The cockpit side window at Amanda’s feet slid open. “Captain, the squadron reports scuttling charges rigged aboard all the Bogs.”
“Very good, Mr. Lane. Order the fuses ignited and the gunboats cast off. Have the squadron start backing away. Swimmer mode. Nice and steady.”
“Aye, aye.”
The deck underfoot began to vibrate softly as the Queen’s electric propellers cut water. The abandoned Boghammer bumped slowly down the seafighter’s flank and then drifted into view, a marker in the widening gap between the hover craft and the corvette. The larger Union vessel lay unmoving, taking no action but with her guns still leveled.
Quillain glanced at his wristwatch. “Not long now.”
Abruptly, the flat crack of a small explosion sounded across the water, its echo mingling with the sound of two other nearby detonations. A puff of smoke and a spray of fragments jetted up from the Boghammer’s belly. Filling in seconds, the gunboat’s bow smoothly lifted into the air. As the demolitions man had predicted, the weight of its engines pulled it under the waves. The other Boghammers sank just as rapidly.
Smoke jetted from the Promise’s exhausts and propwash swirled behind her. The silhouette of the Union corvette narrowed as she started to come about.
Turning away to the south.
Quillain safetied the Predator round. “I guess the man just didn’t have the cards,” he said, getting to his feet. He slung the rocket launcher over his shoulder and glanced across at Amanda. “Not bad, ma’am,” he said, giving the briefest of acknowledging nods.
“Thank you, Captain Quillain,” she replied with all seriousness. “That’s the nicest compliment I’ve had in a long time.”
Inside the cockpit, Snowy Banks emitted a scream of exuberant relief and other cheers and rebel yells echoed up from inside the hull. Chief Tehoa lifted his powerful arms over his head, applauding, and Amanda stabbed her own fist into the sky in an acknowledgment of victory.
“TACBOSS to Squadron,” she called into her headset. “All operational objectives completed! Close out the mission time line! Let’s go home!”
The exuberance continued to build on the voyage back to Floater 1, leaping contagiously over the radio links to the Mobile Offshore Base and to the other elements of the UNAFIN blockade force.
An EH 101 Merlin from the British Patrol Squadron and a dainty Sea Lynx from one of the French patrol frigates overflew the seafighter group as they approached Floater 1, the crew chiefs of the helicopters leaning far out of the side doors to wave a friendly acknowledgment.
Steamer Lane led his squadron mates in a high-speed flyby of their own. Holding the tight echelon formation that was rapidly becoming their signature, the hovercraft ran a tight racetrack pattern around the Offshore Base before peeling off and heading for the ramp.
The rails of the platform itself were jammed with service personnel, waiting to greet the squadron. Backs were slapped as the hover crews and Marines disembarked, embraces were exchanged and female hands found themselves mobbed by enthusiastic male ratings moving in for a congratulatory kiss.
Amanda was granted the dignity due a squadron commander as she stepped down from the Queen, accepting the more reserved congratulations and handshakes from the task group officers. She was grateful for the space, suspecting that soon, when the last of the adrenaline surge wore off, she was going to be very, very tired.
There was one exception, however. Christine Rendino met her at the top of the Queen’s ramp with a joyful hug. “Well, you pulled off another one.”
“So far so good, anyway. Has Admiral Macintyre been advised?”
“I’ve been feeding him regular updates throughout the operation. I don’t know what time it is back in Hawaii, but he wants to talk to you as soon as you get in.”
“Okay, I’ll take it in my quarters. Then I’m going to get in the shower and cheat on the water rationing for ten minutes. Then I intend to lie down and pass out for about two days.”
Steamer stepped forward at those words. “Begging your pardon on that, Captain, but there’s a matter the squadron needs your assistance with if you don’t mind. It’ll just take a second.”
“Of course, Steamer. What’s the problem?”
“This way ma’am.”
Lane led her around to the side of the hovercraft hangar. Amanda noted that the majority of PGAC-1’s personnel were gathered there, a generalized expression of grinning anticipation on all hands. She also noted a tarp shrouding something on the side of the hangar.
“It’s like this, ma’am,” Steamer went on. “We’re a new outfit, and we don’t have an official squadron insignia yet. We didn’t have a really good idea for one, either, until something you said on your first day with us caught the attention of Lieutenant Banks over there.”
Steamer nodded in the direction of a half-excited, half nervous Snowy. “She passed the idea around and we built on it some. Now we want you to have a look at it.”
Someone yanked on the corner of the tarp, dropping it to the deck. An instant later Amanda exploded, almost doubling over with helpless laughter.
It was a unit badge, four feet tall and shield shaped. Across its crested top, it bore a double-leveled title:
PGAC SQUADRON 1
THE THREE LITTLE PIGS
The main body of the badge bore the image of three Disneyesque but ferociously tusked African warthogs surfing into a beach on the back of a Queen-class seafighter. All three wore white navy “Dixie cup” hats, while one also sported a piratical black eye patch and a foul-looking stogie cigar. Around the bottom of the shield ran the motto “Now, what’s this about some damn wolf?”
“We didn’t want to show this to you until we had at least one good operation under our belts,” Lane continued. “We kind of felt we had to earn the right to it. What do you think, ma’am?”
Amanda straightened, wiping the tears from her eyes. She looked around into the faces of the task force personnel, of her people, and felt a sense of belonging to something that hadn’t been there for some time. It felt good.
“I love it,” she said, lifting her voice. “Badge authorized, but with one warning. The first person in this outfit who refers to me as ‘The Old Sow’ is in a lot of trouble.”
The meeting was a formality. But then, formality constitutes ninety-nine percent of the diplomatic process. Formalities, protocols, procedures, the endless dialogues that form the overburden within which rests the occasional precious nugget of progress.
Vavra Bey had little hope of finding such a treasure today.
“We protest the illegal intrusion of United Nations military units into our territorial waters.” Premier General Belewa spoke the words, stone featured. “This was a rank violation of our national sovereignty and a flagrant attempt at international bullying.”
“The Islamic Republic of Algeria protests this act of neo-colonial barbarity as well!” Ambassador Umamgi spat. “We will not tolerate such acts of aggression against an ally!”
They were seated in a different meeting room within the hotel this day, one with a circular conference table in its center. Belewa, Bey, and the Algerian ambassador sat equidistant around the table, their staff seated against the walls behind them. So established when the U.N. team had arrived, Bey pondered the possible, subtle meaning of the talk’s setting. Were the Algerians demanding a bigger role for themselves in the crisis? Or was Belewa reminding the U.N. representative that he did not stand entirely alone?