Forward, the Skye’s 30mm mount crashed out a three round burst. But there was only the one before the gunner slumped bullet-riddled in his harness, his loaders crumpling dead to the decks beside him.
The Skye’s thin aluminum and composite superstructure provided no shielding at all from the storm of heavy high velocity projectiles that raked it. Men fell in the wheelhouse, in the passageways, in the engine rooms, bewildered by the sudden savagery that struck them down.
On the bridge wing, Traynor could only lie dazed and agonized in a pool of blood, partially his own, partially the young gunner’s. With nothing that could be done to save either his ship or his crew, he could only pray to God for the mercy of a Union bullet.
The Boghammers circled and closed the range, the rifles and submachine guns of the Union gunboatmen coming into play along with the heavy mounts, ravaging the helpless minesweep from bow to stern. Risking the fire of its squadronmates, a single Bog darted in close alongside the Skye. The first hand grenade was hurled up onto the decks. Then the second. Then the third…
To the southeast, a very different scenario played out. There an intact and undamaged Valiant continued its trudge to seaward, with a battered and bewildered Boghammer group milling in her wake.
In his premission briefing, the Union squadron commander had been told that the American aerostat carriers were unmanned. That had been why his, the smaller and less intensively trained of the two gunboat groups, had received this specific tasking.
However, upon their attack, their “unarmed” objective had bared its fangs and had unleashed a broadside that would have done credit to a young battle cruiser. None of the Union Boghammers had been sunk in the initial furious volley, but the formation had been broken and the momentum of their attack had been lost. Turning away with rocket and grenade bursts spouting in their wakes, the gunboats had hastily scurried back out of range.
Now the Boghammer leader considered his options and alternatives, none of which seemed particularly attractive. Individual boats of the squadron had gingerly probed at the flanks of the American vessel, and each probe had met with the same response, an angry and concentrated storm of gunnery.
The Boghammers had attempted to return fire, but at the longer ranges the Americans had the advantage. The converted TAGOS ship was an exceptionally stable and seaworthy firing platform when compared to the bucking cockleshell hulls of the Boghammers, giving the Valiant’s defenders a decided edge in hit probability.
The Union naval officer forced down a dry swallow. To effectively bring the enemy to battle, the Boghammer group would have to charge in to a closer range, and in the running of that gauntlet, there were going to be casualties. Possibly many of them.
The Boghammer commander had acquitted himself well in the adrenaline-charged rush of the initial charge. However, that charge had been broken and the flame of the assault had been replaced with the cold-bellied reality of the standoff. He was a brave and dedicated young man in the conventional sense, but it requires a special and unique kind of courage to rally in the face of the unexpected and to lead into the face of assured death for your men and possibly for yourself.
“Cap’n,” his helmsman said nervously. “We gettin’ pretty far out to sea.”
They were. The American ship had been holding a steady course south at its best speed, and the African coast was now only a streak of cloud along the northern horizon. The Boghammer commander grabbed at the thought. His boats weren’t designed for the open ocean. And he was no longer receiving position updates on the American hovercraft. If his squadron was caught out in open water by one of the monsters, they’d be cut to pieces. And as for the failure of his initial attack, it had stemmed from poor intelligence. No one had known the American radar ships had been secretly armed. He couldn’t be blamed for that. Nor could he be blamed for not wanting to put his squadron at excessive risk.
“You’re right, helm,” he replied, striving to keep the relief out of his voice. “We are too far out. We’ll have to be satisfied with chasing them off for today: Come about and fire the recall flares.”
Aboard the Valiant, the sweet chemical stench of gunpowder and rocket propellant dissipated in the sea wind. Spent shell casings glinted as they were swept over the side and the winch deck was crisscrossed with the sooty smears of SMAW backflashes. Up in the superstructure, an ex-San Antonio gang banger watched in satisfaction as the line of Union gunboats retreated toward the distant coast. “Ayyyy macho!” he called after them, his voice lifting in derision.
“Talk to me, Chris,” Amanda demanded over the command circuit. “What’s happening?”
“Good stuff and bad, boss ma’am,” the intel replied grimly. “The good stuff first. The Union Boghammer groups are breaking off and are apparently returning to base. Also, the USS Valiant reports that she has successfully repelled her attackers without damage or casualties and she is returning to station.”
“What about the Brit minehunter?”
“That’s the bad stuff. We have lost all communication with the HMS Skye except for her emergency beacons. We have a radar skin track indicating that she’s still afloat, but she’s dead in the water. We also executed a drone pass a few minutes ago, and she looks in pretty bad shape. I’ve ordered medevac and rescue helos launched from both the platform and from Conakry. They are airborne and en route at this time.”
“Very good, Chris. We’re still about half an hour out from the Skye’s position. What can you give me on the Boghammer groups?”
“Both squadrons have dispersed. All elements appear to be proceeding independently back to the Yelibuya Sound fleet base. Do you want an intercept bearing on the nearest Bog to your location?”
Amanda’s jaw tightened. “Negative. What I want you to do is to track as many of those Boghammers as you can back to Yelibuya Sound. I want them followed every inch of the way and I want their return media-documented. Focus every available recon asset on that specific tasking. I want incontrovertible proof that those Union attack groups sortied from the Yelibuya fleet base.”
“You got it, boss ma’am.”
A smoke plume rose above the horizon, a pale banner of distress lifting over the crippled derelict of what had been a man-of-war. As the Queen bore closer to the listing hulk, more and more of the havoc became apparent: the upper works charred and fire-blackened, the hull pocked with bullet and grenade strikes, the blood streaks trickling down from the scuppers.
As each grim detail became apparent, Amanda’s rage grew. Not at Union for performing the attack, but at herself for allowing it to take place.
“Steamer, take us alongside.”
“Aye, aye, Captain. Going in.”
Her long and futile race over, the Queen of the West settled off pad. With her turbines and lift fans fading into silence, she nestled close to her wounded sister. Amanda slid the overhead hatch back and lifted herself up onto the hatch rim. In the growing twilight, faces peered down at her from the minehunter’s rail. Shocked faces, blasted faces, marked by soot and the sudden aging that comes with exposure to war.
“Ahoy,” Amanda called up through cupped hands. “Where’s your captain?”