There was no order yelled in the Queen’s central bay. A dozen automatic weapons simply cut loose in a single massed roar of devastation, the spray of ejecting shell casings sparkling in the glare of the muzzle blasts. The jackhammering thunder of the dual Browning heavies segued with the faster venomous snarl of the SAWs and the chopping crackle of the M-4s. The grenade launchers crashed out their antipersonnel charges. Then, with their big tubes emptied, the grenadiers flipped over to carbine mode, pouring full thirty round magazines of 5.56mm after the handfuls of buckshot. Stone Quillain held down the trigger of the Mossberg and jacked the slide, pumping shotgun hulls through the action with a speed that nearly matched that of the full automatics, the distinctive bellow of the 12-gauge blurring into the firestorm.
The Fiberglas gunwales of the Union gunboat shattered under the impact of hundreds of projectiles, and so did its crew. The volley of hand grenades were never cast as the Union sailors writhed and crumpled under the raking storm of high-velocity metal. The hand grenades couldn’t comprehend their convulsive change of destiny, however. As they fell from nerveless hands, safety levers flicked away and fuses ignited.
A crewman toppled over the low railing of the Boghammer, following the grenade he had lost over the side. An instant later, he was hurled grotesquely back into the boat, bounced off the surface of the sea by the underwater detonation of the hand bomb. The other grenades exploded in turn, gutting the gunboat from bow to stern, shredding any remnants of life left aboard. The fiery secondary blasts of the outboard fuel cells finished the job, turning the little craft into a shallow drifting dish filled with blood and fire.
The guns aboard the seafighter fell silent. Someone swore thickly as they dug a hot cartridge case out of an open shirt collar.
Quillain glanced at Amanda Garrett. She looked away from the funeral pyre blazing off the stern ramp, her eyes closed and her teeth clinched. Then, as Quillain watched, her eyes opened and she looked up again, instinct suppressed and control restored. Deliberately she stared at the sinking gun boat.
Quillain nodded slowly. If you’re responsible for having it done, you’d better be able to look at it afterward.
“That didn’t work out so well,” she said, only the faintest trace of unsteadiness lingering in her voice. “We’ll have to try a different approach next time.”
“I guess so, Skipper,” Quillain agreed, stripping reloads out of the shell carrier strapped to the Mossberg’s buttstock. “We’ll come up with something better.”
She looked across at him curiously. “How did you know about the grenades?”
“Didn’t know for certain-sure.” Quillain paused to dunk the first round into the shotgun’s magazine. “Only, if I’d been in their spot, that’s what I would have tried.”
With a final blast of her drive propellers, the Queen of the West hunched over the edge of the platform access ramp. Easing into her hangar, she sank down on her crumpled skirts with a tired metallic sigh. Leaning out of his cockpit window, Steamer Lane held up a single finger to the waiting service crew, passing the word that there would be another kill silhouette to paint.
The Marines shuffled stiffly down the stern ramp, en route first to the gun-cleaning racks and then to the showers and the bunkrooms. The stern gunners followed, lugging their heavy twin-mount .50 along stretcher-fashion. The shipboard turbine techs and gunner’s mates sleepily had words with their opposite numbers in the service details, checking the PMS cards for the day’s maintenance package and discussing systems glitches that had cropped up during the previous night’s patrol.
As Amanda and the hover pilots disembarked, a runner waited for her at the foot of the ramp. “Captain Garrett, Commander Rendino requests your presence in the briefing center.”
“Very well, I’m on my way,” Amanda glanced at her companions. “Steamer, it looks like you and Snowy have to handle the postmission.”
“No problem,” the hover commander nodded in reply. “We’ll take care of it, Skipper.”
“Thanks, Steamer.”
“Sure thing. A good hunt last night, Captain.”
“Good hunters, Commander.”
As Steamer and his exec turned away, Stone Quillain started down the stern ramp, shotgun slung over one shoulder. As he strode past, he gave Amanda a quick nod and a lessening of his usual scowl. Amanda nodded back, trying to contain her grin. The SOC Marine still wasn’t exactly outgoing, but progress had been made on that front as well.
Slinging her pistol belt over her shoulder, she started for the briefing center.
Entering the trailer, Amanda found the wall flatscreens filled with charts of the border region between the West African Union and Côte d’Ivoire, what the Gold Coast Africans referred to as “Frenchside.” She also found Christine Rendino and a solidly built, red-haired man in a flight suit studying the maps intently.
“Hi, boss ma’am. I don’t think you’ve had the chance to meet Commander Evan Dane yet. He commands the 847th Provisional, the British patrol helicopter squadron supporting UNAFIN.”
“No, I haven’t, Chris, but I’ve been wanting the opportunity.” Amanda set her pistol belt onto the center table and extended her hand to the British pilot. “It’s always a pleasure to work with the Royal Navy, Commander.”
“It’s our pleasure, Captain Garrett,” Dane replied, exchanged a firm handclasp. “Damn nice work you people did on those boat hides. It was about time somebody started to drive the bloody train around here.”
“We were lucky things worked out as well as they did.” With her hands resting on her hips, Amanda studied the map displays. “What’s up?”
“A little side project Commander Dane and I have been working on,” Christine replied. “While you and the Little Pigs have been trashing the Union’s boat hides, we’ve been trying to do something about the Union’s maritime smuggling line into Côte d’Ivoire.”
“Can you confirm they have one established?”
“God, fa’sure! Over Frenchside, the coastal waters look like the Ventura freeway on Friday night.”
Dane nodded his agreement. “I can show you hours of low light video showing pirogues and pinasses crossing the line into Union waters after dark, mostly loaded with oil drums.”
Christine nodded soberly. “The West African Union has established a network of agents alone the Côte d’Ivoire coast. They’ve recruited a cadre of seamen from among the fishing villages and they’re financing and coordinating an organized program of petroleum smuggling with the intent of breaking the U.N. trade embargo.”
“How did you pick up on this operation, Chris?”
The intel shrugged. “Through the network of agents I’ve set up in the coastal villages, of course.”
“I should have known. How much are they moving?”
“Thousands of gallons a week, at least.” Christine crossed her arms and leaned back against the table edge. “Probably not enough to meet the Union’s overall needs, but fa’sure enough to stretch their reserves out for a few more months. And the volume’s growing.”
“I didn’t think the Union would need all that much oil,” Amanda mused.
“It’s all relative. Probably what we burn in one L.A. rush hour would last them for a year. The thing is, they still have to have some. More than two-thirds of their electrical power production still comes from diesel generators, they have a communications and food distribution network to maintain, and Belewa has an active military campaign going against Guinea. Any kind of combat operation, even support for a low-grade insurgency, will burn gas like nobody’s business.”