The Sixth Fleet tsf-1 Page 13

  “I’m sorry,” Yosef stammered, followed with a cough to clear the lump in his throat.

  “Leaving you is not something we want to do, but what you see here is all that remains of free government forces in Algiers. We can’t help you. I’m sorry.”

  “What are we to do?”

  “You could try to get through the lines to one of the Western embassies. I don’t think the rebels will bother you if you can get in sight of them. It’s one thing to kill with no witnesses. The last thing they’ll want is to give your countries a reason to intervene. No, you’ll be safe if you reach Embassy Row.”

  “Come on, sir,” Yosef said. Two Palace Guards gently turned the British veteran toward the cab of the truck.

  “Are you okay, sir?” Yosef asked softly.

  “Yes, quite okay, now.” He looked at Yosef.

  “She was a good woman, you know.”

  Yosef nodded. He took the gentleman by the elbow and handed him off to a nearby Guardsman, who escorted the Englishman to the driver’s door. The keys were in the ignition. Yosef’s small force spread out. Yosef raised his hand and made a circling motion with his finger. Other Guardsmen hurried back to the intersection where they could guard the milk truck and watch the Westerners at the same time.

  The truck roared to life.

  The driver saluted Yosef.

  “Good luck. Colonel.”

  “Good luck to you, also.”

  The truck lurched forward, gears grinding to the driver’s unfamiliarity with the Russian vehicle’s loose clutch and tight transmission. Yosef and the remaining Guardsmen walked behind the truck until it picked up speed and passed through the intersection. The two point Guardsmen turned toward the harbor while the others took up positions around the milk truck.

  * * *

  Mohammed stepped from the doorway. He had been inside the building, searching for Westerners when the shooting started. By the time he raced down three flights of stairs the fighting was over. Mohammed watched from this vantage point until the Palace Guard and the milk truck passed through the intersection. He gave them several minutes before he eased out of his hiding place.

  He walked among the dead, checking to see if any were still alive. He prodded each comrade’s body with his combat boot. Finally, he came to Kafid. Kafid had a nice hole through the forehead. No major loss to the revolution, Mohammed thought. Better that Kafid died at the hands of the enemy than having a comrade like him kill him. Mohammed spit on Kafid’s body and then kicked it hard several times.

  “See the dead, Kafid. If you had not been blinded by your own evil they would be alive.” He kicked the body again and then turned, leaving the carnage behind him. Mohammed walked quickly and carefully to the intersection and peered around the corner. He caught a glimpse of the milk truck vanishing into the darkness. It was headed toward the harbor. That was where this street ended. Mohammed ran across the intersection in the same direction of the truck full of Westerners.

  * * *

  An hour later the milk truck stopped. It could go no farther. A chain-link fence topped with rolls of razor sharp barbwire ran along the perimeter of the harbor. Two Guardsmen finished cutting a hole in the fence.

  “Ah, that feels good,” said Aineuf as Yosef helped him out of the milk crate. Aineuf stretched. He lifted first one leg and then the other.

  “Can you hear the bones creak?”

  Yosef shook his head.

  “No, you’re right. Only the owner of old bones hears their complaints.”

  The Guardsmen forced their way through the opening.

  Yosef ripped his shirtsleeve on a sharp edge of the cut fence as he maneuvered himself through the opening. The diminutive Aineuf stepped through easily. The armed group walked between two towering warehouses. Yosef felt hemmed and urged them through the alley quickly until they saw the piers.

  Several large merchant ships and a couple of tankers rocked slightly against their lines. Yosef ignored the huge ships. He pointed to the right, toward the private piers two wharves away. If they stood any chance of escaping Algiers, it’d have to be on a yacht or fishing boat or something a bunch of land-weary soldiers could manage. If they turned to him to show them how to run a boat, then they’d be paddling their way out of Algiers. But, first find a boat and then worry about how to operate it. They were soldiers, not sailors, but Yosef knew they were going to have to learn seamanship the hard way.

