The Shores of Tripoli

“There’s a lot of shit that don’t look right, man.” Brewster was pacing the deck, looking toward the harbor.

  “Like what?” Childress tucked his thumbs into two of the MOLLE loops on his vest.

  “Shit. Seriously?” Brewster looked at Childress with raised eyebrows. “Like the lights, the jetty wall looks different, there’s no other ships out.” Brewster pointed to the city. “Look how dark it is.” A series of weapons reports reverberated from the harbor. “And that shit. Where’s our fleet? Anyone asked that question?”

  Childress looked and wrinkled his brow. “No, you’re right. Where are they?”

  “And what about our damn boat. Nothing’s working. We wake up at night and everything’s off. I don’t even remember falling asleep.”

  “Yeah, me neither.” Childress shook his head.

  “And you, your ass wouldn’t get up.”

  Childress shrugged. “I didn’t hear anyone.”

  Brewster laughed. “You didn’t feel us shoving you in the bunk, either. You must have been a joy at boot camp.”

  “I did fine, thanks.”

  Brewster looked up at the sky. “Look at this shit. You ever seen the sky so bright this close to shore?”

  “This is Africa, you know.” Childress looked at the thick band of the Milky Way, and remembered seeing it this bright only from the middle of the Atlantic or Pacific.

  “Something’s screwy,” said Brewster. “That’s all I’m saying. Don’t know what. But something’s off.”

  Childress was still looking up at the stars. “I’m reading a book about some dude who’s traveling across the galaxy in a space ship. But he’s never been in space before. And he’s stuck in some small metal box of a room, just laying on the floor. Until someone show’s him how to press buttons on the wall to make the toilet pop out. Or the bed.”

  “What?”

  “That’s what that guy we rescued was acting like. Crothers. Couldn’t figure out how to pull the coffee pot out of the rack.”

  Brewster laughed. “So you think he’s an alien or some shit?”

  “No.” Childress had yet to look down from the stars. “Just thinking.”

  Brewster took a deep breath of the air. “It’s cool out tonight. I want a damn cigarette.”

  “I ain’t stopping you.”

  “Quit two weeks ago. Times like these make me miss it.”

  “I never started. Shit’ll kill you.”

  Brewster looked at Childress, still stargazing. “What are you doing? Counting to see if they’re all there?”

  “No—”

  A green glow caught Brewster’s attention. “Check that out!”

  Childress followed Brewster’s stare.

  A bright green glow appeared on the horizon due north of their location. It was small, but had a rounded shape, and sparkled and throbbed. The green arc darkened and then disappeared just seconds after it appeared.

  “What the hell was that?” asked Childress.

  “No idea,” replied Brewster.

  “Better call it in.”

  Brewster reached for his throat mic, but he’d taken it off since it was dead like the rest of the ship. “Yeah. Be right back.”

  Childress stared at the horizon and waited for it to return.

  “It was right out there.” Brewster returned with Williams. “How far, Tricky? Two klicks? Three?”

  Childress shook his head. “No idea.” He extended his arm. “It was right there.” Childress tried to get a reference bearing from the shore.

  Williams shrugged. “Log it and keep me posted.”

  Brewster looked at his dead watch. “Sir, you have the time? My watch is dead.”

  Williams looked. “Zero three thirteen.”

  Childress looked at Brewster’s watch and then the skipper’s. “Yours works, sir?”

  “Yeah. Self winding.” He shook his wrist and went back inside.

  Chapter 8

  The Philadelphia

  Williams was looking out the cabin window at the frigate still stuck in the harbor. “Since I can’t explain everything that’s happened, I’ll just say that I’ve chosen to respond to the most immediate threat. Whoever’s firing on the Philadelphia hasn’t stopped, so it’s up to us to get her free.” Williams turned to face his crew. The cabin was nearly full with both day and night crews assembled.

  Williams had called all of them together so he could recap the last ninety minutes since they’d woken up in the dark.

  “Now I don’t know why that frigate fired on us, but I imagine I’d be pretty freaked out if a boat just blew away some of my team, too.”

  “What about the survivors?” asked Brewster.

  Williams nodded. “They don’t know either. But one of them, Midshipman Crothers, agreed to hail his ship and ask for permission to board. EN1 Grassley will go aboard to assess the situation. Corporal Rogers, we’ll need two of your guys to go with them for security.”

  “Oorah, sir. When do we shove off?”

  “In just a few minutes.”

  “Rah.”

