Sea Fighter

Conclusions

Crouching on the dusty floor of the long-abandoned shack, the Union Special Forces trooper peered through a gap between the warped boards nailed over the door.

He wore no uniform this day. Instead he was barefoot and clad in ragged civilian shirt and shorts. It had been carefully explained to him that this was a most secret and critical mission and that no one outside of himself and the military high command at Mamba Point must know of it.

He dug out the watch, one of the two objects he carried in his pockets, to check the time. They should be coming soon. The trooper returned to his vigil.

Outside, the crumbling macadam roadway was empty. Set midway between Monrovia and the airport, the hut was too far outside the city proper to see the passage of many foot travelers, and motor vehicles were now almost unknown. Only the government had any fuel left at all, and little enough of that.

Accordingly, when the trooper heard the sound of automobiles approaching, he knew it must be his target. Squinting out into the morning brightness, he watched as the small motorcade passed, first the Army Land Rover escort and then the battered Mercedes sedan. As the latter swept by, he caught the silhouette of the lone passenger in its rear seat. Yes! Target positively identified. All was going as planned.

As the little convoy proceeded toward the city, the trooper dug his hands into the small pile of earth and crumbling clay brick beside the hut door frame. After only a moment, he unearthed the coils of wire he had been told would be there. He removed the second object from his pocket, an electric hand detonator, and began connecting the wires to its terminals.

Another Special Forces team had preplanted the command detonated antitank mine in the roadway late the previous night, running the concealed detonator leads back to this firing point in the shack. The trooper’s task would be to explode the mine at the designated time, on the motorcade’s return run from Monrovia to the airport. The young soldier did not know why the U.N. representative was to be assassinated. However, Premier General Belewa had ordered that it be done, and that was enough.

As the small convoy made its way through the streets of the Union capital, Vavra Bey noted the changes since she had last been there, the growing disrepair, the uncompleted projects, the devitalization. The streets and markets were, for the most part, empty and left to the accumulating trash. And the few people abroad moved with a sullen lassitude instead of the burgeoning pride they had once carried.

The citizens of the Union might not be beaten, but they were rapidly forgetting what it was they had been trying to win. The U.N. representative could sense it. The stillness upon the city was a pause, like a man hesitating, wondering what he should do next.

The Mamba Point Hotel, once the tall, white citadel of Belewa’s government, had been converted into a fire-scarred ruin, every window in the structure shattered and the upper floors burned out from a cruise missile hit. A missile Bey had claimed the responsibility for.

She was alone here, amid a people who had no reason to have any great love for her. And yet, for what she hoped to accomplish, she’d had to come by herself.

The elevators had all been knocked out, and the climb to General Belewa’s office was a long and slow one. Maintaining his base of operations in the battered hotel had to be a monumental inconvenience, but perhaps also a last act of defiance. Either that or perhaps the man simply didn’t give a damn any more.

Bey’s silent escort ushered her through the door into Belewa’s office.

She observed that change had come to General Belewa as well. Somewhere during the past few months he had made the transition from “young” man to “no longer young” man. His closely trimmed hair was hazed with gray now, and the seams in his face had deepened, defining with greater clarity the bone beneath the flesh. The brightness and intensity still lingered in his eyes, but a fever heat burned behind them now.

He looked up as she entered, not rising, making no gesture of officiousness or formality. “What do you want?” he asked simply.

It was good. This was how she wished it to be, as well.

“It is time we talked, you and I,” she replied, crossing to one of the chairs before the General’s desk. “Not negotiate, but talk.” Uninvited, she sat down and met his gaze.

Belewa suppressed a short, harsh bark of laughter. “About what? You’ve won. We’ve lost. What is there left to talk about?”

“No one wins at war, General,” Bey replied levelly. “At best, one only prevents things from getting worse. It is true, we have no more reason to speak of Guinea. That issue is resolved. But we need to speak of the Union and its people and what befalls them next.”

