The Sixth Fleet tsf-1 Read online

  President Aineuf emerged, leading the woman; a bloodsoaked bandage hastily wrapped around her head covered her left eye. The president carried the wailing child.

  “Amir, Amir,” she said when she saw the body of her husband, then she began the oddle-ooping titter common of grieving Bedouin women. She hiked up her dress and started to the bridge, but Yosef grabbed her arm.

  “No, he is dead. Remember him as he was. You do not want to see what he looks like now.”

  “But he was my husband. What will I do without a husband?”

  “You are young. But you won’t grow older if you stay here.” He tugged her to the side of the boat. Corporal Omar, his weapon slung across his back, stood in the water helping everyone down from the wallowing craft. Yosef helped the wounded woman over the side to the waiting corporal.

  Yosef took the baby from the president and passed the boy to the woman.

  “Mr. President, it is your turn.”

  “Why did the aircraft leave. Colonel?” Aineuf asked, lifting his leg and straddling the low railing.

  “Don’t know. Probably running low on gas, Mr. President.

  What we can be sure is that he reported our location to his headquarters. I think your earlier prediction may come true. Helicopters or troops or both are probably heading our way. We have to move. You’d think they’d still be sleeping this early in the morning.”

  Corporal Omar reached up and helped President Aineuf down into the water.

  President Aineuf looked up at Yosef.

  “Seems to be a new era. Colonel. Maybe we should have spent more time awake. If we had, maybe Algeria would still be Algeria.”

  Yosef turned away and crossed the deck. Now was not the time to argue politics. He glanced back to see Corporal Omar lift the president between the linked arms of two Guardsmen. The two carried Aineuf to the beach and stood him up on moist sand.

  Yosef ran below and grabbed the two bags President Aineuf had stocked from the limited larder on board. He looked at the doorway leading to the deck. Where to now, was the question.

  He rushed up the ladder and tossed the bags to Corporal Omar below, who immediately headed toward the beach.

  Yosef looked around the boat one last time before he, too, jumped. He was the last to reach the beach. Ahead, several Guardsmen surrounded President Aineuf, helping him over the dunes. A shout from the top of the crest caught Yosef’s attention. He shielded his eyes from the sun.

  Sergeant Boutrous waved, urging him to hurry. Yosef jogged to catch up with the president and the other Palace Guards.

  “What now. Colonel Yosef?” asked the president, his question coming between short, rapid breaths.

  “Mr. President, we have to keep moving. We can expect company soon and we need to get as far away from here as we can.”

  President Aineuf stumbled, but was caught by Yosef on his left and Corporal Omar on the right.

  They climbed the short, winding trail to the top of the hill, taking it slow because of the president, though their lives depended on speed.

  “Colonel, I feel I am an encumbrance. Unlike the Palace Guards, I am an old man. I am beginning to realize how old I am. I think, without me, you may make Tunisia or some other safe abode. With me, I am afraid it will only be a matter of time before they catch us.”

  “Mr. President, soldiers are paid to risk their lives in defense of their country. You are our country and our responsibility.”

  President Aineuf shook his head.

  “No, Colonel, countries always survive. It is the people in them who change.

  The rebels would voice the same opinion that you do. They love our country as much as we do. It is just that they have such a rigid opinion on what is right and what is wrong that they lack the humanity to accept others’ rights to their differences — the freedom to express yourself, even when it differs from the government.” He stumbled again. Aineuf put his hand on Yosef’s sleeve.

  “Can I just take a moment to catch my breath?”

  “Sorry, Mr. President.” Yosef and Corporal Omar placed a hand under each arm. President Aineuf did not ask him this time to unhand him.

  “Forgive me, sir, but we must hurry.”

  President Aineuf nodded as he held on to the arms of the Guardsmen carrying him.

  Five minutes later they reached the top of the low crest and released President Aineuf.

  The boat, below and behind them, swung back and forth to the motion of the outgoing tide. It pivoted as the waves burrowed its keel deeper in the soft sand. The smoke from the engine room appeared to be lessening. It surprised Yosef that it hadn’t blown up.

