The booster burn lasted only a few seconds, but during that time ram scoops snapped open, channeling air into the compressor blades of the small turbofan engine. As the rocket burned out and staged away, the jet power plant ignited, taking over propulsion. Guard panels also blew away at the projectile’s nose, revealing the glassy lenses of a low-light camera system.
A second land attack missile followed the first out into the night a few seconds later. Running nose to tail, they leveled off at two thousand feet, briefly maintaining their launch headings. Then the tips of their razor blade wings snapped up and they reversed course, heading back for the coast and for Yelibuya Fleet Base.
The SeaSLAM ER (SEA-launched Standoff Land Attack Missile Expanded Response) was a true “smart bomb.” In fact, it was as intelligent as is conceivable for any weapons system. In the fire-control bay of the Queen of the West, targeting screens displayed television images beamed back from the Sea-SLAM nose cameras. With hands delicately moving controllers, Danno and the Fryguy flew their robotic charges on to their final destiny.
“Captain Kinsford, we are through to Mamba Point,” one of the signalmen croaked.
The air in the bunker rasped at the lungs, thick as it was with smoke and chemical taint and the stench of burning flesh. Kinsford stumbled to the partially functional radio console and caught up the hand mike. “Mamba Point. This is Captain Kinsford at Yelibuya Sound. Do you receive?”
“We receive, Yelibuya Sound.” The faint and distant voice of a living world issued from the transceiver speaker. “What is your situation?”
Kinsford had to try twice before he could force the words from his parched throat. “Mamba Point. Yelibuya Fleet Base has been destroyed.”
The Union captain never had the opportunity to hear the reply. Outside a piercing nasal whine grew in intensity and an explosion far greater than any that had come before took everyone in the command bunker off their feet. Support beams cracked, sand rained down from the overhead, and concussion blew the radio chassis completely away from the bunker walls.
Kinsford struggled to his feet and peered out through the distorted observation slits. The base ammunition bunker was gone. Nothing remained of it but a black and smoking crater gouged out of the ground.
Their attackers had ignored the fortified installations in their first attack. But now they were returning with a more potent armament to clean up the remnants. And if they had weapons powerful enough to kill the ammunition bunker…
“Out!” Kinsford bellowed. “Everyone, get out!” He threw himself at the narrow bunker door, but already that lethal, piercing whine was growing again.
Something pile-drivered vertically into the entryway. Kinsford got a split second’s impression of a gray cylindrical body and crumpled fins, then the fuse relays in the SeaSLAM’s five-hundred-pound warhead closed.
“TACNET, this is Little Pig Lead.”
“TACNET ’by.”
“Chris, are you still maintaining drone coverage over Yelibuya Sound at this time?”
“Affirmative on that. We have a Predator on station.”
“Acknowledged. We have executed our fire missions. Can you give us a poststrike assessment on the status of the Union naval base?”
“What Union naval base, boss ma’am?”
“Understood, TACNET. Operation completed. We are inbound to Floater 1.”
One after another, the seafighters swept in from the predawn darkness. Boosting themselves up the boarding ramp, they slithered to a halt within their hangar slots, settling onto their bellies with a tired sigh of slowing fans. The waiting ground crews moved in and started unshipping service and access panels even as the personnel hatches swung open.
Amanda stepped away from the Queen of the West, her arm extended over her head with the fist clenched, a rallying call for the disembarking hovercrews. As they clustered around her in the scarlet worklights, she stepped up onto a toolbox to address them.
“Yesterday afternoon,” she began, “the Union managed to burn us a little. But tonight, we recovered and we shoved their little win right back down their throats. Well done to all hands. The enemy will not try this again soon.
“In fact, we should send General Belewa a thank-you letter, signed by everyone in this command. For by attacking us he’s given us the opportunity to go after him. And we are. After mission debriefing, I want all fighter crews to turn in and get as much rest as they can. You are going to need it. At oh twelve hundred today, there will be an O Group meeting for all officers and senior CPOs. We will be discussing new patrol zones, new operating doctrines, and new targets. There will be no more passive barrier patrols. There will be no more waiting for the other guy to start something. Ladies and gentlemen, the next time we go out, we will be on the offensive.”
There was no spirited cheering as might have been incorporated into some Hollywood potboiler, but eyes flared hot in defiance of a night’s worth of weariness and grim smiles tugged at a number of lips. And there was a verbal reaction of a sort, a soft, muttered growl of assent from among the assembled sea warriors.
It was the response Amanda had hoped for.
After dismissing all hands, she trudged over to her quarters module. As per her radioed request, Christine Rendino was waiting for her there with a stack of hard copy and computer media.
“Here you go, boss ma’am,” the intel said. “Everything we’ve got on Belewa’s coastal smuggling network into Côte d’Ivoire.”
“Very good, Chris.” Amanda hung her battle vest and pistol belt on the wall rack. Sinking down behind her desk, she yawned mightily. “What’s the status on the British minehunter? Were they able to keep her afloat?”
“With the help of half a dozen spare auxiliary pumps, yes. Santana has her in tow, and they should be up with us some time this morning. The Royal Navy has requested that we keep her alongside until they can survey the hulk and decide if she’s worth salvaging.”
“I’ve got no problem with that. We’ve got plenty of room for her crew. The survivors, anyway.” Amanda yawned again and leaned over the desk, rubbing the aching back of her neck. “When Santana completes the tow, I’m relieving her on Guinea East station and I’m sending her across to join Sirocco on Union East. As I promised, Chris, your day has come. Starting right now, Belewa’s smuggling pipeline is our new top priority.”
“Whoa! I thought you said we couldn’t afford to spare the hulls and manpower,” Christine replied, dropping into the chair across from her captain.
“That was then. This is now. By taking out Yelibuya Sound and its Boghammer groups, we’ve not only reduced Belewa’s available naval strength by one third, but we’ve eliminated the immediate seaborne threat to the Guinea coast. Now we get to jump on his back for a while.
“You’ve indicated to me that this oil-smuggling link is critical to Belewa’s war effort. Okay, if we go after that link, right now, with the seafighter group and the PCs both, we not only hurt him strategically by cutting off his fuel, but we’ll damage him operationally. We’ll pin down his remaining sea power Frenchside, trying to defend his maritime lines of communication.