“There is little to speak of there as well,” Belewa retorted. “Hell returns, Madam Representative. Very likely, we collapse back into the chaos and mindless savagery we arose from. No, the United Nations need not concern itself about the Union much longer. As it was with Liberia and Sierra Leone, we’ll soon be eating ourselves alive and you will be able to safely forget about us once again.”

Bey lifted an eyebrow. “And this is what you want, Obe Belewa?”

“What I want?” Belewa stared in disbelief at the representative. “What I want?” The big African straightened and rose from his chair. Lifting both fists, he crashed them down on the desktop. “What I wanted was to end it all. I wanted to end all the suffering! All the starvation! All the killing and repression and brutality. Couldn’t you see that! Couldn’t any of you see that all I wanted was to end the madness that has infected this land for far too long?”

“Yes, General, some of us could see that.”

“Then why couldn’t you let me finish the job?” Belewa turned away, staring out of the glassless balcony doors toward the sea beyond. “Why couldn’t you let me put things in order here? For decades you ignored this corner of the world, letting it go to the devil. Why pay attention now, just because someone is trying to put things right?”

“Because the day of empires and empire builders is past, General,” Vavra Bey replied quietly. “As is the concept of ‘the end justifies the means.’ No one argues with your goals. But the precedents that would be set by their achievement would have been too high a price to pay. Conquest can no longer be permitted by the world community, not even with the best of intentions.”

“Then how else am I supposed to do the job? Tell me that.” Belewa spun back from the windows. “I’m a soldier! I have a soldier’s skills and I know how to use a soldier’s tools! What other options do I have?”

The U.N. representative nodded slowly. “You are a soldier, a brave and able one. But if you wish to reach these high goals you have set, you must undertake a battle far more challenging than any you have ever before dreamed of.”

Vavra Bey did not speak as a diplomat now, but as a grandmother, that wisdom being more appropriate and stronger for this moment. “You must learn how to make war in another way, General. A slower and more difficult way. You must learn how to invade with ideas and how to conquer by example.

“You stand at a critical crossroads, Obe Belewa, one where many have stood before you. You have a choice. Out of stubbornness and pride, you may allow yourself to slide down into total defeat, taking all that you have built with you. Or you may lift your head again and begin this new and greater battle.”

A grudging smile touched Belewa’s face. “Someone told me once that I was a man cursed with excessive pride.”

Vavra Bey smiled back as she might have at one of her own sons. “With pride, it is not a matter of too much or too little. More it is a question of how it is used.”

Belewa smiled again, more freely, and returned to stand behind his desk. “Then tell me, how should I use mine?”

“By being willing to consider other options, both for the Union and for the region. You are right, General Belewa. West Africa has indeed been ignored by the world for far too long. But you have our attention now.”

The U.N. representative rose to her feet. “I journeyed here this day to extend you a personal invitation, General. Let us resume formal talks to seek resolution in the Union’s conflict with Guinea and in the matter of dealing with the refugee crisis. Let us end this war, so that we may begin the greater battle.”

Belewa rested his hands on the back of his chair, his face impassive, his eyes downcast in thought. Vavra Bey stood by quietly, listening to the cry of the cormorants from beyond the empty patio door frame. Finally Belewa looked up.

“I hear your words, Madam Representative. You will have my answer by this time tomorrow.”

The heat of the day had long since settled upon the little hut on the airport road. The Special Forces trooper fiercely resisted the lassitude the growing warmth carried with it. Kneeling in the dust by the boarded door, he ignored the sweat trickling down his back and peered between the slats, watching the highway. He must be ready. He would have only one chance and only a single second in which to act.

He set the detonator down and wiped his palms dry on the seat of his shorts. The mine lay fifty yards down the road beneath a pothole in the incoming lane. The powerful Italian antitank weapon was potent enough to destroy the heaviest of armored fighting vehicles. It would totally disintegrate the representative’s car, but only if the vehicle was directly over the shaped charge when it was fired.