  Two point men raced ahead, leapfrogging from box to crate to crane as they sanitized the area ahead. A hundred yards behind walked Yosef with President Aineuf. The remaining Guardsmen flanked the two men, with two other Guardsmen bringing up the rear.

  Ahead, a hand came up. They stopped and quickly took cover behind harbor fixtures and abandoned pallets of crated goods. The go-ahead signal came several seconds later. The group rose and commenced its silent progress once again.

  Sergeant Boutrous hurried back to Yosef.

  “Mon colonel, there is a fishing trawler down the next pier with a light on. A very faint light, but I saw someone walking in front of it. They may be preparing the ship to leave.”

  “Very well. Sergeant Boutrous, take two men and seize the boat.” Yosef motioned to the corporal on the left flank even as he gave directions to the sergeant.

  “Try not to use your weapons, if possible.”

  The corporal ran across, crouched, and saluted.

  “Corporal Ghatan, take two of your men and go with Sergeant Boutrous.”

  Boutrous saluted and ran to the right. Tapping two on the shoulders the three raced ahead, followed by Ghatan and the two other Guardsmen.

  “Mr. President,” Yosef walked back to the president and said, “I have dispatched a squad to seize a fishing boat that may be preparing for sea. If so, we will board and depart Algiers.”

  President Aineuf sighed.

  “Colonel Yosef, maybe my place is here, leading the fight for my country. What will the people think of their president sneaking out of the country, hiding in a milk crate, and now fleeing in a fishing boat? Someone must stay to give them encouragement.”

  “Mr. President, I understand how you feel. But Algiers is lost and the best place for you to lead the fight is elsewhere and, if you stay here, you will be killed. You can’t lead it dead. It is a sad day whenever a patriot runs, but sometimes it is true what they say about retreating so you can fight another day.”

  “Colonel? You should have been the politician. I don’t think the cliche is how you phrased it. I think it is more about running away so you can fight another day.”

  “I, too, wish we could have fought better. To see our country fall in two days …”

  “Don’t blame yourself. Colonel Yosef. No one saw this coming, nor did we suspect that the PLA was so well organized.

  We will return. That I promise you. We will regain our country, restore peace, and when we do, we will make sure this doesn’t happen again.”

  They stopped at the end of the cement pier leading to where the fishing boat was tied. The squad leaped aboard the vessel. Two minutes later a Guardsman jumped from the boat to the pier and waved for them to hurry.

  “Come on, sir. The boat is ours.” Yosef placed a hand under the arm of the aged president, noticing for the first time the long wisps of hair, which Aineuf meticulously combed every day over his bald spot, matted to the side of his head, exposing the man’s dark dome.

  “Yosef,” said President Aineuf, pulling his arm away, “I’m not that old.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “That’s alright. I know you’re concerned for my safety-my health. And I am grateful, you know? Without this dash to safety, we would both be greeting Allah at this time. I am thankful my wife did not live to see this.” The fishing nets were grouped along both arms of the trawling equipment. The vessel’s square portholes, painted a dark, unrecognizable color in the faint light, stood out against the fading white wooden hull. A small, faint bulb burned near the ship’s controls. This was the light that
had attracted Sergeant Boutrous’s attention.

  Belowdecks Yosef heard men talking and was surprised when a woman’s soothing voice joined the chatter, trying to quiet the sudden squalling of a baby. He turned to the Guardsman on the pier with a questioning look.

  The Guardsman smiled and shrugged.

  A chubby middle-aged fisherman, wearing a tattered shirt, crawled up on deck accompanied by two Guardsmen.

  Bowing continuously, the fisherman begged, his hands clasped together in front of him.

  “Please, do not kill me and my family. We are just a poor fisherman’s family, trying to stay here in safety until morning.”

  “This your boat?” Yosef asked.

  “No, ya effendi. I work on the boat. I am but a fisherman…. And not too good of one, if you listen to my captain.”

  He grinned, showing his teeth as he swabbed the sweat from his brow.

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  “When …” he stuttered, then stopped and tilted his head slightly to the side.

