Two craft converged on the city of Conakry.
One was an airplane, riding swift and high above the dull azure of the Atlantic. A multiengined Orion P3C turboprop, it had been built for the U.S. navy during the 1980s as a long range antisubmarine patrol plane. Of late, however, it had undergone a change in mission. With its sleek fuselage bulged and spiked with the antennae of an extensively augmented communications array, it now served as a command-and-control aircraft, the personal ride of CINCNAVSPEFORCE, the Commander in Chief, U.S. Naval Special Forces.
The other craft was a small boat, creeping slowly west along the verdant African shoreline. It was the larger of the two classic types of Gold Coast small craft, a pinasse. Forty five feet in length and narrow in beam, she had the high bowed, long-lined sleekness of her war canoe ancestors, a grace that transcended her battered condition. With a cargo of sacked rice piled amidships and a low, tarp-roofed deck shelter astern, she held her course through the low crossing swells, a thumping two-cylinder diesel driving her on.
Each craft came from the opposing extreme of the technological spectrum as well as the opposing side of a burgeoning international conflict. They held one thing in common, however. Each was on a mission of war.
A steaming drizzle of rain streaked the louvered window of the little ad hoc office, its incessant pattering drowned out by the grumble of the overloaded air conditioner. Seated at her field desk, Christine Rendino studied the words that scrolled down the screen of her personal laptop computer.
…in the end, Chris, the powers that be decided to do considerably more to the Duke than just repair the battle damage we received in the Yangtze. We’re receiving a total Block II survey. Upon completion, we’ll have all of the augmented bells and whistles that have been built into the later SC-21-class hulls.
Unfortunately, the downside is that it will mean almost another full year in the yard. We won’t be ready for sea again before next October at the earliest. I’d hoped to take the Duke out on at least one more deployment before my tour aboard her was up, but there’s not much chance of that now. Maybe I’ll at least be able to get a shakedown cruise in before I have to hand her over to her next skipper.
At any rate, I’ll have plenty of time to get this new crew in shape. Your transfer was just the first of many. Just about all of our old hands are gone now. The Bureau of Personnel is doling our experienced crew people to the other stealths and to the training commands as if they are pearls beyond price.
Your favorite sparring partner; Frank McKelsie, has been bumped up to Lieutenant Commander and is on his way to San Diego to become the exec on the Boyington. Dix Beltrain is just a couple of piers down from us on the Connor, helping to get her ready for sea, and Doc Golden is up at Bethesda. Chief Thomson is out of the Navy now, not that he’s retiring by a long shot. He’s stepped straight across into a consultant’s position with Lockheed’s Sea Shadow division right here in Norfolk at a pleasantly fat salary.
At the moment, it’s rather like being the new kid in school again. I look around the Duke these days and all I see are a lot of faces I don’t recognize. Ken Hiro is about the last of the old gang still aboard. He’s having more fun than a kitten with a ball of yarn overseeing the rebuild. To tell the truth, he’s doing such a good job of it that I’m feeling just a little bit redundant at the moment.
Concerning Arkady (and I’m sure you’re panting to find out what’s going on with him), all I can say is, not much. We’ve been doing our best to run a long-distance romance, but I don’t think that either of us is finding it all that satisfying. However, we both have some leave coming and he’s flying in from San Diego tomorrow. We’re going to take the Seeadler out for a cruise and hopefully make up for some lost opportunities. Maybe we can also come to some conclusions about where the two of us are going.
You know, there’s a certain irony about it all. When Arkady came aboard the Duke and we became involved, we didn’t dare admit to having an affair because he was attached to the ship and under my command. However, now that he’s no longer attached and an affair would be all legal and aboveboard, we haven’t been able to have one to admit to.
Enough whining. I’ve been doing too much of that lately. I hope this new Tactical Intelligence project of yours is keeping you busy and out of trouble. I also trust that you are maintaining at least a semblance of military decorum. I doubt that Admiral Macintyre will have nearly the patience I had with that ex-pat Valley Girl act of yours. I do envy you the job, though. Africa would be an interesting duty station. A hot one as well if things keep going the way they have. Be careful, Chris.
Christine first smiled, then frowned as she finished the email. Amanda had never been one to bitch about personal problems. That she made any mention of them at all was unusual in the extreme. The wisps of discontent rising up from the letter obviously stemmed from some deeper smoldering cause.
A smile returned to the blond intelligence officer’s elfin features, but a sympathetic one. She could recognize the symptoms. At the moment, Amanda Lee Garrett was a dolphin run up onto the beach. The weight and dryness of the land were starting to suffocate her.
If Christine were back in Norfolk, she could have conjured up any number of temporary cures for her old friend’s condition. Among other options, she might have orchestrated a totally blowout night on the town for the two of them. Getting Amanda to well and truly let her hair down required a degree of effort, but the end results were usually interesting.
Christine checked the date on the message and found that it had been sent earlier that week. That would mean Lieutenant Vince Arkady was probably already on site. The intel’s smile deepened. Probably he could turn the trick even better.
Even so, his visit would only bring about a temporary remission of the symptoms. As with that beached dolphin, the only permanent fix for Amanda Garrett would be for her to return to the sea. And at the moment, there was nothing Christine could do to bring that about.
Her yeoman appeared in the doorless office doorway. “Beg your pardon, ma’am, but Admiral Maclntyre’s plane is on final approach now. You wanted to know.”
“Okay, Andy. Thanks.” She glanced through the window at the low gray skies and the rain-sodden tarmac beyond the naval intelligence center. “Is the Hummer around front?”
“Right outside the door, Commander.”
Commander…Christine reached up and touched the golden oak leaves on the collar of her summer whites. The rank still sounded a little odd.
She took a deep breath and flipped the cover of the mil spec Panasonic laptop closed. This had been her first fragment of free time for several days. It had been good to touch base with the real world for a moment. Standing up, she gave her slacks a smoothing tug. Not that it would make that much difference here on the Gold Coast. Five minutes away from an air conditioner and even the crispest set of creases would start to go limp. Donning her uniform hat, already swathed in its plastic rain cover, and taking her navy blue Windcheater from the back of her chair, she started out of the office.
Beneath the ragged scrap of canvas that sheltered the stern of the pinasse, her captain sat at the tiller and took careful stock of his vessel’s position.
Gray walls of rain-streaked mist rose up on all sides of his little craft, merging with the low overcast. They were engulfed by one of the frequent rain squalls that haunted the African Gold Coast. The African shipmaster lacked even a compass for navigation, and yet he knew exactly where he was.