  Fifty meters inland, surrounded by Guardsmen, an old Volvo two and a half-ton lorry waited on the coast road.

  The rust on the hood and doors gave the once green cab an Army jungle camouflage look. Wooden railings encompassed a thirty-foot flatbed crammed with sheep, baaing their discontent, unable to move from being so tightly packed.

  “Come on, Mr. President. It looks as if your presidential car has been traded in for a more useful vehicle.”

  “Who are you?” Yosef asked the driver as they approached the truck. He reached out and pushed down the barrel of a gun that a Guardsman had trained on the driver.

  The man had the dark skin and eyes of the Bedouin.

  The stained tail of what could have been a white headdress trailed a couple of feet down the back of the large man, who was easily three inches taller than Yosef and many inches wider. The traditional aba hung from the driver’s shoulder to the ankle, swishing an inch above a pair of sun-cracked leather sandals. Farm stains, perspiration, and days of wear had turned the white Arab garb to a dingy, dirty yellow. The driver raised his chin, revealing a couple more hiding under it, to stare, eye to eye, at Aineuf.

  “Mr. President, I am honored,” the man said in a deep bass voice that echoed like gigantic loudspeakers. He bowed his head.

  “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Bashir Ibn Howadi Al Sannusi of the Sannusi tribe. It is an honor to be at your service.” He touched his head and brushed several of his chins and his chest as a gesture of servitude and respect.

  “Thank you. Said Bashir. It is fortunate that we meet, even if it is because my soldiers stopped you.”

  Sergeant Boutrous, standing beside Said Bashir, interrupted.

  “No, sir. We didn’t stop him. He was waiting when we came up. He whistled to catch our attention. We thought it might be an ambush, but found only him and his sheep.”

  “That is true. Your Excellency. I watched the lopsided battle along the beach.” He laughed, placing his hands over an ample, bouncing stomach.

  “It was quite a sight. I have never witnessed such a David and Goliath. Of course, you lacked the stones and the slingshot that David possessed and thirty-millimeter shells do make a mean Goliath.”

  “Thanks for stopping. Said Bashir. We need your truck,” said Yosef.

  “Of course. Major.”

  “Colonel,” Sergeant Boutrous corrected.

  “Of course. Colonel,” Bashir continued unabashed.

  “I knew when I saw you deserting the boat that you were in need of assistance. I am but a poor farmer, but even a poor farmer can figure out who must be on the beach when he sees soldiers surrounding a man in a suit. Even if that man lacks the Western tie that is considered essential for the apparel that he wears.”

  “You don’t speak like a poor farmer,” said Aineuf. “You say you are of the Sannusi tribe? Would you be a descendent of Abdallah?”

  “Abdallah bin Abid Al Sannusi,” Bashir finished for the president, spreading his arms wide.

  “The exiled king of Libya who was disposed from his throne in the 1960s. Yes, Your Most Excellent Excellency, I am the first grandson of the first grandson of him who would be my great-great grandfather “Mr. President,” Yosef interrupted, “we have to go.” He turned to Bashir.

  “Said Bashir, can you take us to the Tunisian border?”

  “I could, but it
would not be good going that way. I have spent the last twelve hours traveling from the east.

  Every few miles are roadblocks. Three hours ago I passed four tanks heading east accompanied with truckload after truckload of ‘new Algerian’ soldiers. All of them heading to the border and most looking as scared as a boy who knows he is about to lose his virginity.”

  “Colonel, it looks as if we are slowly being trapped,” Aineuf offered.

  “Mr. President, we have to keep trying until—”

  “Oh, no, you’re not trapped,” laughed Bashir.

  “Help me with the tailgate and we shall let some of my babies loose to fend for themselves. That way we can get all of you into the truck.” He whistled and clapped his hands three times.

  On the bed of the truck four men, previously hidden among the sheep, stood up. Each held an ancient Kalashnikov rifle, the stocks individually decorated in Arabic script and strips of hand-patterned tin as a sign of pride and ownership.

