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  Seawolf

  ( The Sixth Fleet - 2 )

  David E. Meadows

  Embroiled in an all-out war in the Mediterranean Sea, the Sixth Fleet finds itself being slowly taken apart by the enemy. Hope appears in the form of reinforcements — a fully armed task force led by the carrier "Stennis". But the new battle group must first face its own test under fire by fighting its way past the gates of the enemy in the hellish Straits of Gibraltar.

  David E. Meadows

  Seawolf

  To the Navy-Marine Corps Team “Forward… From the Sea “

  Acknowledgments

  My love and thanks to Felicity for her advice years ago that I should write what I know about. From her suggestion came the first manuscript for The Sixth Fleet.

  I would like to thank Mr. Tom Colgan for his advice and encouragement. The ride for a new author in the world of publishing is exciting, and Tom took time from a most busy schedule to guide me through this new world. My thanks also to Ms. Samantha Mandor, his able assistant, for providing further insight to questions a new author has.

  My gratitude to CDR Roger Herbert, U.S. Navy SEAL, and Maj. Andy Gillan, United States Marine Corps, for their expert technical advice. I would also like to acknowledge those in the Office of the Assistant Secretary of Defense for Public Affairs whose advice and encouragement were appreciated: Ms. Sharon Reinke, Mr. Art Horn, and LTCOL David “Skull” Riedel, United States Marine Corps. And a special thanks to Capt. (ret.) Frank Reifsnyder, former commanding officer of the nuclear attack submarine USS Baltimore, who read the manuscript and provided in-depth technical advice and encouragement. Any technical errors in this novel are strictly those of the author and should not be attributed to the individuals above, for there were times when technical advice was overridden by literary considerations.

  CHAPTER 1

  The truck rolled into the dark Algerian village, its engine off, its lights out, and the tires crunching noisily on the loose gravel. The moon had set a few hours earlier, leaving a clear sky filled with stars as the only source of light. The smell of the sea was carried on the slight wind.

  “This is the village of my relatives,” Bashir said softly to President Alneuf, the only freely elected president of an Algeria now in civil war, and Colonel Yosef. The overweight Bedouin’s eyes nervously glanced from one side of the street to the other. “But the lights are out. They may be asleep-very unusual, very very unusual. I think I would feel better if there was some noise or something …”

  Bashir pulled the truck to one side, causing it to bounce several times as the left tires dropped a couple of inches when it moved off the road. Bashir pulled the hand brake. The metal-on-metal screech echoed through the silent streets. “There’s some noise.”

  Yosef tightened his grip on the pistol in his lap and eased his finger onto the trigger. He shifted the barrel slightly so it pointed at the dashboard and away from President Alneuf, who sat between them. Yosef searched the shadows, expecting rebels — at any moment — to jump out and start firing. Bashir had better know what he’s doing. Yosef didn’t come this far to die at the hands of a bunch of smugglers. He was still wary of the overweight Bedouin, who just happened to be at the beach at the right time and who just happened to know how to get everyone to safety. But then, smugglers are supposed to know how to avoid the authorities — that is, successful smugglers.

  “I think we should leave the truck here at the edge of the village until I have announced our presence, Colonel. It is possible my relatives are treating visitors with skepticism while the new government decides who are friends and who are enemies.”

  Bashir opened the door. The rusty hinges sounded like fingernails down a chalkboard. No interior light came on-burned out years ago and never replaced.

  He leaned into the cab. “Mr. President, Colonel. My nephews and I will do a quick check. You wait here until we return. Okay?”

  Colonel Yosef nodded reluctantly. “Don’t be gone too long, Mr. Bashir.”

  Bashir motioned for his nephews. He turned to Yosef as he walked by the cab. “Colonel, if you should hear anything”-he waved his hands—“out of the ordinary, you know, like gunfire, screams, bloodcurdling yells, grenades, or mortar fire, then I would strongly recommend you take whatever actions you deem appropriate to protect the president.”

