they were lightweight, swift, and heavily armed for their size. Capable of carrying eight passengers plus a three-person crew, the little gunboats were superb for their primary mission, delivering special-operations detachments to and from hostile shores. They were not, however, a typical mode of transportation to a diplomatic reception.
That suited Amanda’s purposes quite well.
“Detachment ready to load and launch, Captain,” Lieutenant Nichols reported crisply. “The Marine landing force is already embarked aboard Raider One as instructed.”
“Honor guard, Lieutenant,” Amanda corrected, standing in the scarlet glow of the deck lights. “Let’s maintain the niceties. Are we ready to make our debut?”
The SB officer broke into a grin. “We’re going to knock their eyes out, ma’am.”
“Very good, Lieutenant. My intention exactly. Let’s get them in the water.”
Hydraulics howled as the power davits lifted the Raider over the side, lowering them smoothly and swiftly to the sea. The twin turbo-charged engines kicked over the instant water reached their cooling intake, and the bow and stern shackles were cast off. As Raider Two paid off and half circled away from the quay and the ship, Amanda took a final judgmental look aft, checking the silhouettes of the security watch along the rails.