“At any rate, one day off the coast of Baja California, we made an intercept on what appeared to be an Ecuadorian tuna clipper. I was the duty boarding officer that watch, and so I led a four-man inspection team across in a Zodiac to give her the once-over.
“Although we didn’t know it at the time, we’d hit the jack pot. The trawler was a cartel drug transport carrying several tons of raw morphine base. She was also carrying several senior cartel gunmen who were not interested in casually surrendering.”
Chief Tehoa had put aside his letter and was listening as well.
“I started getting the feel of something wrong almost the second we were aboard the clipper. Nobody was on deck except for the one sailor who met us at the boarding ladder, and he was as nervous as all get-out. He kept trying to get us to go below decks or into the deckhouse and out of sight of our people on the cutter.
“I didn’t buy it. I had two of my boarding hands cover the South American while I and the other two men started to search and clear the clipper’s weather decks. I was moving pretty fast as I ducked around the corner of the deckhouse, and I practically ran into another of the cutter’s crew, this one with a loaded SKS carbine.
“This brings us to my choice of side arms. At the time I was carrying an issue M9 Beretta automatic, and frankly, the damn thing intimidated the daylights out of me.”
Amanda sighed and gave a deprecating smug. “Don’t get me wrong. The Beretta is a fine weapon. Only, you do have to know what you’re doing with it. Now, I know my way around rifles and shotguns all right. My father taught me how to shoot while I was in grade school and he bought me a twenty-gauge Browning double barrel on my sixteenth birthday so we could go to the trap range together. However, I’ve never had the chance to really get good with a handgun. I had the basics at Annapolis and I shoot my qualification every month, but at the time I was, and still am, a long way from being any kind of expert.
“I yelled a warning to my backup team and shoved my pistol into the gunman’s face. Unfortunately, I couldn’t coerce the damn thing into going bang! I’d left the safety on. And by the time I could sort out the safety catch from all of the decocking levers and magazine releases and other assorted instrumentation on the Beretta’s frame, I’d been shot.”
Quillain lifted an eyebrow. “How big a piece did you catch?”
Amanda’s right hand instinctively came up to her left shoulder and the scar she could feel through the thin fabric of her shirt. “Not too bad. In and out and a broken collarbone.”
“What happened next, Captain?” Tehoa inquired.
“Not much. My backup team did for the gunman with their M-16s, and they got me out of there.”
Actually there had been quite a bit more. A savage firefight on the clipper’s decks with the remainder of the cartel crew, an assault on the bridge of the drug transport, and several blood-soaked and agonizing minutes until help could arrive from the cutter.
However, in Amanda’s opinion, none of that was really germane to the point she wished to make. “Anyway, the first thing I did after getting out of the hospital was to go out and buy the simplest, most reliable, and most totally idiot-proof side arm I could find. Some people who knew their business suggested the Ruger, and I’ve been carrying it ever since.”
Quillain thumbed the shells back into the little revolver. Closing it, he passed the gun back across the table. “Yeah. Just about everything Ruger makes is hell for sturdy. I’ll give ’em that.”
The big man hesitated for a moment, then cleared his throat. “Thing is, if you figure on staying with Special Operations for a while, you might want to think about getting yourself somethin’ a little heavier. Five rounds of .38 FMJ might be okay for standing a gangway watch in San Diego, but it’s not going to do you much good in a serious firefight.”
“That might be a good idea, Stone,” Amanda replied with careful casualness, settling the revolver back in its holster. “What would you suggest?”
The Marine went thoughtful for a moment. “I’d say your best bet would be an old Model 1911A Colt .45. There’s still a few of them rattling around in the arsenals.”
It was Amanda’s turn to lift an eyebrow. “A Colt .45? Lord, I’d never be able to handle a hip howitzer like that.”
“Oh hell! Yes you could! I know plenty of female shooters who can really hit a lick with the 1911.” There was a growing animation in the big man’s voice as his interest grew. “You don’t have that big fat two-by-four grip you get with the Beretta, and the weight of the piece absorbs the recoil. And if you want to talk stopping power, that old .45 hardball round has just about as much as you’re ever going to need.”
“Think you could get me one to try out?” she asked.
Quillain nodded. “I’d guess so. I’ll talk to my company armorer. He knows a few people here and there.”
It was good enough to simply be having a genuine conversation with Quillain, but he might also be making a valid point. “Okay,” Amanda conceded, “but I’m still going to need some instruction on it. Like I said, I’m no Annie Oakley, but I do know that the .45 is another expert’s gun.”
“Anything my top sergeant doesn’t know about the 1911 Colt isn’t worth knowing. When they finally made us convert all the way over to the Beretta, Tallman cried for three days, then went out and got drunk. He can set you up.”
Quillain hesitated for a moment, looking down at the table top and his half-empty coffee cup. When he looked up, there was a wry acceptance on his angular features. “And I figure I can help you some, too, if you need it.”
Amanda resisted the urge to grin. Sometimes you can win a battle when you least expect to. She nodded to the Marine. “Thank you, Stone. You’ve got a deal.”
“Hey, Captain Garrett,” Steamer Lane’s voice rang down urgently from the cockpit. “Operations wants you on the horn. We got action!”
Amanda scrambled out from behind the mess table, leaving her mug abandoned at her place.
Topside, Snowy had dropped down out of the overhead hatch and was back in the copilot’s seat, beginning the power up checklists. Steamer passed back Amanda’s command headset. “Tactical display indicates we have a single slow moving target just crossing the line into Guinea’s territorial waters. Operations has the dope.”
“Thanks, Steamer.” Amanda clamped on the earphones. “Operations, this is Royalty. What do you have for us?”
Christine Rendino was on the other end of the circuit. Somehow she always managed to be there when Amanda was out on station. “We’ve got that probe you’ve been expecting, boss ma’am. A standard Union three-boat Boghammer patrol just executed a sweep up to the Guinea border. Two of the Bogs turned back; one didn’t. He’s now half a klick over the line and is still northbound, tiptoeing along just outside of the surf. Estimated speed, five knots. He’s not showing any lights and he’s minimizing his wake. I have the barrier Predator orbiting him at Angels twenty-five, and I do not think this guy knows we’ve got him spotted.”
“Good work, Chris! Stay on him! Steamer, sound General Quarters! Stand by to intercept!”
“Marines, saddle up! Boarding drill!” Stone Quillain yelled the words more out of habit than of necessity. Around him, both his people and the Navy gun teams donned helmets and strapped on battle vests.
The Queen was under way, not howling along on her air cushion but slinking through the night on her silent auxiliaries. To port and starboard, the midships hatches slammed open, the stumpy barrels of the grenade launchers training outboard. Back aft, the tail ramp dropped with a hissing moan of hydraulics, the slender barrels of the stern machine guns leveling at the night. The pool of air-conditioned cool within the hovercraft vented out into the darkness, replaced by an inrush of moist tropical heat intermingled with wisps of salt spray.