Dust rose down the road. Hastily the trooper snatched up the hand detonator. Yes, it was the motorcade! They were coming! Again the Land Rover in the lead, trailed by the Mercedes.

The detonator’s safety pin pulled free with a sharp metallic click. The trooper had carefully paced off the distance to the pothole when he had come on station and had noted a stunted eucalyptus tree growing beside the road, opposite the mine. That was his mark.

The army vehicle rolled past, the limousine coming on.

The trooper found himself regretting that the limousine’s driver had to die as well, but this was war. Prices had to be paid if the Union was to triumph. The shadow of the eucalyptus tree fell across the Mercedes, and the trooper’s hand closed convulsively around the firing lever.

As he climbed the hotel stairway, Dasheel Umamgi silently cursed the bite of the prickly heat beneath his robes, then cursed again because he could not bring himself to scratch in the presence of his soldier escort. Admitting to such human frailties would be an act unworthy of a holy man, especially in front of these black swine.

He targeted yet a third curse at General Belewa for summoning him here at this hour and yet a fourth for the West African Union as a whole. This had been a most promising operation in the beginning. An opportunity for Algeria to establish a radicalist Islamic power base on the African Gold Coast. When the Council of Mullahs was ready to strike southward into Mali and Niger, such a base in the infidels’ rear area would prove most useful.

The establishment of such a beachhead had seemed a simple matter. Take in a monkey republic general that everyone else had turned out and buy his allegiance with promises and a few shipments of obsolescent armament. Then support him in his struggles, as long as the cost was not too great, and manipulate him to Algeria’s advantage.

All the while, agents could be inserted into his territory, beating the drum for Islamic radicalism. Weak points and weak men within his own government would also be sought out, preparing for the time when a puppet leader totally obedient to the Algerians could be installed.

Simple matters all, and yet it had not worked out as planned. Belewa turned out to be strong and a most unwilling subject for manipulation. The General was popular as well, and Algeria’s plans for subverting the Union populace had faltered.

All was not quite lost, however. The plan for finding weak points within the Union government had at least borne some fruit. For the glory of Islam and Algeria, as well as for himself, Umamgi had pressed on, seeking to further isolate Belewa from the world and from his own people. The Union government now stood on the brink of collapse, and sometimes much can be gained out of chaos.

Yet it would pay to be cautious. Sometimes Umamgi had the uncomfortable suspicion that Belewa understood far more about Algeria’s plans for the Union than the Ambassador might have liked. And today, something had gone wrong. Very wrong.

Reaching the floor that held Belewa’s office, Umamgi’s guide opened and held the stairwell door for the ambassador.

Just beyond the door stood Brigadier Sako Atiba, a military police escort standing watchfully at his side. One look into the Chief of Staff’s face told the Algerian that indeed something had gone very, very wrong.

“Good evening, Ambassador,” Atiba’s escort said politely. “General Belewa wishes to meet you and the Chief of Staff.”

Umamgi and Atiba were not given a chance to speak together, the guards ushering the two men down the hallway toward Belewa’s suite. The floor seemed exceptionally quiet, the usual bustle of staff work suppressed. Men could be sensed behind the office doors, however, quiet men, waiting men.

With the coolness of the instinctive conspirator, Umamgi gauged the situation. Brigadier Atiba still carried his side arm. He was not yet under arrest. And he still carried a look of defiance and not fear. A confrontation was coming with Belewa, but the possible outcome was far from a foregone conclusion.

The Algerian pressed a discreet hand against the slit pocket in his robes, feeling for the outline of the silenced Beretta .22. The little automatic had served him well during his climb through the ranks of the Algerian revolutionary party. Perhaps tonight it might fire the first shot of a new revolution.

The MPs ushered them into Belewa’s office, then fell back outside the door, closing it behind them.

The General waited. Sitting behind his great desk, he afforded Umamgi only a brief glance, but he studied Sako Atiba’s face for long silent moments. Some large round object lay on the desktop, shrouded under a burlap sack.