  “Excuse me, sir, are you Algerian Liberation Front freedom fighters or are you renowned members of loyal government forces?”

  “We are soldiers of the Palace Guards.”

  “Oh, praise be to Allah!” the fisherman cried, beating his chest.

  “I am a loyal follower of Aineuf and the People’s Democratic Party. I have voted for the government in every election since 1997—sometimes twice.” He held up two fingers. “I apologize, mon colonel. When the fighting started I was afraid for my family and came here to hide until the shooting stopped.”

  “You mean until the winner was determined,” Yosef mumbled.

  “Stay here!” Turning to President Aineuf, he said, “Sir, we need to get you below.”

  Aineuf nodded and failed to object this time when two Guardsmen helped him down the ladder to a small table crammed into the center of what passed for a dining space.

  The fisherman showed no recognition of the Algerian president as the trio passed; his concern focused on Yosef, his own well-being, and his wife and child below.

  “Do you know how to drive this thing?” Yosef asked the fisherman.

  “Of course,” the man replied, acting shocked that anyone would think otherwise.

  “I am the helmsman whenever we are fishing.”

  “Can you start her and take us out of here?”

  The fisherman looked puzzled.

  “Why would we want to do that? You are here, in control of the harbor, so we must be winning the battle for Algiers.”

  “Fisherman, I asked, can you start the engines and take us out of the harbor?”

  “But, of course….”

  “Then, do it!”

  “Yes, sir. Yes, sir,” the fisherman replied, hurrying aft.

  There, he opened the hatch above the engine and crawled down. A minute later, after several outbursts of cursing, followed with intense hammering sounds, the diesel motor coughed twice and then chugged to life. The fisherman climbed out, wiped a greasy hand across his sweating forehead, then tugged the cover over the hatch.

  “There! We are cranked.” He smiled at Yosef. What he didn’t say was that this was the first time he had ever cranked the engine and it was only luck that he stumbled across the on-off switch.

  An explosion to the left caused everyone to reflexively take cover and raise their weapons in that direction.

  Grenades blasted the locked gates of the harbor’s main entrance.

  The smell of cordite rode the summer night winds to whiff across the boat. Two armored personnel carriers burst through the smoldering ruins of the gates. Automatic weapons fire from armed rebels, riding on top, hit the pier in front of the boat.

  The two Guardsmen at the top of the pier came running out of the darkness.

  “Get this thing underway!” Yosef yelled, shoving the fisherman toward the helm.

  Yosef jumped onto the dock and, with two Guardsmen helping, disconnected the four lines keeping the boat tied to the pier. Throwing the lines onto the fishing trawler, they leaped on board.

  The two APCs roared onto the top end of the pier. The first turned so fast the left wheels came off the road, tossing a rebel off the top.

  Yosef brought his gun up, led the APC slightly, and fired a ground-level burst. The front right tire on the APC blew.

  The vehicle veered right and crashed through a stack of wooden loading crates, knocking those on top off, before hitting a concrete bullock, driving the engine of the APC into the chest of the driver. Smoke poured from the wreckage.

  The second APC swerved left to avoid the crash. It squealed to a stop, running over and killing a rebel, who had crawled from the burning APC. Rebels leaped off and started running down the long pier toward the boat, their weapons raking the fishing trawler as they charged.

  The fisherman shoved the throttle forward. Hand over hand he whipped the wheel to the left until it locked. The low-power engine didn’t do much for Yosef’s confidence.

  Hiding behind barrels and fishing nets on the stern, the outnumbered Guardsmen returned fire against the attacking force. A rebel bullet caught a Guardsman, who clutched his stomach and tumbled into the filthy harbor waters.

  Shots peppered the fishing boat, lodging in the wooden hull. A stitch of bullets sped up the bridge, narrowly missing the frightened fisherman, who repeatedly pushed the throttle harder, even though it was as far forward as it would go. He reached over and flipped on the running lights.

  “Turn off those lights!” shouted Yosef.

  It took two tries for the fisherman’s shaking hands to flip the lights off.

