They rounded the Queen’s sloping stern. Here were the two huge, five-bladed drive propellers, each eleven-foot airscrew mounted within a circular duct shroud and each with a twinned set of rudders behind it. A broad ramp folded down between them, leading into the darkened interior of the vehicle.
Amanda frowned slightly. “These PGs are supposed to have a low-radar cross section, aren’t they?”
“Yes, ma’am. We’re stealthy. Passive stealth essentially. The only sections of the superstructure that have a lot of metal in them are the top of the plenum chamber assembly and the engine platform — what we call the raft. The raft rides very low to the water, while the rest of the superstructure is primarily made up of composite materials with a very low reflective level. The hull and all metallic structural elements have also been coated with a Macroballon-based stealth paint, and we have heavier RAM panel inserts around the engines, lift fans, and weapons bays.”
“What about these big above-water airscrews? I know that a rotating propeller produces a large radar signature.” Amanda’s frown deepened for a moment. Arkady had taught her about that. With a shake of her head, she thrust away the momentary intrusion of her personal life.
Lane shrugged. “No sweat there. Our drive props are made out of the same thermoplastic composite they use for the propellers on the J- and K-model C-130s. They’re nine-tenths radar transparent. Fully closed up, we’re nothing but a bump on the sea.”
Lane led her up the stern ramp into the Queen’s interior twelve-foot-wide central bay. At the rear end of the bay, a small semirigid rubber boat sat mounted on a launching track that ran back down the extended ramp/bay door. Amanda noted the boat’s powerful outboard motor and the mounting bracket for a machine gun at its bow.
Her guide slapped the little craft’s inflated flank as he brushed past it. “This is our eight-man miniraider. It’s a cut down sixteen-foot variant of the big twenty-four-foot raider boats the Marines and SEALs use. Real good for landing and boarding operations.”
Just forward of the boat, Lane reached up and slapped something else up in the shadows near the overhead. As Amanda’s eyes adjusted to the lack of light, she could make out a long, dark coffinlike mass filling in the upper left corner of the bay. Four circular base plates were set into the rear facing of the rectangular pod and hydraulic lift gear gleamed along its sides.
“Our heavy hitters,” he went on laconically. “A four-round missile cell. Harpoon Twos for antishipping or SeaSLAMs for land attack. The launchers up-angle through the top of the hull and fire forward over the bow.”
Amanda was impressed. “You have a SeaSLAM control station aboard?”
“Yes, ma’am. A little farther up front. I’ll show you in a second.”
“What kind of a loadout do you usually carry?”
“Two and two. When we’re fully rigged out for serious ship hunting, we carry a second four-round cell back here, giving us a total of eight heavy missiles. We’ve got our star board launcher unshipped currently to make more room for carrying a boarding party.”
A set of nylon strap and aluminum tube benches were folded up against the starboard bulkhead. Utilitarian in the extreme, Amanda found herself grateful that she wouldn’t have to be riding them for any length of time.
Forward of the missile cell, the bay broke into a cross shaped intersection, the side arms extending out to the side hatches in the hull. Narrowing, the central bay continued on toward the bow. An aluminum ladder also ran vertically to a hatch in the overhead, while a second angled forward and upward into the cockpit.
“Cockpit access and topside access,” Lane affirmed. “Forward here, on the port and starboard sides, are the gun tubs for the secondary armament. Forward of them on the starboard side is our mess room and galley. That is, if you want to consider a microwave and a coffee urn a galley. On the port side we have a chemical head and a bunkroom. Four bunks. Our offboat quarters are aboard Floater 1, of course, but the onboard racks come in handy on a long patrol.”
The hover commander pointed beyond the cockpit ladder. “At the head of the bay and just under the cockpit, you can see consoles of the two main fire-control stations. They’re multi mode — either one of them can access and direct any of the onboard weapons systems.”
“What’s your standard crew complement?” Amanda inquired.
“Nine. Pilot and copilot. Two gunners. Four engineers and a chief of the boat.”
She frowned slightly. “That’s pretty light for a vessel this complex, isn’t it?”
“Oh, that’s just onboard crew, ma’am. We’ve also got a twenty-four-man service and maintenance team assigned to each PG. Sort of like an aircraft’s ground crew. Again, most of our service people are aboard the offshore base, but, as you saw, we keep a small detachment here at Conakry to assist with patrol turnarounds.”
“I see. How about a look at the engines?”
“This way, Captain.”
The two engine rooms flanked the central bay, their access hatches set into the rearward-facing bulkheads of the intersection side arms. Lane popped the latches of the one on the port side, swinging open the sound-insulated thermoplastic door.
If the rest of the seafighter was cramped, the engine compartment was claustrophobic — a fifty-five-foot shoe box crammed almost solid with convoluted ductwork, a massive blower assembly, and two huge turbofan engines lying nose to tail. The main power plants were inert for the moment, but the growling snore of an auxiliary diesel could be heard and the air stank of kerosene, ozone, and a whole family of lubricants.
A brown-haired female rating flowed around the bulk of an intake duct. In addition to the cut-down dungarees that passed as uniform aboard the seafighter, she wore a pair of “Mickey Mouse” ear protectors slung around her neck, such as Amanda had seen used on a carrier flight deck. She came to an easy attention in the closet-size workspace in the forward end of the engine compartment.
“Okay, Scrounge,” Lane said, “this is Captain Garrett, our new TACBOSS. Captain, this is Gas Turbine Tech First Class Sandra Caitlin, our senior engineer aboard. In the family, she’s known as ‘Scrounger’ because she’s our best, uh, ‘acquisitions specialist.’”
Amanda extended her hand to the enlisted woman. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Caitlin. I’m impressed. In most outfits no one short of a senior CPO can acquire a rating in that specialty.”
“I can manage at it, Commander,” Chief Tehoa commented from the doorway. “It’s just that the Scrounge here is an artist.”
The turbine tech’s dark eyes glinted shrewdly as she grinned back at Tehoa’s comment. “I’m just good at what you call networking, ma’am.”
Amanda nodded soberly. “I’ll keep that in mind, Miss Caitlin. How about a quick look around your territory?”
“Sure thing, ma’am. Watch yourself, though, we’re kind of cramped for space.”
“Lead on.”
With Amanda following, Caitlin started down the narrow access passage that flanked the engines on the inboard side. “Kind of cramped” was an understatement. It was a tight and irregular fit even for a small-framed person, and Lane and Chief Tehoa were reduced to edging sideways in many places.
“First thing you’ve got to remember, ma’am, is that if you ever come in the engine spaces when we’re powered up, you’ve got to wear either one of the command headsets or a set of these ear guards.” The turbine tech tapped the gray plastic earmuffs she carried around her neck. “We’re practically riding these hair dryers bareback in here, and even a short direct exposure to the sound could wreck your hearing.”