  “Shiv’s gonna take the team in a RHIB. It should be easier to crawl up through the gun ports on the high side. Plus, they’ll have better cover on that side and we’ll be able to watch them from here. Grassley, talk with their engineer. See if they’re taking on water. If there’s no damage, find a good tow-point. Tell them to make it quick.”

  Grassley nodded, but didn't say anything.

  “Go get Crothers. I want you gone in three minutes.” Williams nodded for Grassley to leave. “And take an M-9, just to be safe.”

  “Roger,” replied Grassley from the ladder.

  “Ready, Shiv?” asked Williams.

  “Aye, sir. RHIB’s tied up by the aft platform.”

  “Alright. We’ll be covering you from the jetty. You get in to any problems, just get outta there.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “It’s gonna be hard for you to get there without getting spotted in the moonlight, so wait for our signal.”

  Marathyachi shook his head. “I sure as hell hope their spotter doesn’t change his pattern.”

  “Ensign’s been watching. Their spotter’s more worried about the fort and the docks.”

  Marathyachi blew out a nervous breath. “So what if they see us?”

  “Then it’s up to you to be a hard target.” Williams smacked Marathyachi on his shoulder. “Get back as soon as you can.”

  ———————

  Marathyachi maneuvered the rigid-hulled inflatable boat, also known as a RHIB, along side the hull of the Philadelphia. The Philly was listing at about five to seven degrees now, so much of the hull’s tar-covered planking was exposed.

  “That’s some beautiful work,” said Grassley. He leaned over the side of the RHIB to look along the Philly’s water line for damage. “Hold here, Shiv.”

  Marathyachi idled the noiseless outboard and used his hand to keep the RHIB from rubbing against the Philly’s hull.

  “Alright, Crothers. It’s all up to you.” Grassley hitched his thumb up towards the Philadelphia.

  “Ahoy! Captain Bainbridge! It's Midshipman Elias Crothers. I have three other Americans with me. Permission to come aboard, if you throw us a line.”

  They heard dozens of footsteps above, and then voices inside the ship, but none of them could make out what was being said.

  “Repeat your name!”

  “It’s Midshipman Elias Crothers.” He enunciated his name to make it clear.

  “If you are Midshipman Crothers, then you’ll recognize my voice.”

  “Aye, Mr. Symington. I’m afraid I’ll never forget your voice, always questioning my orders.”

  Laughter erupted in the mid-decks. “Throw the ladder down for him, boys. Come on up, Midshipman Crothers. But if you’re under duress, we’ll take care of that for you.”

  Crothers was the first to climb up the rope ladder, followed by Watts, then Rogers, and finally Grassley.

  Grassley climbed through the gun
port, but leaned out toward the water before he stood. “We’re good!”

  It was hard to see in the darkness, but it was clear that more than a few muskets were pointed at the four new arrivals. They could clearly see only one of the men around them. He was thin and small, and probably not much older than fifteen. With one hand he held on to the ladder that was tied to the nearest cannon, and with the other held a hatchet that likely would have cut the ladder free if Crothers’ arrival was a ruse. The only thing that looked clean on the young man were the whites of his eyes. His face and neck were covered in dark gunpowder soot, and in the darkened ship it looked like he’d lived that way his entire life.

  “Good to see you’re still alive, Midshipman Crothers.” In the darkness, Symington moved toward the gunport and looked out, but didn’t see anything. “The captain’s in his stateroom, sir. You want to take this lot in with you?”

  “We’d like to help get you off the reef before you get attacked again,” replied Grassley.

  Crothers nodded.

  “Hmm. Come on. I’ll take you to him.”

  “Lead on, Mr. Symington,” replied Crothers.

  The ceiling of the gun deck was low, and lit only by the moonlight that came through the gun ports. It was crowded, with rows of cannons on heavy carriages lining either side. Those on the port side were pressed hard by gravity against the hull, while those on the starboard side strained against heavy ropes that kept them from sliding across the sole of the gun deck. The deck was canted like the rest of the ship, so the four carefully followed one another to a room at the aft end of the ship.

  “Come along, sir. But the others’ll have to wait here,” said Symington. He grabbed the curtain then stopped and looked back at the musketeer escorts. “Shoot them if they move, boys.”

  Symington pulled the curtain open for Crothers and closed it behind them before he opened the door to the cabin. In two minutes, he came back through the curtain-covered door. “Captain will see you now. Mind the light with the curtain.”

  Grassley looked back at his two marine escorts, then proceeded inside. There, he found five riflemen guarding the occupants in the room. The tension spiked as soon as Rogers and Watts joined them.

  Muskets were covering each of them, so Grassley raised his hands and looked at Rogers and Watts. “Easy, boys! Don’t grab your guns.” They were both standing defensively, each with one leg postured ahead of the other and ready to pounce.

