“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” it was Lane’s turn to look back over his shoulder, “but do the U.N. rules of engagement give us authorization to enter Union territorial waters under these circumstances?”
“Who said this has anything to do with the United Nations, Steamer?”
They blazed across the invisible line in the sea that put them in hostile territory. When it became clear that the seafighters were maintaining the chase, the Union gunboats started angling in toward the beach, the Boghammer crews seeking escape on land.
“Fire control. Mission to fire.”
“Fire control standing by, Commander.”
“Mission is 2.75 rocket, Danno, your favorites. I want to turn the Bogs away from the beach. Walk a salvo of Hydras between the Union gunboats and the shoreline.”
“On the way, ma’am,” a determined voice replied. “Programming launcher… Mission set to fire…Firing now!”
The Queen’s port-side pedestal mount up-angled and vomited flame. Under precise computer control, the launch rail elevated a full degree during the half-second pause between the firing of each cell in the Hydra pod. The milky smoke trails of the rockets extended out in a smooth vertical fan across the azure sky.
Then the projectiles fell, plunging into the sea, detonating, shattering the water, and lifting a wall of spray between the Boghammers and the land. The gunboats flinched away.
“Well done, Mr. O’Roark.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“Floater to Royalty,” Christine Rendino’s voice cut into the loop. “I hate to spoil your fun, troops, but you have some large company coming. We’ve got another Union gunboat out there. One of the big guys. He’s off Yelibuya Island and is heading north at four bells and a jingle. He will be a factor shortly.”
“Acknowledged, Chris. This operation just keeps getting better. Stay on him and keep us posted. Royalty out.”
Amanda looked up at the other occupants of the cramped cockpit. “I trust you heard that, people. It’s time we stop fooling around. Snowy, inform the squadron we will either be boarding or sinking the Boghammers shortly. Have them designate Hellfire targets and stand by. Fire control, new mission to fire—2.75 rocket again. This time drop them right across the bow of the lead boat.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am. Mission going out now!”
Another rocket flight salvoed and another wall of white water sprang out of the sea with a rippling roar. Seven clean columns of spray lanced into the sky, barring the path of the Union gunboats. The message was clear and concise. This is the end. Go farther and you die.
Bitterly, the Union flotilla commander looked over at his helmsman and made a slashing gesture across his throat. The helmsman closed his throttles and hit the kill buttons. The big outboards grumbled into silence and the Boghammer sank off the plane, wallowing to a halt. The other two craft in the flotilla followed suit a few moments later.
The only sound was the low swish of the waves and popping and creaking of the engines overheated by their futile thirty-mile crash run. That and the triumphant shriek of the American hovercraft as they closed in.
For the Union gunboat crews only one hope remained: the white flash of a bow wave on the southern horizon, closing fast.
“Carondelet, you take the seaward boat. Manassas, you take the one inshore. We’ll take the leader. Get your prisoners aboard and get your scuttling charges set with all possible speed.”
“Rajah, lead.”
“Will comply.”
“Chris, what can you give me on the Union heavy unit coming in on us?”
“It’s the big daddy, boss ma’am. The Promise. The flagship of the whole damn Union navy.”
“Acknowledged. This is going to be… interesting.”
The Queen of the West settled off cushion and reverted to swimmer mode, motoring up onto the drifting lead Boghammer. With the turbines stilled, the intermittent servo purr of the cockpit scarf ring could be heard as Chief Tehoa tracked the Union craft with his guns.
“We’ll bring the prisoners aboard over the stern ramp,” Amanda said, unplugging her headset from the interphone hardlink and jacking it into a remote belt unit. “Steamer, keep bow-on to the Union flagship as it closes with us and keep him covered with the pedestal mounts. Snowy, have the Manassas and Carondelet shift their Hellfire locks onto him as he comes into range. Open fire only if we’re fired upon, and notify me when he closes to one klick. Hopefully, this guy will talk before he shoots.”
“Will do.” Lane nodded stolidly. The hover commander had donned a set of aviator’s shades to shield his eyes from the rising sun. The mirrored lenses concealed whatever emotion he might be showing, but a thin veneer of sweat made his skin sheen in spite of the cool draft issuing from the air-conditioning ducts. “Think he might try and take us on, ma’am?”
“I don’t know, Steamer,” Amanda replied, starting aft for the ladderway. “We shall see, as the blind man said.”
“Good luck, ma’am,” Chief Tehoa called down from the gun saddle. The CPO’s words, spoken from outside of the overhead hatch, had a hollow sound to them.
“Good luck to us all, Chief.”
Down in the main bay, Stone Quillain had the boarding operation well in hand. As the Queen positioned in front of the Union boat, the hovercraft’s stern guns, mounted at the head of her tailgate ramp, covered the Boghammer’s crew. Two Marines augmented the grinning muzzles of the twin fifty-calibers, kneeling beside the mount with M4/M203 composite weapons leveled, a buckshot load in the grenade launcher, and a full magazine in the assault rifle.
“All personal weapons over the side!” Quillain’s voice boomed out over the hovercraft’s exterior loudspeakers. “Knives, everything, over the side, now!”
One minor blessing was that almost all the natives of Sierra Leone and Liberia spoke English. Sullenly, the Union men moved to obey.
“Okay, hands behind the head! Everybody! Nobody moves unless you are ordered. Now, one man move slowly to the bow and take our line. One man! Slow!”
Shortly the shovel-like bow of the Boghammer rode bumping and grating against the stern ramp.
“We’re bringing you aboard one at a time! You in the bow, you first! Take it easy and nobody gets hurt! Screw around with us and you die!”
As each Union sailor came aboard, he was met by a grimly efficient processing line. Two Marines yanked the prisoner up the stern ramp. Two more spun the man around, twisted his arms behind his back, and applied a pair of disposable nylon handcuffs. The third pair conducted a brief but clinically thorough pat-down search, while the final team slammed the African down onto one of the fold-out passenger benches, securing him in place with a tightly cinched seat belt.
The transfer took only a matter of minutes.
“Looks like we’re not having any problems here,” Amanda commented as the last gunboatman was strapped down.
“We know our business,” Quillain replied curtly. “Corporal, you ready to set the demos?”
“Aye, aye, sir.” A youthful red-haired Marine stepped forward with an ominously bulging musette bag slung over one shoulder and a wad of gum cracking between his jaws.
“How you gonna rig her?”
The demolitions man shot an expert glance at the Boghammer bobbing astern. “Half a block of C4 in the bow and another under the steering station, tape a loop of det cord around the inside of the hull to fracture the flotation chambers,” he said, incorporating a pop of his gum into his reply. “Use an M-60 igniter and a yard of M700 fuse to set her off. The weight of the engines’ll pull her under. Five-minute job.”