Belewa let the scene drag out wordlessly for almost a full minute. Then he straightened abruptly, his left hand coming from behind the desk to sweep aside the burlap, revealing the dirt-encrusted metal bulk of a disarmed antitank mine.

“Our sappers made a surprise security sweep of the airport road at first light this morning, before Representative Bey’s arrival.” Belewa’s voice was little more than a whisper. “And the Military Police established a stake-out on the firing point. The young soldier who was supposed to detonate this mine was very disillusioned to learn that his orders did not, in fact, come from this office. He has cooperated fully with our investigation.”

Belewa leaned back in his chair, his eyes seeking Atiba’s again. “Why, Sako?” he demanded. “Have you gone mad? Why would you set out to destroy the few rags of international recognition and acceptance this government has!”

“Because we have to strike back!” Atiba exploded in return. “Because we have to show the United Nations and the Americans that we are not afraid, that we will not let ourselves be defeated!”

“And we will do this by killing a helpless old woman in our streets! That would not prove we are brave! It would prove that we are rabid! She was a senior United Nations representative on a peace mission! What kind of respect could we ever hope to gain from such an act? What kind of honor?”

“Respect and honor!” the Chief of Staff spat back. “That’s all you speak of anymore, Obe! What of the victories you promised! What of making things better for the people?”

“And getting our people labeled as mad dogs will make things better?”

Atiba stepped a pace closer to the desk. “At least mad dogs are feared. Under your leadership the Union has become a whipped and beaten cur chased into its kennel by the U.N. and by this Leopard of yours. We are losing, Obe!”

Belewa caught his reply, holding it back for half a dozen heartbeats. And when he did speak, his voice was low and controlled once more. “You are right, my old friend. We are losing. We are losing far more than we can afford. It is time for a change.”

Atiba’s reply was quiet as well. “Yes, Obe, it is.” And then the Chief of Staff’s hand swept back to the gun at his belt.

Atiba never completed the draw. General Belewa had been holding his own drawn automatic just below the level of the desktop. The worn Browning Hi-Power elevated, a three-round burst flaming from its silvered muzzle. Brigadier Atiba, thrown backward by the bullet impacts, crashed to the floor, face upward, unseeing eyes staring, his fingers still hooked under the flap of his pistol holster.

As was his way, Umamgi had taken a step aside when the confrontation had begun, waiting to see the trends before committing himself. However, even with a half-developed plan for assassination in mind, the sudden explosive climax to the conflict between the two men paralyzed him. Brigadier Sako Atiba, the secret card he had husbanded so carefully for so long, had been taken out of the game before his eyes. And Obe Belewa yet lived.

“Aiiiii, Sako!” The soft keening cry drifted across the room on the sea wind. The General sat unmoving, his head tilted forward, his face locked in a grimace of anguish. His eyes were closed, the automatic in his hand momentarily forgotten. Umamgi cut a look at the office door, so far away across the room, and took a silent, sidling step.

“Sako Atiba was my friend,” Belewa’s quiet words froze the Algerian in place, “and a good soldier.”

Belewa had looked up again. His voice was almost casual, but his features were fixed and cold. “But he was not born to lead. He was always a follower.”

Belewa swiveled in his chair to face the Algerian, the leveled Hi-Power in his fist coming to bear with the deliberation of a traversing tank turret. “Tell me, Ambassador,” the African’s voice grew softer yet, “who was he following tonight?”

Umamgi felt a scream well up within him. He clawed wildly for the Beretta. The pistol hung up as he tried to draw it, the silencer snagging in the robes prescribed for a holy man. Belewa’s automatic slammed again, and the last sound Dasheel Umamgi heard was the tinkling of an ejected cartridge case on a desktop.

No one came in.

Obe Belewa knew they were out there, though, in the hall way, waiting. Waiting to see who would walk out the door of this office. Waiting to see who would be the new leader of the West African Union. He let them wonder. Instead, he sat for a long time in the silent company of the friend who had become an enemy and the ally who had never been a friend.

