The lead mine launch vanished in a tremendous explosion.
Janovic recognized the mechanism and its meaning instantly. “Shit! Suicide boats! Cunningham, hose ’em! Hose ’em!”
Emitter dishes slammed from traverse stop to traverse stop, spraying the night with energy. As each boat was trapped in a beam, it disintegrated, its crew slain in bewilderment by their own weapons. Aboard the last of the six, someone must have had a realization. Frantically they tried to jettison their mines; they got one over the side in time but were a split second late with the next.
Janovic’s guts twisted sickeningly as the spray plumes of the explosions collapsed and the smoke clouds dissipated. It had been too much to hope for, that there might be a way to fight a war without the blood.
“Captain,” the OOD yelled over the raging stammer of the gunfire. “All engine rooms report ready to answer bells!”
The bridge windscreen had taken hits heavy enough to blow two of the armor-glass panes out of their frames, letting in the full uproar of the battle along with the occasional ricocheting rifle slug. Still, Carberry stood immobile, his hands behind his back, disregarding the blood trickling from the cut on his forehead. If he was a legend within his war-gaming hobby, the little man was building another here.
“Very well. Signal the Cunningham to get under way.” Somehow Carberry didn’t find it necessary to lift his voice to be heard. “We’ll hold departure until she’s clear.”
“Aye, aye.”
A few moments later, a string of flashbulblike bursts danced along the flanks of the Duke, the crack of the mini-explosions lost amid the gunfire.
In planning for an emergency exit under fire, Amanda Garrett hadn’t liked the notion of exposing a sea and anchor detail on the decks of her ships. Accordingly the broad V of hawsers and spring lines used in the Mediterranean-type mooring of the task force had been doctored for a rapid departure.
Foam rubber flotation cladding had been wrapped around the upper shipside ends of the lines, ensuring that they couldn’t sink and foul a propeller, then a loop of explosive tape had been lapped around each hawser head. Wired for remote detonation, the ships could be cut free with the single push of a button.
The water boiled along the Cunningham’s flanks as the contra-rotating propellers of her propulsor pods cut water. As smoothly and almost as swiftly as an accelerating automobile; the cruiser hauled away from the seawall. Running blacked-out, she faded into the night in a matter of a few seconds.
“The Cunningham is away, Captain.”
“Very well, Mr. Johnson. Clear our lines, please. Helm, steady as she goes. Lee helm, all engines back one third.”
The Marine demo man hit his firing box and a second string of flashes danced around the perimeter of the LPD’s deck, the hawsers falling away. Diesel powered and backing with conventional screws, the Carlson’s response wasn’t as decisive, but she began to reverse, the gang plank crashing from her forecastle to hang vertically against the seawall. The small-arms fire trailed off as the LPD opened the range, following her consort into the darkness. A pirate fired an antitank rocket at the ship in a final futile gesture. It streaked past the bridge, sputtering sparks like a malfunctioning firework, and fell wasted into the harbor waters. A point defense turret yammered a long, angry replying burst, having the last word. The battle of Benoa Port was over.
“Lee helm, port ahead one third. Continue backing starboard one third. Mr. Johnson, you may resume the conn. Ware her about and follow the Cunningham out through the Turtle Island channel. Maintain blackout topside until further orders, and procure the damage and casualty reports with all speed, please.”
“Will do, sir.”
“Order the Sea Fighter squadron to execute an immediate combat launch to recover the shore party at rendezvous point as per ops plan Bravo. Also, get some drone recon up and have two of the helicopter gun ships spotted on five-minute ready alert.”
“Will do, Captain. Uh, would you like someone to have a look at that cut, sir?”
Carberry unclasped his hands. He was past the trembling now. Reaching up, he touched the coagulating blood on his forehead. “Probably a good idea, Mr. Johnson. Have sick bay send a pharmacist’s mate up should they have one free.”
Not a bad action at all, Carberry thought. It had been rather good having the Carlson cover the cruiser’s departure. It would remind the surface warfare crowd that the amphibious forces were fighting ships as well.
“Mr. Johnson, another thing. Please inform the ship’s company that I am satisfied with their performance tonight. No, on second thought, make that eminently satisfied.”
Taman Werdi Budaya Art Center
1916 Hours, Zone Time: August 20, 2008
The Marine security detail had already thrown up a security perimeter around the hired cars. The contents of their briefcases were now revealed as FN P-90 personal defense weapons, an odd-looking but lethal Belgian-made crossbreed of bull pup assault rifle and submachine gun. The hired Balinese drivers had also been relieved of their keys and pointedly told to get lost. From this point on, no one who was not in a U.S. Navy uniform was going to be trusted.
Her own weapon drawn, Amanda hurried down the path to the parking lot. Even though they were a good eight miles from the harbor, she could hear the sound of distant explosions.
Stone Quillain was already overseeing the loading, an automatic in his right hand, a cellphone held to his ear with his left.
“What’s happening with the task force?” she demanded, hurrying to his side.
“They’re hitting us,” the Marine replied matter-of-factly, “but our guys were waiting for ’em. So far, so good. Captain Carberry’s casting off and hauling out.”
“Good. How about our people here?”
“All present and accounted for. Loading now.”
“Right! Pull in your sentries and let’s get to the pickup site. Is the point driver set to lead us out?”
“Corporal Smitson drove the route twice yesterday. He’s good to go. Mount up, Skipper, the admiral’s waiting on you.”
“Negative, I’m taking the trailer. I’ll see you at the rendezvous.”
Before Quillain could raise an objection, Amanda was sliding into the front seat of the last sedan in line. Having been designated the emergency recovery vehicle in the advent of trouble with any of the other cars, it carried only a Marine driver, its passenger load having been divided among the rest of the motorcade.
“Take off, Stone,” she yelled through the open window. “Expedite!”
From the shadows near the parking lot exit, Harconan watched the line of sedans swerve into the road and accelerate away with a chirping of tires. As he expected, he caught the sheen of red hair in the front seat of the last car. In this situation, her instinct would be to be the last one out, ensuring that all of her people were away and safe.
Harconan was already aware that his attack on the task force was a disaster. She had been waiting for him to strike at her ships. But perhaps the day was not totally lost. There was another prize to be taken, one she had left vulnerable.
Flipping his phone open, he called through to the team leader of his Nung special-forces unit, issuing specific instructions.
The liberty party’s evacuation route did not run south toward the Benoa Harbor area. That had been calculated as too obvious and too much of an invitation to an ambush. Instead it ran eastward, passing under the urban core of Denpasar to the resort area of Sanur Beach. There a Sea Fighter would be waiting to return the officer cadre to the big ships waiting offshore.