“Hey, Steamer.” Amanda cupped her hands around her mouth. “What happened?”
“Hydraulic fade on the air rudders,” he shouted back. “Lost pressure. Not sure why.”
Scrounger flopped onto her belly at the deck edge. While Chief Tehoa held the belt of her dungaree shorts, she lithely reached over and down to an access panel on the side of the hovercraft’s hull. She popped the release catches, and as the panel swung open, broad streaks of wine-colored hydraulic fluid flowed down the Queen’s side. Hanging casually inverted, she studied the interior of the systems bay for a time, then signaled to be drawn back up to the deck. She conversed with the Chief and Lane for a few moments, then yelled across to the platform.
“We either blew the pressure seal on the reservoir or we lost an actuator. Either way, it’ll be about two hours for repairs, ma’am.”
A subliminal warning tone sounded in the back of Amanda’s mind and the faintest of shivers rippled down her spine.
“Very well,” she called back after a moment’s hesitation. “But get a move on with it. Expedite the job, Commander.”
“Sure thing, Captain. What else?” Lane yelled back, mildly puzzled.
Amanda’s internal alert bell continued to clang. Frowning, she glanced back at the hangar bay area and at the grounded Carondelet. The seafighter’s servicing crew were in the middle of a skirt replacement job on her, a task Amanda recognized as also requiring two to three hours to complete. Her alarm level ramped up another degree.
“Chris. Let’s get over to Operations.”
Brushing past the light curtains, Amanda and Christine entered the screen-lit dimness of the Operations trailer. “Captain in the con,” the quiet call went down the row of systems operators.
“At ease, all,” Amanda said, moving down the line to the central display. “Lieutenant Dalgren?”
“Right here, ma’am,” the duty officer replied, a shadow within the shadows. “Is there a problem?”
“Very possibly. The Queen’s going to be delayed in relieving Guinea East. Contact the Manassas and tell Lieutenant Marlin he’s going to have to hang on station for at least an extra two hours.”
“Uh, begging your pardon, ma’am, but we may have another problem there. Manassas has just called in a request for an early relief on station.”
“What? Why?”
“They’ve declared a critically low fuel state, ma’am. Lieutenant Marlin is asking permission to break off and return to the platform.”
“A low fuel state?” Amanda spun to face the big tactical display that showed the force deployments and coastal traffic around the Guinea East patrol station. “What in blazes was Marlin doing out there to run himself dry like that?”
“It’s not Tony’s fault, Captain. The Santana, the Patrol Craft we have escorting the Guinea East aerostat carrier, had to go into Conakry this morning to refuel. She won’t be back on station again until this evening. Manassas has been diddy-bopping around out there by herself all watch, trying to keep the Valiant covered while still conducting boarding and search operations.”
“Damn, damn, damn!” Amanda studied the computer graphics wall chart of the Union-Guinea border zone. The display revealed the friendly blue glow of only three U.N. unit hacks: the limbering aerostat carrier, a single British mine-hunter running an inshore sweep, and the Manassas, the last being the only real fighting unit in the group.
“Where is the French offshore patrol?” she asked in frustration.
“The French squadron is conducting a search and boarding over near the Côte d’Ivoire line, ma’am. At least eight hours hard steaming away.”
“How about Guinea naval elements?”
“Nothing currently at sea or listed as available, ma’am.”
“Damn…” She could feel the snowball starting to grow.
She took a step back, closer to Christine, and lowered her voice. “Evaluation Chris, on Lieutenant Marlin. How close does he cut things?”
“The man is a charger, boss ma’am,” the intel murmured back. “He is a macho, and he likes to operate. If he’s yelling ‘bingo’ on you, then it probably means he’s already down to his last spare Dixie cup full of gas. If you ask him to stretch it out, he’ll try, but you could end up with a boat without enough fuel to either fight an engagement or get home again.”
“Right.” This was what Amanda had been dreading. A series of negative factors had converged and a rip had appeared in the thinly stretched coverage she had deployed over her theater of responsibility. A rip she didn’t have the assets to repair.
Be that as it may, dithering over a critical decision could only make things worse. “Watch Officer. Make signal to Manassas. ‘You are cleared for immediate return to platform. Make all speed within your fuel limitations.’ Then get an advisory to both the Valiant and to that Brit minehunter. Tell them that they’re going to be on their own for a little while. Tell them to keep their eyes open. Also pass the word to the service crews on both the Queen and the Carondelet. Push those repairs! The first hover that’s ready for sea launches immediately.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
Amanda returned her attention to Christine. “Any way you cut it, we’re going to have a hole in our patrol coverage of the border zone, at least two to four hours’ worth. What could the Union do with that?”
The intel’s silhouette shrugged. “That depends on two factors. One being if the Union spots the hole. That’s a definite possibility given that the Union has a fairly sophisticated network of coastwatchers established.
“The second is the Union’s reaction time. Are they specifically watching and waiting for this kind of hole to open, and do they have a strike already set up? Are they prebriefed to launch at a moment’s notice? Two to four hours is not a lot of time to organize and get off an operation flat-footed. If they’re set to go though, that’s a whole different deal.”
“Project to the worst postulate. They’re ready and waiting.”
“In that case, boss ma’am, we’re really gonna get screwed.”
The crews of the two crippled seafighters worked with the swift and focused precision of an organ transplant team, and still the two-hour repair jobs grew toward three. Amanda paced the decks of Floater 1, grim-eyed and staying silent. Neither ragging at the service hands nor hovering over the shoulders of the duty watch in operations would accomplish anything.
The Manassas came booming in over the western horizon, her turbines sputtering and dying while she was still a quarter of a mile off the platform. Paddling across in swimmer mode, she nestled against the lee side of the platform and accepted a fueling hose, kerosene cascading into her bone-dry bunkerage cells. Amanda stepped up her pacing, waiting for the first of her command to be ready for sea.
The Queen of the West, also now moored alongside the platform, won the race. Scrounger Caitlin slammed the last access panel closed. “That’s it,” she yelled. “Ready to crank!”
“All right!” Lane bellowed back from the cockpit side windows. “Starting engines. All hands stand by to cast off!”
“Just a second!” Amanda vaulted the platform rail and dropped down to the hovercraft’s deck. “You’ve got a ride along tonight, Steamer.”
“Welcome aboard, Captain. Crank ’em!”
The Queen blazed away to the northwest, trailing her spray plume behind her.
“All speed, Steamer,” Amanda commanded. “Pour it on!”