The flies came after a while, buzzing in through the open patio doors, seeking the freshly spilled blood.

Was this what it had come to? He had dreamed of doing good, of uniting and lifting an entire people out of chaos and degradation. But what good was he doing now, beyond giving the flies fresh meat to raise their maggots in? Where had it all gone bad? What had gone wrong?

Thoughts and memories swirled behind his eyes, and he scrabbled among them, seeking an answer, seeking for some one to accuse: Umamgi, Bey, Sako, the Leopard. And yet, somehow he could not bring himself to lay blame upon any of them. Each had only played out a destined role as the conflict had unfolded. Belewa could not condemn anyone for doing what they had seen as their duty, not even Ambassador Umamgi and Sako Atiba.

Could it be that the dream had not gone wrong, but had in fact been wrong from the beginning?

The day of empires and empire builders is past, General.

Gods! Has it all been for nothing!

The pistol still gripped in Belewa’s hand lifted as if of its own volition. The steel of its muzzle, cooled again, felt good pressed against his temple, soothing and simple.

And yet he heard that stern yet gentle voice speak once more. Out of stubbornness and pride, you may allow yourself to slide down into total defeat, taking all that you have built with you. Or you may lift your head again and begin this new and greater battle.

The General lowered the pistol, setting it on the desktop He was puzzled as to how he had come to aim it at himself. That would have been the act of a coward. And while he was many things, good and bad, Obe Belewa was not a coward.

He got out of his chair and circled around to the body of his chief of staff. Kneeling down stiffly, he brushed the flies from Sako’s face and gently closed the lids over the staring eyes. Then, denying himself a limp, he rose and strode to the office door.

He left the gun behind on the desk.

“Essentially, Harry, he’s put everything we’ve asked for on the table and then some.”

Vavra Bey’s matronly features filled the flatscreen of Harrison Van Lynden’s videophone. “He has officially acknowledged the Union’s military operations against Guinea and has personally accepted responsibility for them. He has also personally guaranteed there will be no further acts of aggression and he is pulling the Union army back from the Guinea border.

“Finally, he has agreed to a full repatriation of all Union refugees in Guinea territory. He has promised a full restoration of property and civil rights and has invited a U.N. observation group in-country to supervise the resettlement program and to monitor the Union side of the border zone. He’s giving us everything we’ve been asking for.”

“Well, he’s asking for a whale of a lot in return,” the Secretary of State replied, frowning. “An immediate lifting of all nonmilitary trade sanctions and a whopping big aid package. We took quite a few casualties during the UNAFIN operation, Vavra. I can tell you right now we’re going to have some Congressmen back here who are going to be asking why we’re fighting this guy one day and paying him off the next.”

“The same question will no doubt arise within the Security Council, and I will give them the same answer I give you now. If we are to get these refugees resettled, we must first ensure there will be a country to resettle them in. Believe me, it will be far cheaper in lives and money to allow the West African Union to survive than it would to allow that area to backslide into the anarchy it knew in the nineties. We need someone to be in charge there, and General Belewa is our best and only available option.”

“That still doesn’t get us around the fact that Belewa invaded and took over Sierra Leone to create the West African Union,” Van Lynden replied. “That’s a fact we can’t just sweep under the rug, Vavra.”

“I understand this, Harry, but I believe I have a solution. Let’s give General Belewa the concessions he asks for, but incorporate a requirement for a U.N.-monitored plebiscite among the former citizens of Sierra Leone on the question of returning to an independent status or remaining as part of the Union. We can give Belewa a broad time frame — say, two years — to stabilize things before mandating the vote. I think the majority of people down there will support the current status quo with the Union. The plebiscite would both legitimize the Belewa government and reintroduce the democratic principle into the region.”

