He’d held his course along the coast by steering across the regular ranks of deepwater rollers marching in from the Atlantic, maintaining his distance from the shore by throttling down his engine every few minutes to listen for the surf on his right.
On his last check, however, the sound of the breaking waves had been fading astern and the water beneath the pinasse’s hull had been tinged with a milky brown coloration. When a palmful of it had been tasted, a muddy organic flavor had overlain the clean bite of sea salt. They were now off the broad mouth of the Tabounsou River.
Were it not for the rain and mist, the low-set Camayenne Peninsula would have been seen to the west and extending away to the south. At the peninsula’s tip would have been the city of Conakry itself, and farther south yet, Kassa Island, the closest in of the Iles de Loos group.
With the Tabounsou to starboard, their objective — the air port and the U.N. base — would be directly… there. On the coast and inside the river estuary easy on the starboard bow and perhaps five miles distant.
Satisfied, the captain settled back into his seat, easing the rudder over a few degrees. He pushed the throttle in a notch, slowing the chugging beat of the little engine. They had made a good landfall. Now he and his crew must arrive at their objective just as darkness was falling.
It was a busy afternoon on the vast concrete expanse of the Conakry flight line. Half a dozen C-130 Hercules transports bearing the insignia and camouflage patterns of half a dozen nations were lined up wingtip to wingtip along one of the parking aprons, dripping in the rain and discharging relief supplies and military stores. On a second apron, a twin engined C-160 Transall of the Armée de l’Air and a small cluster of Super Puma utility helicopters rested in between flying support missions for the Foreign Legion Advisory Group who were working with the Guinean army. In yet a third area, a U.N.-chartered 747 air freighter discharged palletized Red Cross parcels through its open bow door. A polyglot cadre of military personnel — French, British, American — and a scattering of locals worked around the grounded aircraft, struggling with mixed success to bring order out of chaos.
As Admiral Maclntyre’s Orion taxied in from the main runway, Christine had more than enough time to ponder how this huge and overwhelmingly unnecessary air-base complex had come to exist.
Like any number of other Third World states, Guinea had at one time been tempted by the bright lie of communism. Swept deep within the circle of influence drawn by both the old Soviet Union and the former Red China, Guinea had, for a time, been one of the closer allies of both Moscow and Beijing on the African continent. In return for this allegiance, the Soviets had financed and constructed an international airport at Conakry.
Upon completion, the airport proved to be far too large a facility for the minimal air-transport needs of Guinea, not to mention being far too costly for the small and impoverished country to maintain. On the other hand, it did give the Russian air force a very convenient South Atlantic staging base for its huge TU-95 maritime patrol bombers, thus being the nature of foreign aid given by the late Soviet empire.
At last, the airfield was being used for the benefit of the people of Guinea. Through it poured the assistance that might yet stave off disaster for the foundering nation.
Obediently trailing the base “follow me” truck, Admiral Maclntyre’s VP-3 lumbered into its parking spot, spray streaking the tarmac behind it. With a final twirling whine, its engines powered down, square-tipped propeller blades flickering into visibility.
Normally, there would have been the turnout of the base honor guard and the appropriate pomp and circumstance mandated by tradition for a flag officer’s arrival. At Maclntyre’s specific request, however, a squelch had been placed on the formalities. Only Christine and the commanding officers of the other two major Navy elements attached to the UNAFIN operation stood by at the base of the boarding stairs.
Since coming under his command, Christine Rendino had come to learn that the CINCNAVSPEFORCE was a man who preferred performance over ceremony by a decisive margin, especially inside a war zone. During those odd moments in his presence when she could step back from her professionalism, Christine also found herself noting that Vice Admiral Elliot “Eddie Mac” Macintyre was a damned handsome example of an older man.
He was one of those individuals who don’t age as much as they weather. The gray streaking his brown hair and the lines carved into his strong-jawed features marked where the passage of time had only been able to lightly chip at the man. Descending the stairway with his jacket collar turned up against the rain, Macintyre moved with the quick and limber surety of a person in his prime.
“Welcome to Conakry Base, Admiral.”
“Pleased to be aboard, Jim,” Macintyre replied, exchanging salutes with Captain Stottard.
Captain James Stottard was the senior American officer on the ground in Guinea, the commandant of the Conakry Base section as well as all other U.S. logistics and support forces attached to UNAFIN. A tall and bulky man with a stolid personality and humorless demeanor, the LOGBOSS was a professional bean counter and a damn good one.
The TACBOSS was present as well.
“Captain Phillip Emberly, sir!”
Phil Emberly commanded the combat elements of NAVSPECFORCE’s share of the U.N. operation. Round faced, intense, and almost radiant with self-confidence, he was a fast-tracker from Navy R & D who had overseen the final phase development of the seafighter program. As the PG-ACs were to be the core unit of the interdiction force, it had seemed appropriate that he should lead them during their operational debut.
Christine could appreciate the way Emberly had brought the experimental seafighter group up to speed. However, there were other aspects of the man she didn’t appreciate quite so much.
“Pleased to meet you, Commander,” Macintyre replied. “I’ve heard a lot of good things about the seafighters.”
The Admiral turned his attention to Christine, his finger tips coming to his brow in reply to her own salute. “Commander Rendino. It’s good to see you again.”
“The same here, sir.”
As for herself, Christine was aware of her place in the scheme of things. Within naval intelligence circles she was becoming heir to the reputation of the brilliant and eccentric Commander Joseph Rochefort, the man who had turned the tide of the Second World War by predicting the Japanese attack on Midway Island.
With an IQ of 180, an eidetic memory, and a knack for deductive logic, she had served as intelligence officer aboard the USS Cunningham through America’s last two major international crises. When the destroyer’s crew had been dispersed, Christine had found herself snatched up by Admiral Macintyre as his personal prize out of the Duke’s treasure chest of conflict-hardened personnel. Following an early bump-up to lieutenant commander, she had been assigned to NAVSPECFORCE’s operational intelligence group, commanding its first fielded Tactical Intelligence Network detachment.
“Miss Rendino, gentlemen,” Macintyre went on. “I apologize for dragging you out here in the rain when you’ve already got so much on your plates.”
“No problem, sir,” Stottard replied politely. “We were halfway hoping that you were coming in to take over the show. We still haven’t gotten the word on what the final command structure is going to be down here.”
Macintyre frowned momentarily. “Not quite, Jim, although I do have some dope on that subject. We’ll get into that later. For now, you can just call this a friendly tour of inspection. I want to find out what else you people need and how I can best get it for you.”