“Mine,” Lamar Weeks, the senior turbine tech of the Queen of the West’s starboard power room, replied grimly. “If I have to eat one more MRE, I’m going to drop to the deck and die in my own puke.”
“I dunno, Lam,” his partner, Machinist Mate 2nd Slim Kilgore, interjected, eyeing his dripping fork. “I’d say this is more like making the choice between the gas chamber and a hangin’.”
“This is what I’m thinking, cowboy,” Eddy Kresky, portside power’s number-two hand, interjected. “Am I hearing any votes here for just starving to death?”
“Maybe this will make you guys a little grateful for our own chow when we get back aboard the Floater,” Chief Tehoa commented, taking his own place at the table.
“Leave us not get crazy here, Chief.” Kresky sighed, returning his attention to his meal.
Located in a barn-size tent a short distance off the main flight line, the transients’ mess at Conakry Base was an easy place to loathe. Its screened sides were only marginally successful at keeping the hordes of flies at bay while the African sun baked readily through the thin canvas roof. In counter point, the blast revetments surrounding it were most effective at sealing out the faintest trace of a breeze while the few grumbling floor fans failed to provide an adequate artificial substitute.
Here were gathered the displaced persons of the base: the Guinean security and labor troops, the French and U.N. advisers in from the field, the Red Cross personnel en route upcountry to the refugee camps, and the foreign military elements too small to maintain mess services of their own.
Lackadaisical in the heat, they straggled in to consume the bland selection of rations from a menu that compromised for all of the involved ethnic backgrounds while satisfying none.
“I’m with the Chief,” Scrounger agreed. “Right now, the old Floater would look like Fort Lauderdale at spring break to me.”
Danno nodded. “Yeah, that’d be good with me too. Come on, Chief. When in the hell are they letting us out of this hole?”
The big CPO answered the gunner’s plea with a cool and disapproving stare. “You know the answer to that as well as I do, mister. We’ll get the Queen off the beach just as soon as we get all of our maintenance problems licked.”
“Hey, American. When will that be, American?”
As one, the crew of the Queen stiffened and looked around. A cluster of French Navy personnel, clad only in boots, shorts, and raffish pom-pomed berets occupied the adjacent mess table. Sun-bronzed and grinning, the French men eyed them back, especially Scrounger Caitlin as the sole female rating among the group of American sailors.
“We are from the frigate La Fleurette,” the spokesman of the French contingent continued. “Already we have been on station a month. Already we have stop and searched many ship. All that time we have not seen any American. Have not heard of any American Navy doing any stopping.” The speaker jabbed his immediate companion, the tallest and most muscular of the group with his thumb. “My frien’, he would like to know when we see you American out at sea.”
Tehoa looked back balefully back over his shoulder. “You tell your friend that we’ll be along by and by. As soon we get a few things sorted out.”
The French seaman translated Tehoa’s words, triggering a round of laughter within his party. His tall companion gave a reply, the sneering quality of his words telegraphing their meaning.
“My frien’ asks when that will be, when there is no African left to fight?”
Ben Tehoa sighed… deeply. Pushing his tray aside, he stood up, turning to face the expectant Frenchmen. The rest of the Queen’s crew followed suit a moment later. The French contingent got to their feet as well.
A ripple of silence radiated outward across the mess. Had this been a classic western movie, there would have been an urgent whispered suggestion for someone to send for the sheriff. The Guinean MPs on station at the tent’s entryway took a step forward, then decided that they really didn’t see anything all that wrong. They returned to their station, intently studying the dusty street outside.
The Chief went face-to-face with the big French sailor, a bulldozer confronting a derrick. “You can tell your friend here,” he said quietly, “that if you guys take care of your business, we’ll take care of ours, and everything will be just fine.”
The translation rattled off and the French sailor’s grin deepened. He spoke a prolonged reply to his English-speaking partner.
“My frien’ say, maybe the real reason you sit on your ass on the beach so long is you are too busy playing with the girls to want to fight the war.” The translator’s eyes flicked insolently at Caitlin again. “He says that maybe since you only have one girl, that’s why it’s taking so long.”
Tehoa’s massive right fist cocked back and fired forward in a single blurred motion. Crashing through the French sailor’s lax defense, the blow caved in the taller man’s hard-muscled stomach like a sheet of cardboard, buckling him over with an agonized grunt.
As the Frenchman folded forward, the Chief’s left hand came up and clamped onto his shoulder, the fingers sinking into the flesh. Heaving his target upright, Tehoa unleashed his right fist once more, exploding the second punch full into his opponent’s face.
The Frenchman crashed backward, through his line of compatriots and over the top of their mess table, piling up soup-drenched and unconscious on the ground on the other side.
“Hey, man. It’s cool,” the Fryguy commented to the stunned English-speaker. “I don’t think you need to translate that.”
“Begging your pardon, Captain Garrett, but did you get the word from Conakry?”
“I have the report from Captain Stottard on my desk. I think it’s about time we get the Queen of the West out of there. Inform Commander Lane that he may consider himself officially repaired and that he may sortie at his convenience.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am.”
“Oh, and also please advise Lieutenant Clark aboard the Carondelet that he’s scheduled to break down next.”
“Good Afternoon, Admiral,” Vavra Bey said graciously. “Please be seated. It is most kind of you to take the time to meet with me like this.”
“It’s my pleasure, Madam Envoy,” Elliot Macintyre replied, accepting a seat across from the silver-haired stateswoman. Beyond the conference table, the picture windows of the meeting room looked out across the sluggish flow of the East River and the concrete-and-asphalt beehive of Queens beyond.
“Teleconferencing is a convenience,” she continued, “but I still find it difficult to develop a good working relationship with an image on a screen.”
Also, it’s harder to read someone off of a communications monitor, Macintyre thought back. Given his first impressions, this matronly woman would likely be hell across a poker table. “I understand fully. I prefer working face-to-face with my own people whenever possible. Errors in communication can be more readily avoided. I presume this conference concerns the UNAFIN operation?”
“It does, Admiral Macintyre,” Bey replied. “Have you been in recent communication with the interdiction force, or at least those units under your command?”
“I receive regular situational updates on all Naval Special Forces elements, Madam Envoy, especially from those operating in an active combat zone. Why? Is there some problem with the U.S. mission?”