  Bashir touched his forehead and chin. Then he turned and, followed by his nephews, waddled off down the street. Yosef waited until the five men turned the corner and disappeared.

  “Come on, President Alneuf,” Colonel Yosef said as he shoved the pistol back into its holster. He opened the protesting door, reached into the cab, and half-pulled the fatigued president out.

  Yosef turned to the Guardsmen in the back. Some napped among the few remaining sleeping sheep. The woman slept deeply, leaning against the cab of the truck. Her hands rested lightly on the sleeping baby curled in her lap.

  “Sergeant, wake the men and get them out of the truck,” Yosef whispered.

  “What about the woman?” “Leave her. She’ll be safe,” Yosef said. “And whatever you do, don’t wake the baby.” The last thing they needed was a squalling baby. Leave well enough alone. The longer Bashir was gone, the more likely it was they were being led into a trap. If so, Yosef intended to be ready.

  The men jumped from the truck and formed around Colonel Yosef.

  “Listen up,” he said, his voice intentionally low. “Our driver and his nephews have gone into the village to find help. I don’t want us trapped if it’s a hostile crowd that returns.”

  The truck was parked near the last building in the village. It was a low, white building with no windows. A continuous, screened, twelve-inch opening ran around the top of the walls to allow air to circulate inside. Alongside the building a small ten-foot man-made hill rose, created from discarded construction residue. Desert plants had long since covered it. Across the road, in the distance, the sound of the unseen sea, rolling languidly against a beach, mixed with the sounds of the desert night.

  “Corporal Omar, take one man with you and position yourself at the corner of the street to watch for their return. When you see them, I want to know how many; if the driver and his nephews are with them; if the driver and nephews appear to be with them willingly or as prisoners; and what weapons you see. Don’t wait until they walk over you to get that information. As soon as you see them, make your impressions, and hurry back.”

  Corporal Omar saluted, touched a nearby Palace Guard on the shoulder, and the two men, with weapons at the ready, ran to the end of the block and crouched at the corner of a building where they could watch the approach from the village center.

  “Sergeant Boutrous, take four others and position yourself across the street.” Across from the man-made hill, a narrow ditch led downhill toward the sounds of the sea.

  “The rest of you, come with me.” Yosef lead President Al neuf and the others behind the low man-made hill.

  One of the Guardsmen climbed to the top where he could see the two point men at the end of the street. He waved at Sergeant Boutrous on the other side of the road, and Boutrous waved back.

  Thirty minutes passed before the two point men appeared back at the truck. Yosef, who had crawled to the top with the lookout, hissed at the men. They scrambled over the top to him.

  “Colonel, they’re coming. Bashir is with his nephews and has three other men with them. With the exception of those Kalashnikov rifles, I saw no other weapons.” “Colonel!” shouted Bashir in his deep bass voice when the group arrived a minute later to find the truck empty, with the exception of the woman and child. “You can come out now! Everything is all right.

  These are my relatives! You are as safe as you can be in the new Algeria!”

  The baby,
awakened by Bashir’s shout, started crying.

  The Bedouin’s ample stomach bounced as he laughed.

  Yosef helped President Alneuf down the embankment. The Guardsmen followed. On the other side, Sergeant Boutrous waited motionless.

  “Ah, Colonel, you did not trust Bashir? I, who have spent the last two days giving you my aid?” Bashir put his hands on his hips and roared with laughter.

  “Mr. Bashir, we wanted to be prepared in the event you found a hostile reception,” said Yosef. “As a great American once said, “Trust, but verify.””

  “You are quite right, Colonel,” Bashir replied seriously. Turning to President Alneuf, he said, “Mr. President, this is the elder of the village, Said Sami Abdel Yefsah, and these other two fine individuals are my cousins Memmi Baghat and Nawar Abu Nathir.”

  The men bowed their heads to President Alneuf, who shook each man’s hand. The village elder, Said Yefsah, smiled broadly, displaying a deep cavern for a mouth devoid of teeth except for a lone horse-length tooth at the front.