“I think you may have something there.” Van Lynden tilted his chair back and began to tamp tobacco into his battered rosewood pipe. “The only question is how far we can trust Belewa. This gentleman has proven to be one very tough and resourceful customer. I can’t help but wonder if he might be trying to put some kind of move on us. This is an awfully abrupt turnaround for the man.”

“I agree,” the distant U.N. representative replied over the circuit. “But Belewa knows he must move fast if he’s going to stave off an internal collapse of the Union. Also, for what it’s worth, my instincts are telling me the man is sincere. I truly believe he is abandoning his aggressive course of action.”

“What triggered it, Vavra? Sure, the man’s back was against the wall, and the loss of that tanker must have hit him pretty hard, but something else must have happened.”

Bey pondered for a moment. “I don’t know, Harry. I truly don’t know. We understand there has been a major disruption in the relationship between Algeria and the Union. All of the Algerian technicians and advisers have been withdrawn, and the Algerian ambassador has either been recalled or has disappeared. We aren’t sure which. We also know that there has been a shake-up in the upper echelons of the Union government. The civilian minister of internal affairs now appears to be Belewa’s new second in command. Beyond that, we simply don’t know.

“Essentially,” she continued, “I think that General Belewa is a good man who may now be on the road to becoming a better one. The kind of leader that very sad portion of the world may need.” Bey smiled slightly.” I’d like to think that maybe I had some influence on General Belewa’s decision to turn down that road. But no doubt that’s only an old woman’s vanity.”

Van Lynden took a moment to draw the flame of his lighter down into the bowl of his pipe, savoring the first rum-flavored puff. “Who can say? In this great game we play, you can never be sure what card will take the trick in the end. I’ll be speaking with the President later this afternoon. I believe you can expect the support of the United States in this matter.”

“Thank you, Mr. Secretary. That is good to hear.”

“And thank you, Madame Representative. Damn nice piece of statesmanship.”

Vavra Bey lowered her eyes modestly and nodded her acknowledgment. The video screen reverted to the State Department net logo a moment later.

The Secretary of State tilted his chair back. Closing his eyes, he drew on his pipe again. It felt good to win one every once in a while. The only problem was that they just kept coming at you.

Van Lynden enjoyed half a dozen more puffs. Then he straightened at his desk once more, knocking the pipe embers out into his ashtray. Returning his attention to the Indonesian Country File he’d been studying when Representative Bey had called, he flipped back the security cover and reread the title:

Amanda paused and reread the letter, then nodded to herself. She was comfortable with the words. Double-tapping the “Send Mail” box on the computer screen, she launched it on its way. Palming a bit of moisture from the corner of her eye, she flipped the laptop shut.

A decisive knock sounded on the module door.

“Enter.”

Stone Quillain stepped up into the office, utility clad and packing a backload of equipment. “We’re getting ready to transfer across to the LSD, Skipper,” the Marine said, unslinging his seabag and MOLLE harness, “and I figured I’d come by to say so long.”

“I’m very glad you did, Stone. I have a couple of things I want to talk to you about before you go.”

“Sure thing,” he replied, crashing down into the visitor’s chair.” Shoot.”

“Firstly, I wondered if you could discreetly keep an eye on Commander Lane for me on the crossing to Little Creek. I’ll be flying back, and Steamer’s taking the loss of Lieutenant Banks pretty heavily.”

Quillain nodded. “Already planning on it, Skipper. The Commander’s kind of taking the hit on Miss Banks a little harder than average, if you get my meaning.”

Amanda nodded. “I surmised as much. The traditional bond of comradeship between warriors can become a very strong thing. When the two warriors involved also happen to be man and woman, well, a pretty potent combination can occur.”

Quillain shook his head. “That ain’t supposed to happen, Skipper. It says so right there in the regs manual.”

Amanda smiled an ironic and reminiscent smile. “A lot of things happen in this navy that aren’t supposed to. And regulation books don’t fight and win wars. People do, with all of their inherent weaknesses and strengths. The system is going to have to live with that fact, at least until we’re all replaced by computers and RPVs.”

