“I was hoping you could tell me, Admiral,” Vavra Bey replied, her patrician features carefully neutral. She leaned forward into the table, clasping her hands on its surface. “I have been in conference with the ambassador from Guinea. He has expressed his government’s profound concerns about the developing crisis within their country.
“Union guerrilla activities are on the upswing, especially in the coastal regions. The situation is growing critical. The government of Guinea had expectations that the presence of the American naval patrol forces based on their soil would relieve the situation. To date, those… expectations have not been met. I have been asked to inquire if there is some technical problem or difficulty with those forces and, if so, when we might expect a rectification.”
Macintyre straightened slightly in his chair and donned his own best poker face. “Madam Envoy, I can assure you that the NAVSPECFORCE elements assigned to the African Interdiction Force are fully battle ready at this time. Also, I can assure you that operations in-theater are progressing as planned.”
“Indeed, Admiral. And who has developed this plan?”
“The new commander of the Tactical Action Group, Captain Amanda Lee Garrett, one of NAVSPECFORCE’s best people.”
Bey nodded again and peaked her fingertips together below her chin. “I am aware of Captain Garrett’s presence in Guinea. She is well known to us here at the United Nations, thanks to her involvement in both the Antarctic Treaty incident and the Chinese Civil War. She is a most striking young officer with a formidable reputation. However, this past reputation is irrelevant when one considers that she has not yet acted decisively to deal with this current situation.”
A scowl brushed across Maclntyre’s face. “Begging your pardon, but if Mandy Garrett hasn’t made her move yet, it’s because she’s had a damn good reason not to.”
Vavra Bey smiled a diplomat’s smile. “And you would know what this reason might be, Admiral?” she probed.
“No, I wouldn’t. Captain Garrett doesn’t require micromanagement. Once she’s been given a mission, she’ll find a way to get it done. You have my personal guarantee that the situation along the Guinea coast will shortly be under control.”
“I will relay that to the Guinean ambassador.” The gray haired diplomat smiled again, a true smile this time. “You have a great deal of confidence in this young woman, Admiral.”
“She’s earned it, Madam Envoy.”
“What are the latest figures on our fuel reserves, Sako?”
“Seven to eight months at our current rate of consumption,” Brigadier Atiba replied from his position across the desk from the Premier General. “Not as good as we had hoped, but I think there is still room to tighten the rationing.”
“See it done.” Belewa laced his fingers together across his stomach and tilted his chair back, scowling. “And the theft and wastage of gasoline and diesel are to be listed as treasonable acts under the Anti-Corruption Mandate. All offenses are to be dealt with by the Special Courts.”
“I will have the formal orders written up, General.” Atiba meticulously scribbled the notes into the open daybook on his lap. “We do have some good news about the fuel situation, though.”
Belewa glanced sideways at his chief of staff. “And that is?”
“Our smuggling line into Côte d’Ivoire. We are already moving better than a hundred barrels a day across the frontier. Our purchasing agents believe they can easily double the deliveries over the next month as they bring in more of the local boatmen.”
“There have been no problems with the Ivoire customs authorities and border patrols?”
Atiba smiled and patted the breast pocket of his uniform. “No problems. Only happy policemen who enjoy a little touch of dash.”
“And the U.N. patrols?”
“Them, we don’t even need to pay off. The French stay well offshore and only inspect the big ships, while Americans haven’t been east of Buchanan in more than a week.”
“Then where are the Americans operating?”
“When we do see one of their gunboats, it is either patrolling around the barge anchored offshore here at Monrovia or working the border over at Guinea side.” Atiba shrugged offhandedly. “Mostly they seem to sit broken down on the beach at Conakry.”
Belewa frowned lightly. “Have they tried to interfere with our gunboat operations?”
“Since we’ve resumed action along the Guinea coast, there have been two or three attempted interceptions. In each case our gunboats evaded and broke contact without much difficulty. Our intelligence agents inside the U.N. base report that the American hovercraft are suffering from severe technical problems and are operational only half of the time at best.”
“Perhaps,” Belewa grunted, studying the water stains on his office ceiling.
“Perhaps? Do we have reason to believe otherwise?”
“Possibly, Sako. Think. Remember when the Americans first landed in Guinea. Our intelligence reported them as being ready for battle and most formidable. Why do they suddenly have all of these problems now? If, in fact, they are having problems.”
“We killed their unit commander in our raid on Conakry. We know that from the Americans’ own news broadcasts.”
“He has been replaced.”
“Yes, by a woman.” Atiba chuckled softly. “Perhaps she is finding a gunboat squadron a little more difficult to manage than a kitchen.”
“No. Not this woman.” General Belewa let his chair slam forward. Rising from behind his desk, he paced off a few impatient steps, his fingertips lightly drumming against the leather of his pistol holster. “I know of this woman, Sako. Every serious student of modern warfare knows about Amanda Garrett. She is someone we need to be concerned about. She is someone who concerns me.”
Belewa turned on his boot heel and moved slowly back toward the desk. Pausing, he looked out beyond the sliding glass doors of the balcony and toward the distant blue line of the oceanic horizon. “She makes me think of the lion and the leopard.”
“The lion and the leopard?” Atiba inquired, puzzled.
Belewa turned to look at his chief of staff. “When the lion hunts, he stands tall and lifts his head to roar at the sky, announcing to all the world that he is going out to seek his prey. When the leopard hunts, however, she lies still in the tall grass, so silent and so unmoving that you might almost step on her before you know that she is there.
“Does this make the leopard more of a coward than the lion and less of a danger? It does not. For the leopard is very patient. She waits and watches and chooses a moment that belongs only to her for the attack. She offers no warning. She gives no chance. She shows no mercy.”
Belewa returned his gaze to the sea. “Something down deep in my belly is telling me that we may have a leopard out there.”
With a ponderous delicacy, the CH 53F Sea Stallion settled onto the landing platform, the weight of the mammoth transport helicopter making the platform’s supporting superbarge bobble slightly. Throttling down, the Stallion’s tail ramp dropped, permitting its human payload to disembark.
“Marines, move out!” First Sergeant Tallman’s bellow overrode the dying moan of the triple-turbine power plant. “Watch for the rotors! Clear the platform and form up on the main deck!”
Burdened by their seabags, weapons, and combat harness, the men of First Platoon, Fox Company, 6th Marine Regiment hunched across the landing pad to the descent ladders, helmeted heads turning as they got their first look at their new duty station.