  “There was a visit by soldiers earlier today,” said Bashir. “They searched the village, warning everyone about the consequence of harboring fugitives from the corrupt regime of Alneuf — my apologies, Mr. President — and the criminal military of the old government. Then they took eleven of the young men — who were slow to hide — for volunteer service in the new Algerian People’s Army. Said Yefsah expects the young men to return soon.”

  “That explains the quiet when we arrived,” Yosef said. It was a plausible explanation, but it seemed too plausible. The lives of the president and his men depended on him.

  “Yes, Colonel, that plus the villagers expect more visits. When? They don’t know,” Bashir said, shrugging his shoulders.

  “So,” Bashir added. “Mr. President, does tea, coffee, cool water, platters of roasted lamb followed by fresh fruit sound attractive?”

  President Alneuf looked at Yosef. “Colonel, should we accompany Mr. Bashir?”

  “I think, Mr. President, that we have little choice.”

  Bashir’s booming laughter broke the stillness of the night again. “Oh, Colonel, you are so precious! Come on, we don’t have far to go and the truck will be all right here.” He scratched under his arm and nodded at his relatives.

  One of the cousin-nephews hopped up into the back of the truck to help down the woman and baby, whose cries increased with renewed vigor.

  Bashir started to lead the way, stopped, turned, and cupped his hands to his mouth. “Sergeant!” Bashir shouted. “You and your four comrades should really get out of that ditch. It is where our sewage runs to the sea!”

  Bashir turned to Yosef and in a confiding voice said, “It’s why the grass is so much greener on that side than the hill you were hiding behind. Personally, I prefer the hill.”

  Bashir found this amusing. He burst into laughter, entertaining himself, as he led the group toward the center of the small village.

  The sergeant and his men rose, brushed themselves off, and scrambled over the ditch in their hurry to catch up with the group, Bashir’s laughter guiding the way.

  “Why are the lights off?” President Alneuf asked.

  “The electricity is only turned on during certain times as the government repairs the damages to the grid system. The radio says any time now the electricity will be restored and we will have even better electricity than during your government, President Alneuf. Under the new government, we will receive people’s electricity instead of just public electricity.

  But between you and me, Mr. President, I suspect the people’s electricity will cost more.”

  “Bashir, I detect your distrust of all governments. I know from our discussions the dissatisfaction you had for mine.”

  “No offense, my dear President, but governments are all alike. They are made up of people who crave power. Few politicians in today’s world have the balls to do useful things with power because they’re afraid they will offend someone and lose their precious position,” said Bashir as they stopped in front of a two-story building. “But that is a subject requiring a long discussion, of which we lack the time. Here is where Sami Abdel Yefsah conducts the municipal business of this small community.”

  The village elder ran forward. Standing in front of the small, aged wooden door, Yefsah made a big production of reaching down the front of his aba to pull out a large skeleton key that hung from a leather thong around his neck. He held it up for all to see. A wide grin broke the weather-beaten wrinkles across his face, his lone tobacco-stained tooth dull in the faint starlight. Satisfied he had everyone’s attention, Yefsah turned and slowly inserted the huge iron key into the ancient lock. Once it was firmly in the lock, he brushed his hands on his frock before reaching forward to turn the key. The ancient tumblers fell slowly into place, making a metallic creaking sound as they withdrew. Yefsah removed the key, dropped it down his cotton undershirt, and turned the iron handle. The door opened noisily to reveal a dark interior.

  “Thank you so very very much, Said Yefsah,” Bashir said respectfully as he brushed the small man aside.

  Bashir squeezed through the doorway, ducking slightly to avoid the low rafter. “Wait until I have turned on a lantern!”

  Rumbling sounds of the big man stumbling over things came from inside the room. A round of un-Islamic-like curses filtered through the door.

  Yefsah took a deep breath, threw his hands out wide, looked at Yosef, and shook his head before he, too, disappeared into the dark.

  Several seconds passed before a small light appeared in the far corner of the room. It rapidly grew brighter as Yefsah turned the wick up.