  The Algerian rebels reached the mooring as the fishing trawler disappeared into the night. Standing on the pier, looking out at the dark silhouette heading out to sea, Mohammed cursed. Five minutes earlier and he’d have caught them.

  The rebel leadership believed that President Aineuf was on that boat, escaping out to sea from the capital of the new Algeria. He picked up his mobile phone and dialed Colonel Safir. He cursed. Someone else would have the glory of capturing Aineuf.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Duncan placed his hand over the khaki uniform cap, tucked under his belt, to keep the helicopter’s prop wash from sucking it into the engine intake or blowing it overboard. His seabag bounced off his left leg.

  Beau and H. J. trailed as the three ran from under the props of the helicopter. An officer, wearing the hat with the scrambled eggs of a captain, waved them toward the entrance of the forecastle on the amphibious carrier USS Nassau. The oily aviation fuel and hot exhausts filled the air.

  The captain’s lips moved, but noise from the flight deck drowned his words. Duncan pointed to his ears and shook his head. The captain nodded, shook hands briefly with Duncan, and pointed to the nearby hatch. The four ducked as they entered. Inside, the officer pushed the lever down, closing the watertight door, muffling the flight deck noise outside. A master-at-arms, the ship’s sheriff, stood nearby with two sailors sporting shaved heads and standing at attention.

  Brig rats. “Welcome aboard. Captain James. I’m Dan Carter, the Nassau’s executive officer.”

  “I thought XOs of amphibs were commanders,” Duncan replied congenially as they shook hands again.

  “They are. I just put it on the first of the month,” Carter replied, smiling.

  “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks. The commodore will meet you in the operations conference room. I know you must be tired from your trip over, but the current operations brief starts in a few minutes. The commodore specifically asked that you attend.”

  Captain Carter looked at H. J. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know that a woman was coming. I was told to expect three SEAL officers so I arranged for two of you to share a stateroom and you to have one to yourself. Captain.”

  “She’s a SEAL,” interrupted Duncan.

  “A SEAL? I didn’t know that they had women in the SEALs.”

  “They’ve been discussing it for years. Even
tried it once before with mixed success, but she’s the first one to make the grade. Lieutenant McDaniels will be going on our exercise with the Spanish. Are they on board?”

  “Right now they are, but not for much longer. They are being airlifted off this afternoon to Sigonella for further transfer to Spain.”

  “Why? We’re supposed to conduct a joint exercise.”

  “Events of the past few days have changed that. Spain is very concerned over the Algerian crisis and…” he paused, glancing at the brig rats.

  “Why don’t we wait until we’re at Operations and then answer any questions you have. Captain.”

  “Okay, I’ll hold them until then. Meanwhile, put Commander Pettigrew and me together in the stateroom, Captain Carter Lieutenant McDaniels can have the single. That should solve your berthing problem.”

  “It would make it easier.”

  Carter turned to the MAA.

  “Sheriff, have your brig party take their bags to staterooms thirty-six and thirty-seven.”

  H. J. leaned over Beau’s shoulder as they fell in line behind Duncan and the executive officer.

  “We could have bunked together. It’s not like we’re children or something,” she whispered, miffed over being singled out.

  “Let’s not suggest it, H. J. Surface Warfare officers seldom have the humor we SEALs do. They don’t call them the conservative arm of the Navy for nothing.” But, Beau thought, the idea was appealing.

  “Come on. Beau. Would I embarrass you?” she smiled, arching her eyebrows.

  Beau’s face flushed red. He hurried to close the gap between him and Duncan. H. J. shook her head and followed.

  Men! He was cute … in a juvenile way.

  Single file they followed the ship’s executive officer down a deck to a hatch marked ops conference room. A revolving red light warned everyone that a classified briefing was in progress.

  Carter opened the thin aluminum door and led the way into the conference room. A long rectangular table surrounded by green-cushioned government-issue metal chairs filled the small space. Along the starboard bulkhead a small green-topped metal table held the inevitable coffee mess.