“We’ve also got one of our Predator drones covering the barrier station,” Christine said. “Now we can get a real look at what’s going on out there.”
As they watched, the airborne television camera panned down across a vividly tinted coastscape: an expanse of almost emerald-green forest separated from an azure sea by a slash of white sand and surf. Pulling back, the image scanned across a broad and open bay where a pair of rivers emptied into the sea on either side of a narrow central peninsula. Two white streaks of wake could be seen cutting across the mouth of the bay, heading east. A graphics targeting box materialized around the wake tips.
“That’s them,” Christine commented. She glanced back toward the drone systems operator. “Close the range with the target and give us full magnification on video.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am.”
The television image swerved and bobbled for a moment as the reconnaissance drone came around to its new heading. Then the camera zoomed in and the targeting box windowed up to fill the entire display.
The Boghammers were a matching pair of open Fiberglas shells, outboard driven and bristling with automatic weapons and grenade launchers. Half a dozen Union sailors manned each speeding craft, their ebony skins gleaming with spray as they rode their pitching and bucking sea mounts with a consummate ease and surety.
As Amanda and her squadron officers looked on, a crew man in the seaward gunboat spotted something in the distance. An arm came up and pointed and the other members of the gunboat’s crew fixed their attention on the bearing.
“That’s it,” Lane commented. “They’ve spotted the Manassas coming in on them.”
“Let’s have a look at how she’s doing,” Amanda replied. “Systems operator, shift to the Manassas.”
The image on the monitor blurred into a silver shimmer as the drone’s autotrack system traversed the camera turret around to bear on its new target.
It was Amanda’s first opportunity to see one of the hover craft under way from the outside. True to the impression she had received aboard the Queen, it skimmed effortlessly over the sea’s surface, brushing over the wavetops rather than ripping through them. The seafighter also ran enclosed in a cloud of shimmering, rainbowed mist, the spray whipped up by the blast of her lift fans and drive propellers.
“The best those Bogs can do is about forty-five knots,” Lane said, glancing at Amanda. “The Rebel has a twenty-knot edge on them.”
“Yeah,” someone else commented from the back of the lit tle crowd. “We got these guys in the bag.”
As if to emphasize the point, the panels over the hover craft’s gun tubs slid back and her weapons pedestals lifted into firing position, the autocannon and missile pods indexing around to bear on the prey she pursued.
And it was at that moment that the first phase of Amanda’s campaign strategy gelled in her mind.
“Get me a radio link to the skipper of the Manassas. On the double!”
“Aye, aye, ma’am.” One of the systems operators passed her back a headset with an attached lip microphone. Adjusting the earphones to fit, Amanda settled them over her head as they filled with the hum and hiss of an active carrier wave.
“You’re up on the command frequency, Commander. Lieutenant Marlin is on line.”
Amanda nodded. ”Manassas, Manassas, this is Floater 1. Do you copy?”
“Roger, Floater! This is Manassas. We have the hostiles in sight! I say again, we have the hostiles in sight! We are closing the range and preparing to engage!”
A hunter’s voice, taut and excited, lifted an octave by the adrenaline rush of the chase. Over the open mike and beyond the words of the hover commander, she could hear the howl of racing turbines and another voice calling out the closing range. This would have been the first blood for this crew, and she almost regretted what she had to do next.
“Lieutenant Marlin, this is Captain Amanda Lee Garrett. I’m the new Tactical Group commander. I have just arrived on station, and I have new instructions for you.”
“Amanda Garrett? Uh, acknowledged, Captain. Uh, be advised that we’re a little busy out here, ma’am. We are making intercept on a couple of gunboats and we’re just getting set to make challenge—”
“No you are not, Lieutenant,” Amanda replied firmly. “Break off the intercept and shut down.”
“What? Floater 1, say again!”
“I repeat. Break off your intercept and shut down your engines. Shut down and drift! Those are orders, Lieutenant. Execute immediately!”
There wasn’t a sound, either over the radio link or in the operations van.
“Manassas, acknowledge!”
”Manassas to Floater 1,” the cold reply came back. “We are powering down and are off the cushion. Hostiles are escaping into Union territorial waters. Awaiting further… orders.”
“Do you have any white-smoke candles on board, Lieutenant?”
“White-smoke candles?”
“There’s no need for a readback… Lieutenant Marlin. Yes or no is adequate:”
“Yes, ma’am,” a gritted reply came back. “We have them aboard.”
“Very good, Lieutenant. Light one off on your afterdeck. Open some of your topside access and inspection hatches as well. Make it look as if you’ve suffered a major engineering casualty and are dead in the water. Put on a show for the locals. Beyond that, just drift around in that bay until we can get someone out there to tow you in.”
“Acknowledged, will comply.” There was still anger and disappointment in the hover commander’s voice, but now also a degree of intrigued curiosity. “Anything else, ma’am?”
“Yes. My apologies to you and your crew. I have no doubt you would have been able to finish the job, Lieutenant You’ll get another chance soon enough. You have my word on it. This is Floater 1, out.”
Amanda slipped the headset off and turned to face the small crowd of squadron officers and CPOs who still clustered in the back of the command van. They eyed her in silent judgment, waiting. Only Christine stood by with a sly and knowing look on her face.
Amanda smiled wryly and smoothed her hair back. “Well, as you probably overheard, my name is Amanda Garrett and I am your new TACBOSS. If we could retire to somewhere with a little more elbow room, I’ll officially read in my orders. I’ll also endeavor to convince you all that your new C.O. is not totally, screaming out of her mind.”
“What in the beck is this?” Scrounger Caitlin asked, warily prodding the contents of her dinner tray.
Dwaine “Fryguy” Fry looked over and down critically. “Today,” the lean, black missile tech said, “that is your basic White Universal Generic Vegetable Substance. Tomorrow, it will be your Yellow Universal Vegetable Substance. On Wednesday, it will be your Green Universal Generic Vegetable Substance, and on Thursday, it will be your Brown Universal Generic Vegetable Substance. Then the Brits will wait forty-eight hours and serve it on Sunday as ‘meat’.”
“Thank you ever so much for sharing that with us, Mr. Fry,” Scrounger replied with a withering look.
Gunner’s Mate 1st Daniel “Danno” O’Roark slammed his tray onto the table and swung his feet over the bench. “Whose shit-for-brains idea was it to come up here anyway, when we know that the British cooks have the duty this week?” the burly blond Philadelphian demanded.