Quillain rolled his eyes. “Amen to that. Now, ma’am, you were sayin’ there was something else you needed to talk to me about?”

“That’s right. There is. How would you like to come out to Hawaii with me for a while?”

Quillain tilted his head down and lifted an eyebrow. “This isn’t some kind of proposition, is it?”

“Well, not quite in that sense.” Amanda chuckled. “I’ve been swapping a few ideas with Admiral Macintyre and we’ve decided to keep the Seafighter Task Force together as a littoral-warfare test bed unit for weapons technology and combat doctrine. We’ll be taking the Three Little Pigs out to Pearl as our core element. From there, we’ll be experimenting with various support and force multipliers for different battlefield environments.

“One of the things we want to try is a composite Force Recon/Marine SOC company, a kind of Seadragon regiment in miniature. We’re going to be putting a provisional unit together, and your name came up in reference to the command slot. Interested?”

Quillain grinned. Standing up, he extended his hand across the desk. “I said anywhere and anytime, Skipper. Have the Admiral save me a bunk.”

Amanda stood as well, exchanging a strong handclasp. “Welcome aboard again, Stone.”

After the big Marine’s departure, Amanda brewed herself a cup of tea. Earl Grey at last, thanks to a care package from her father. Taking the steaming mug with her, she went out to sit on the front step of her quarters. Now that she had adapted to it, the lingering heat of the day was a comfortable hug. A Gold Coast sunset flamed the sky, one of the last she would see.

Floater 1 was being stricken, its current mission completed. A big Whidbey Island-class Landing Ship Dock lay close aboard, its deck lights glowing golden in the dusk. The three seafighters had crawled into the commodious womb of its docking well earlier in the afternoon. Now a Marine Sea Stallion skycraned trailers and cargo pallets across from the platform to the amphibious warfare ship’s helipad.

Farther out, the silhouettes of a pair of Tribal-class Fleet Ocean tugs could be made out. In another day or two, with the platform emptied and the components uncoupled, they would take up the long tow. First back across the Atlantic to the States for repair and refurbishment, then on to some new crisis point elsewhere in the world.

Soon the sea would roll in to the verdant coast untroubled once more.

Amanda sipped her hot drink and thought about people. The Chief, Danno and the Fryguy, Snowy Banks. Sad thoughts, but good ones. She was proud to have known them all.

She thought also about someone else. A man with whom she had spoken with only once but who had totally dominated her life for half a year. The man who had been her foe through no intent of his or her own.

What kind of man was he, beyond being a skilled and capable warrior? Had he ever wondered about her and who she was? And what were his thoughts?

“Hey, boss ma’am.” Christine Rendino ambled up from between the housing units. “Out sitting on the front stoop, huh?”

“That’s right. Just enjoying the night airs.” Amanda slid over, clearing a space beside her on the step. “Care for some tea?”

“Maybe later.” Christine flopped down on the step, bumping shoulders companionably with her friend. “I brought you something,” she said, holding up a padded manila envelope. “It came in with the last hard mail shipment.”

“What is it?”

“Uh, we’re not exactly sure. It’s addressed to you, but according to the postmark, it was mailed in Abidjan and there’s no return address. FPO security was leery, so they checked it out really well before they cleared it as safe, and I had my antiterror people do the same. There’s no explosives or exotic tropical poisons involved, but beyond that, I dunno. Have a look.”

Amanda ran a thumbnail under the tape that had been used to reseal the envelope and shook the contents out into her palm.

It was a pendant, a fine braided leather thong with two golden beads and some kind of polished animal’s claw centered on it.

“What in the world is this?” Amanda wondered aloud, fingering the curved, ivory-colored shape. “A lion’s claw?”

Christine shook her head. “No, it’s too small. I asked a couple of guys who know about this stuff, and they say it probably comes from a leopard.”

“A leopard.”

Amanda Garrett weighed the pendant in her palm for a moment, wondering at the mystery of it. And then she smiled and looped the thong around her neck.