“It’s a beautiful night out here, ma’am.” Seated on the hatch rim, the hovercraft’s copilot was a silhouette against the stars. She lowered her low-light binoculars and a faint flash of pale green light played across her pretty farm girl’s features. “Nothing’s happening except for a couple of fires over on the beach. Fishermen, I’d guess.”
“You think we may have some trouble coming, Captain?” Steamer asked from the controls.
“I’m not sure.” Amanda leaned forward to gaze out the windscreen, resting her elbow on the back of the pilot’s chair. There was just enough skyglow to differentiate between the sea, land, and sky. “For the past couple of days, I’ve been expecting some kind of a move from our friend Belewa.”
“I dunno. We kicked his ass pretty good back there, ma’am.”
“That’s just the point, Steamer. We’ve hurt him badly by eliminating his coastal bases inside of Guinea. He’s going to want those bases back again.” Amanda’s eyes narrowed as she again sought for the thought patterns of her opponent. “He also knows that we’re good now. But he’s not sure yet just how good. I think he’s bound to try at least one more probe to find out.”
Amanda straightened and slapped the back of the chair. “At any rate, I’m going below for a cup of tea. Can I bring you two anything?”
“No, thanks, ma’am. I’m good to mid rats.”
“Same here, Captain,” Snowy called down from the hatch way.
Amanda started down the ladder into the main hull. “Okay. Yell if we have any developments.”
The side hatches and stern ramp were closed against the possibility of a seventh wave, making the seafighter’s interior an enclosed little world, dimly blue lit by the battle lights. A diesel auxiliary purred and air rustled in the air-conditioning ducts. Sailors and Marines, those on duty and off, kept their voices low.
In the port-side passage a cutthroat game of six-handed Spades raged quietly among the auxiliary gunners, while over by the open hatch of the port power room, Scrounger Catlin lay stretched out on the deck, her eyes closed and her head resting on a bunched lifejacket, a whisper of new swing leaking from the headset of her portable CD player. In the central bay, half of a Marine rifle team intently studied an old issue of Guns and Ammo, while seated next to him on the fold-out bench, his partner mused over Steinbeck.
Other hands availed themselves of the opportunity to catch up on their sack time. All four bunks in the little berthing space were occupied, while back aft, dozing Marines sprawled in the inflatable miniraider.
Gunner’s Mate Daniel O’Roark had the scanner’s watch at the fire-control station under the cockpit. Grimly hunkering over his console, he alternated between the radar and the low light television, systematically sweeping the horizon.
Amanda smiled. She’d sensed right about the boy. Ever since that misfire incident, he’d been pushing hard to make up for his error and to prove himself. He was going to be one of the good ones.
Circling the cockpit ladder, Amanda ducked into the little wardroom. Stone Quillain and Ben Tehoa were seated at the wedge-shaped mess table, nursing mugs of coffee. The CPO also had a pen in hand and a half-filled sheet of writing paper in front of him.
“Catching up on your correspondence, Chief?” Amanda inquired, pouring water into a mug and setting it in the microwave.
“Yes, ma’am. A letter to my daughters.”
Amanda removed the steaming cup and dunked in a tea bag. She’d forgotten to lay in a stock of her preferred Earl Grey for this cruise and had been making due with PX generic. “You know we do have all-hands e-mail access on the barge.”
“Oh, sure. That’s how my wife and I take care of the routine stuff when I’m on deployment. But, you know, for my personal letters, I still like to use paper.” The burly chief grinned self-consciously.” It makes it a little more special.”
“I can understand that,” Amanda replied, sliding in around the table. She still had a treasured stash of letters from her father safe in her desk at home, mementos of his days at sea. Those and a few from some of the other men who had been special in her life. Electronic communications could be convenient, but also soulless. She made a mental note to dig out some writing paper of her own next time Arkady was due a note.
“Have I ever shown you a picture of my family, Commander?”
“No, Chief. Not yet.”
Tehoa dug a battered wallet out of his hip pocket. Flipping it open, he passed it to Amanda. The photograph was as worn and salt-stained as the wallet, but Amanda could make out the stocky, serene Samoan woman and the two little girls. The girls were perhaps six and eight years old, each with large, dark, and sober eyes and glossy black hair.
“They’re beautiful, Chief,” Amanda said with all honesty. “All three of them.”
“I’m not going to argue, ma’am,” Tehoa replied proudly, restoring his wallet to his pocket.
Stone Quillain had been silent over at his corner of the table. However, Amanda was aware that the Marine’s eyes had been upon her throughout the exchange, studying her with that grim focus of his.
As an attractive woman, Amanda Garrett was used to being looked at by men. Given the right environment and circumstances, she could even enjoy the experience. However, she suspected that overt sensuality had little to do with Captain Quillain’s consideration of her.
Ever since the Marine had joined the task force, Amanda had been aware that she was being minutely analyzed, her actions gauged and her performance as a commanding officer judged. And, as far as she was concerned, he had every right to do so, as did anyone else serving under her command. Just as she had the responsibility of trying to live up to their highest expectations.
Stone Quillain would be far from the first person to question her abilities during her career in the Navy. He’d be far from the last, as well. And having to prove yourself to someone every now and again is not necessarily a bad thing. It kept a person from getting sloppy with themselves.
Amanda took a deliberate sip of her tea.
“Begging your pardon, Commander.” Quillain spoke up from across the table. “But I notice that you aren’t packing an issue handgun. What kind of a piece is that, anyway?”
“A Ruger SP 101.” She snapped open the retaining tab on the nylon cross-draw holster clipped to her belt and drew the small stainless-steel revolver. Thumbing the cylinder release, she flipped the little weapon open and passed it across to the Marine. “Technically, it’s a five-shot .357 Magnum, but I’ve only used .38 Special in it.”
Frowning, Quillain dumped the shells out into his hand; rolling them between his fingers, he sought for the feel of tarnished brass. Aiming the revolver at the battle light on the overhead, he spun the cylinder with his thumb, one-eyeing the chambers in an instinctive inspection for wear or dirt.
Wryly Amanda realized that she was being judged once more — this time for the ultimate Marine sin of neglecting a weapon.
“How come you went back to a wheel gun?” Quillain inquired with curiosity.
There was a yarn behind her choice. Unfortunately, it was one that still made Amanda feel like something of a ninny. The Marine looked on expectantly. She sensed he was genuinely trying to get an understanding of her through something he understood. He deserved the truth.
“It’s a long story,” she began, “going back about ten years to when I was still a lieutenant junior grade. The maritime drug-interdiction program was a major concern back then, involving assets from both the Navy and the Coast Guard. As an aspect of this, a certain number of naval officers were given the opportunity to cross-deck over to the Coasties to serve a makee-learn cruise aboard one of their cutters. It seemed like a good way to get off the beach for a while, so I volunteered.