Sea Fighter - читать бесплатно онлайн полную версию книги автора James H. Cobb (Prologue/Beginning) #3

Prologue/Beginning

Mobile Offshore Base, Floater 1

13.5 Miles off the African Gold Coast

2218 Hours, Zone Time;

September 7, 2007

With the sun down, the small and overstressed air conditioner set in the housing module’s window at last started to make headway against the equatorial heat. Still, the Marine utilities she wore, the smallest set available within the task group, felt tentlike and oppressive. Ignoring the chafing discomfort of the perspiration-damp camouflage cloth, Amanda Garrett studied the screen of her personal computer, reconsidering what she had composed.

Dearest Arkady:

This is one of those special letters that we of the profession of arms find necessary to write on occasion. If you are reading it, it will mean that I am dead.

Hopefully, I will have been lost while bringing my mission to a successful conclusion. Also hopefully, I will have died alone. As always, my prayer before action this night will be that no weakness or failing on my part will cost the lives of any more of those I command. The blood price for this operation is already far too high.

I also regret the other costs, the personal ones we share. I wish that some of the things we dreamed of during our brief time together could have become a reality. I also wish that it could have been in me to accept all of the good things you offered. Remember that, Arkady. I thank you with all my heart for all of your selfless love, courage and companionship. Also for all the times you stood at my side when I needed someone. I will carry those memories with me on this, my last and longest voyage. In return, all I can say is that I loved you and that I’m sorry it couldn’t be.

Good-bye, love. Find happiness.

Amanda

There was no more to be said. Or there was far too much to say in the time she had remaining. Amanda initiated “File Save” and downloaded the sterile words. Two other letters, one to her father and a second to Christine Rendino, were already on the disk in her laptop. Chris would know where to find them and would see they were delivered.

This was the last task she’d set for herself. Everything was as ready as it could be made.

Amanda allowed herself a moment of quiet neutrality, staring past the screen of the personal computer to the dull white painted wall of her quarters. Somehow, even after five months, it still didn’t feel right to call it a “bulkhead” on this ship that wasn’t a ship.

Hanging from hooks on that wall were the unaccustomed items of equipment she had drawn: the MOLLE load-bearing harness with the radios and flares already clipped to it, the pistol belt and ammunition pouches, the bulky Marine flak jacket, and the ballistic helmet with its camouflage-pattern cover.

She gave a start as the document on the monitor disappeared, replaced by the nautical imaging of a Navy League screensaver. Glancing at the militarily formatted clock hack in the corner of the flatscreen, she noted the time: 2221 hours.

2200… had it started only seventeen hours ago? Less than three-quarters of a single day?

No. Not really. This current crisis was just the latest link in a long and tortuous chain of events. One that had been initiated long before Amanda Lee Garrett, former Commander and now Captain, U.S.N., had ever been called to duty in this strange place. Long before she had ever heard of the West African Union. Long before there had even been a West African Union of which to hear.