James H. Cobb
Sea Fighter
Dedication
To the men, and now the women,
of the gunboat navy.
From Lake Erie to the Mekong Delta,
from Vicksburg to the Bismarck Archipelago,
frequently it has been required that they do
the most with the least.
Map
Prologue/Beginning
With the sun down, the small and overstressed air conditioner set in the housing module’s window at last started to make headway against the equatorial heat. Still, the Marine utilities she wore, the smallest set available within the task group, felt tentlike and oppressive. Ignoring the chafing discomfort of the perspiration-damp camouflage cloth, Amanda Garrett studied the screen of her personal computer, reconsidering what she had composed.
Dearest Arkady:
This is one of those special letters that we of the profession of arms find necessary to write on occasion. If you are reading it, it will mean that I am dead.
Hopefully, I will have been lost while bringing my mission to a successful conclusion. Also hopefully, I will have died alone. As always, my prayer before action this night will be that no weakness or failing on my part will cost the lives of any more of those I command. The blood price for this operation is already far too high.
I also regret the other costs, the personal ones we share. I wish that some of the things we dreamed of during our brief time together could have become a reality. I also wish that it could have been in me to accept all of the good things you offered. Remember that, Arkady. I thank you with all my heart for all of your selfless love, courage and companionship. Also for all the times you stood at my side when I needed someone. I will carry those memories with me on this, my last and longest voyage. In return, all I can say is that I loved you and that I’m sorry it couldn’t be.
There was no more to be said. Or there was far too much to say in the time she had remaining. Amanda initiated “File Save” and downloaded the sterile words. Two other letters, one to her father and a second to Christine Rendino, were already on the disk in her laptop. Chris would know where to find them and would see they were delivered.
This was the last task she’d set for herself. Everything was as ready as it could be made.
Amanda allowed herself a moment of quiet neutrality, staring past the screen of the personal computer to the dull white painted wall of her quarters. Somehow, even after five months, it still didn’t feel right to call it a “bulkhead” on this ship that wasn’t a ship.
Hanging from hooks on that wall were the unaccustomed items of equipment she had drawn: the MOLLE load-bearing harness with the radios and flares already clipped to it, the pistol belt and ammunition pouches, the bulky Marine flak jacket, and the ballistic helmet with its camouflage-pattern cover.
She gave a start as the document on the monitor disappeared, replaced by the nautical imaging of a Navy League screensaver. Glancing at the militarily formatted clock hack in the corner of the flatscreen, she noted the time: 2221 hours.
2200… had it started only seventeen hours ago? Less than three-quarters of a single day?
No. Not really. This current crisis was just the latest link in a long and tortuous chain of events. One that had been initiated long before Amanda Lee Garrett, former Commander and now Captain, U.S.N., had ever been called to duty in this strange place. Long before she had ever heard of the West African Union. Long before there had even been a West African Union of which to hear.
Origin
Liberia.
Once it had been the oldest participatory democracy on the African continent, maintaining a Constitution and Bill of Rights modeled upon that of the United States. Once its economic growth rate had been second only to that of Japan. Once its John F. Kennedy Hospital had been honored as one of the most modem and sophisticated medical research facilities in the Third World.
Once, Liberia had been a nation.
The Land Rover roared through the rank, tropic night, following the potholed pavement that climbed Mamba Point. In the darkness beyond the fan of the vehicle’s headlights, there was scuttling movement. Shadowy forms sprang aside off the road, seeking deeper pools of night to hide in. Other figures huddled animal-like in the shanties and half-ruined buildings that lined the trash-strewn street.
In recent years, the citizens of Monrovia had learned that the people with the cars were also frequently the people with the guns. Likewise, they had found that those guns were often used for no more reason than to make blood spray.
Fear was not a factor restricted to pedestrians, however. The Nigerian soldier manning the Land Rover’s pintle-mounted Bren gun was nervous as well. He traversed the muzzle of the weapon in short nervous arcs, covering the road-sides ahead. Death frequently walked abroad in the streets of Liberia’s ruined capital. You never knew when he might step out from around a corner to greet you.
The howl of the Land Rover’s engine faded to a grumble as it rolled to a halt in front of what had been Monrovia’s Masonic Hall. Dismounting from the doorless 4 × 4, Captain Obe Belewa issued a short, curt command. “Keep your engine running, Corporal.”
Clad in the same worn jungle camouflage as his men, the tall African army officer double-timed past the bullet-chipped statue of some long-ago Liberian Grand Master and up the marble steps to the entryway of the massive old building. The cracked Ionic columns guarding the portico glowed palely in the starlight, like part of some ancient Roman ruin.
ECOMOG (the Economic Community of West African States Military Observation Group) had taken over the building as its headquarters. A pair of lax sentries at the doorway fumbled to attention as Captain Belewa stormed past them, not bothering to reply to their hasty salutes.
A single generator-powered safety light illuminated the looted and stripped reception hall. One of the staff lieutenants attached to Headquarters Company sat at a gray metal field desk, reading a British sports magazine by its pulsing light.
“I need to talk to Colonel Eba,” Belewa demanded, looming out of the shadows beyond the desk. “Now!”
Startled, the duty officer dropped his magazine, recoiling under the intensity of the speaker’s words.
Broad-shouldered, hard-muscled, and grimly handsome, Belewa was an impressive figure under normal circumstances. Now, with his face set and the fires of rage burning behind his dark eyes, he was beyond impressive and well into frightening.
The duty officer knew that the Browning automatic pistol and the razor-honed jungle knife on the Captain’s belt were not mere symbols of authority. They were the arms of a warrior, well-maintained and ready for instant use. The same could be said of the mechanized infantry company Belewa commanded. It was freely acknowledged to be an elite unit, the best formation of the battalion and of the Observation Group. Some dared whisper even of the entire Nigerian army.
Captain Belewa also had the reputation of being a very bad man to cross.
“The Colonel is off duty, sir,” the lieutenant stammered. “He has left instructions not to be disturbed unless it is an emergency.”