  “My nephews,” said Bashir, grinning as he lilted his head and spread his thick hands. “There was always that chance that you weren’t who I thought you were — and on whom can anyone ever depend if not on their kinsmen?”

  A minute later the wounded woman and her child, along with the remainder of Yosef’s force, were on the bed of the truck. The Guardsmen took defensive positions around the bed to give them compass coverage.

  “Leave the tail section down,” Bashir said.

  “But for heaven’s sake don’t let the remaining sheep fall out. They make such a mess when they hit the road and cry so pitifully when you scoop them up and throw them back on the truck.”

  To move the wooden tail section out of the way a couple of Guardsmen slid it against a side railing. Then three of them sat down with their feet hanging off the back.

  “Hold on if you’re going to sit there,” Bashir warned.

  In reply to their questioning looks he added, “No shocks.

  That, plus those, makes the truck bounce very rough.” He pointed to several potholes nearby.

  As the Guardsmen slid further inside and away from the open tail, Bashir, Yosef, and President Aineuf walked to the cab.

  “Come on, Mr. President,” said Bashir. He and Yosef helped the president into the front of the old vehicle.

  Yosef crowded in afterward, placing the president in the middle. Bashir hoisted his heavy frame into the driver’s seat.

  Their rescuer reached under the steering column and touched two wires together. The engine misfired. He tried again; the engine caught. Laughing, Bashir pulled the truck off the shoulder, back onto the road, and headed west.

  “We are heading back toward Algiers,” said Yosef.

  “We need to be heading east, my friend.”

  “I have told you. Colonel, we would not travel ten kilometers before running into the new Algerian Army.”

  “Well, we can’t go back to Algiers. The city has fallen,” Yosef said, almost apologetically.

  “Oh, everyone knows that Algiers has fallen. The only fighting is around Oran near our western borders and they won’t last much longer.” Bashir punctuated his comments with quick laughter, shaking his head, as if the situation in Algeria struck him as ironic or comical. Yosef couldn’t tell which.

  “How do you know the fighting is about to stop around Oran?” Yosef asked.

  “Oh, man colonel, did not your little fight tell you? This morning the Air Force has come out in support of the new government.”

  “And the Navy?”

  Bashir shrugged his shoulders.

  “I don’t know, but the Algerian Navy has never been a major player in our politics like our Army and our Air Force.” Using the tail of his headpiece he blew his nose and then wiped the sweat from his forehead before tossing it back over his shoulder.

  “Or should we call it their Air Force and their Army? Besides, navies never determine the outcome of revolutions.

  They only influence the outcome.”

  Yosef turned to Aineuf.

  “Mr. President, we have little choice. We must try for Tunisia.”

  Bashir interrupted.

  “Tunisia is impossible. Colonel. We fool them? No?” Without waiting for an answer he continued.

  “Let me take you to a small village I know west of Algiers where I have many relatives and — you will be pleased to be thanking me — they are all loyal to you. President Aineuf. They will be pleased to receive you, for your government has been nice for our enterprises and, without doubt, the new government will not be as understanding of the rights and freedoms of those who scratch out a life in the soil.” The truck hit a series of small potholes, throwing everyone around the cab and tossing those in back off their haunches. A renewed vigor of baaing came from the sheep.

  Bashir glanced in his rearview mirror to see if anyone had fallen off.

  “Of course, I know you are President Aineuf, but I wonder who the rebels think they have …” Bashir drummed the heavy fingers of his right hand on his chin while steering with the left. He glanced sideways at Yosef and Alneuf and laughed. Suddenly, he grabbed the steering wheel with both hands and jerked it to the left in an attempt to avoid a large pothole. The back right wheel hit it, bouncing Yosef into the roof.

  “What do you mean?” Aineuf asked.

  “While you were fighting with the warplane the radio reported that President Aineuf had surrendered the country to the new ‘people’s government of Algeria’ and had ordered all government forces still resisting to put down their weapons and return to their garrisons.”