  Yefsah motioned Yosef and the men at the door inside. Bashir was pulling himself up from a tangle of folding chairs. Yefsah moved around the room lighting other gas lanterns.

  “Ah, my friends,” said Bashir as he brushed himself off. “Yefsah has once again come to our aid.” He shoved the chairs aside and pulled the tail of his headdress forward to blow his nose in it. He tossed the tail over his shoulder, where it fluttered down against his back.

  Bashir grabbed a few of the folding chairs and began handing them out.

  “As you can see, Mr. President, we lack the grandeur of the palace here.”

  Then realizing he was doing manual labor, Bashir shouted to his nephews-cousins, “Here, you lazy oafs! Finish setting up these chairs so the president and our friends can sit down.”

  The young men hastened to where Bashir stood and began to unfold chairs, placing them haphazardly around the room.

  Yefsah pulled from his pocket a huge key ring, packed with an assortment of keys, at least a hundred, ranging in size from ones that looked like they were for small briefcases to giant skeleton keys that looked ancient, as if they would open a castle door. He immediately picked out a small key and opened a nearby cabinet. From the cabinet, he began throwing out cushions. Cushions of various sizes decorated with a myriad of bright crimson colors. When finished, he leaned far inside the cabinet to where only his butt stuck out and, with a lot of grunting and mumbling, pulled out a crepe-covered package. Squatting on his haunches, he undid the wrapping to reveal an ancient Turkish water pipe that, from the wear on the mouthpiece, had seen many decades of use and thousands of teeth.

  “Mr. Bashir,” Yosef said. “I want to put my men out to watch the roads.”

  “No, no, no, Colonel,” Bashir objected, waving his finger back and forth. “First, there is only one road, not roads, and second, I have already sent one nephew and a cousin west for two kilometers where they will watch unobserved and see anything approaching from ten kilometers in that direction. To the east, I have sent one cousin and a relative of Yefsah to watch for patrols coming from that direction. You and your men are tired. You have an opportunity to sleep and rest while we provide protection.” He slapped his chest.

  “Thank you, Mr. Bashir, but I must insist.”

  “Fine, you may insist, but allow us to feed your men first. Yefsah’s wi
ves are, even as we speak, cooking a fine meal. Soon, you will have steaming platters of foule mudumas, humus bitahinna, and roasted lamb along with warm milk and hot bread. Maybe some feta covered with olive oil — no meal is complete without a little feta, don’t you think?”

  Before Yosef could reply, Bashir continued. “Then, after they eat, you can send your men out. Aiwa?”

  “Oh, Colonel, let the men rest,” added President AIneuf. “We know we can’t stay here long before the Algerian Liberation Front comes looking.”

  “Yes, sir, my President,” Yosef reluctantly agreed. The thought of a hot meal caused his stomach to rumble. It had been over thirty-six hours since they had eaten. The two men were right. They needed to rest and they needed food.

  “Good!” said Bashir with a quick chuckle, recognizing that he had won the argument.

  In the corner, Yefsah lit tobacco he had meticulously stuffed into the bowl of the Turkish pipe. Then he stuck the flexible tip into his mouth and, with his cheeks caved inward from the effort, drew the smoke through the water. Dark aromatic bubbles rose through the slightly discolored water. How long the water had been in the bowl was something Yosef did not want to consider. Yefsah was soon passing the pipe around to those seated nearby.

  Yosef sniffed the aroma, recognizing the smell of marijuana.

  Bashir, watching Yosef, realized what the colonel smelled. “Ah, Colonel, tobacco is awfully expensive, while cannabis grows wild above the village,” Bashir said. “Besides, alcohol is forbidden to those of the Moslem faith, and sex has been known to kill.”

  Yosef walked away without replying. He crossed the room and opened the door. The patch of light from the opened door, falling across the cobbled street in front of the building, was the only light visible.

  Another burst of laughter filled the crowded room. Yosef didn’t turn.

  He knew Bashir had included another Guardsman in his conversation.