  “But I haven’t said that.”

  “Of course you haven’t, Mr. President. Only the radio has said that.” Bashir let out an audible sigh.

  “Pity those troops who do return to their garrisons. My first nephew by my second sister, who is riding in back, watched from a hidden spot above the small garrison in Bukra Al Buriha.

  The rebels relieved the soldiers of their weapons as they returned to the garrison in response to the radio. This morning they called them out to stand in the morning sun. My nephew by my second sister is a fine lad with impressive hearing”—Bashir flicked his right ear—“but he was unable to hear what they said. But we discussed it and decided that the rebels offered the soldiers a chance to fight for the new government. Many came forward. Some more quickly than others, I hesitate to add. Officers were crowded off to another side and it appeared they were not invited to join the new Army, I think, for none came forward. When they finished, those who volunteered, which were most, crawled into trucks that quickly departed the garrison and turned east to join the border troops.”

  Bashir downshifted as the truck reached a slight hill.

  The front left wheel crashed into another pothole, throwing the speeding truck to the left and Yosef into the roof again. Bashir pulled the truck back onto the right side of the road.

  “What happened to the others?” Yosef asked, nib bing his head.

  “They were lined up and shot,” Bashir replied in a matter-of-fact tone.

  “Let’s face it. Colonel, in the new Algeria only the quiet, docile members of our society will live peacefully in their ignorance and then only if their neighbor lacks envy.”

  At the crest of a hill they passed two cars, traveling in convoy. Personal effects were tied loosely to the roofs. With the exception of the two men driving, crouched protectively over the steering wheels, all the three in the cab saw were women and children crammed inside both vehicles.

  Fearful glances came from the people inside the vehicles, but no acknowledgment; no casual wave came as they passed.

  “They won’t go much farther,” Bashir commented.

  “Why is that?”

  “The rebel roadblock will stop them and turn them back.

  This is the new Algeria, Mr. President. That is, until you return to power.”

  “And you think I’ll return?”

  “No, I don’t, Mr. President,” replied Bashir after a few seconds.
/>   “Please accept my most humble apologies. But, you will be the catalyst; the figurehead to those who will slip into the underworld of Algeria to fight. Now the colonel, he is young. He could return to free Algeria from these new tyrants, who will jerk freedom away in the name of religion or in the name of social equality. They will find reasons to stop those freedoms we had begun to enjoy; just as communists did during the days of the Soviet Union in the name of socialism or as the Americans do in the name of political correctness. Hold on!”

  The bright sun blinded the three as they swerved around a bend in the road. The truck bounced through another series of potholes before straightening out. Bashir pulled the sun visor down, reached above it, and extracted a pair of gold aviator sunglasses. He put them on. They looked out of place; too small for his broad face, large jowls, and multiple chins.

  “Do you have sunglasses, Mr. President, Colonel?”

  “I am afraid. Said Bashir, that when we left the palace last night we hardly had time to pack. What you see is what we have,” Aineuf answered, holding his coat open slightly.

  “Open the dashboard. Colonel. I think I have some spare sunglasses in there.”

  Yosef opened the dashboard. Dozens of aviator sunglasses tumbled out, with several pairs landing on the floor.

  Some were in carrying cases, most were not, and all had the manufacturer’s tag still on them.

  “A lot of sunglasses for a simple truck farmer, Mr. Bashir,” said Yosef.

  Bashir’s laughter rocked the cab.

  “Even a truck farmer must supplement the meager earnings made from the sale of vegetables and sheep.”

  “You’re a smuggler?” Aineuf asked, amazed.

  Bashir’s laughter rocked the cab.

  “No, Mr. President. Let’s say that until this new change of government I was active in tax-free marketing.”

  “Okay, hold on, here is where we turn.” Without slowing, Bashir whipped the truck to the left, bouncing off the road. The wheels dropped six inches from pavement to sand, tossing everyone in the back into the air. Bashir continued down a rough incline before, with brakes squealing, abruptly sloping amidst a cloud of dust.