  Rogers and Watts were loaded for bear. Like Grassley, they had on their kevlar helmets and vests. Grassley only had a nine-millimeter Beretta holstered on his thigh. Rogers and Watts did as well, but they also had their M-4s slung across their chests and ready to be raised into firing position. If needed, each could be shooting three round bursts in half a second.

  Grassley nodded at the muskets. “Those things even real? ’Cause I gotta tell you, theirs are.” He cocked his head toward the marines next to him. “And they get mighty twitchy when someone’s pointing a weapon at ’em. Even if it’s a replica.”

  The Captain’s stateroom was large, painted bright white, and lit at all four corners by decorative glass oil lamps. At the center of the room, a large oak table was fastened to the floor, but the chairs had all been moved to the low side of the room. The walls were decorated with paintings, charts and shelves of leather-bound books.

  “Who are these men, Midshipman Crothers?” asked the older man standing with his back against the lower wall. The man’s coat was clean and deep blue, and under it he wore a crisp, ruffled white shirt.

  Crothers took a step forward and stiffened to attention. “Sir, these men pulled me out of the water after my rowboat was hit. They—”

  Grassley stepped forward. “I’m Engineman Petty Officer First Class Don Grassley, USS Dauntless, and we’re here to help get you off the rocks.”

  “U. S. S. Dauntless?” enunciated the man. “What country are you from?”

  “America. We’re Americans. What’s it sound like?”

  The man put his hands on his hips and raised his chin. “I am from the United States. Do you mean to say you are also from North America, as in Canada? Or some French Colony? Or is it perhaps South America?”

  Grassley shook his head. “Alright, let’s drop the show. Are you in charge? Do you need our help or not?”

  “Sir, you are addressing a Captain in the United States Navy!”

  Grassley shrugged his shoulders. “It’s not the first time.” He laughed, alone. “Captain Bainbridge, is it?” Grassley waited for an answer then looked at Crothers, but got nothing from him either. “We can probably tow you off this reef, but I need to talk with your engineer.”

  The Captain stared at Grassley then looked at Rogers and Watts. “What kind of clothing are you wearing?”

  “Our uniforms. What about you?” asked Grassley.

  Bainbridge pointed at the embroidered patch sewn in to the cover of Grassley’s armored vest. “What ship is this?”

  Grassley looked down. “That’s the Constitution.”

  Bainbridge leaned in closer. “I’ve been on the Constitution.”

  Grassley smiled. “Oh, yeah? I re-enlisted on her a few years back. Heritage week.”

  Bainbridge stared at Grassley, then continued to study his uniform.

  The sounds of sliding footsteps quickly neared the curtained entrance. “Captain?” A young man clambered into the room and excused his way past Grassley. “Captain.”

  “What is it, Lieutenant?”

  “More ships,” said the lieutenant breathlessly. “Dozens of them. Coming from the docks again.”

  “How long?”

  “Minutes. They just set sail, but the wind’s picking up.”

  Bainbridge straightened his jacket and stood tall on the canted floor. “Are the men ready?”

  “Aye, sir. The Marines are ready, but the cannons, sir.” The lieutenant took a breath. “They’ll be useless.”

  Corporal Rogers and Private Watts looked at each other.

  “Are you certain?” asked Bainbridge.

  “Aye, sir. We’re listing too far.”

  Bainbridge clasped his hands behind his back and breathed through his large nose.

  “We can help. Our boat can pull you off.” Grassley took a step forward, but two musketeers tightened their grip on their muskets.

  Bainbridge turned and looked at Grassley, then at the lieutenant. “Dump the starboard cannons. Dump as much cargo as you can. But start on the starboard side first!”

  “Aye, sir!” The lieutenant ran out, his feet scuffing and sliding as he went.

  Grassley held out his hand. “Just let us look—”

  “And you, sir!” Bainbridge glared at Grassley. “You think you can distract me with your ruse?” He turned toward Crothers. “Led here by a traitor!”

  Grassley raised both of his hands in surrender. “No! No! We’re Americans. We are here to help you.”

  Bainbridge pointed. “Take their weapons. Hold them here! I’ll be on the quarterdeck.”

  Grassley looked at Rogers and Watts. “Don’t do it, guys. Just hold on.”

  One of the musketeers looked at the others, then carefully put his musket into the corner of the tilted room. He shuffled up slowly to Grassley, Watts and Rogers, each easily seven or eight inches taller than him. He reached for Grassley’s pistol, but the Beretta was held in place by a push-button release, and it stayed locked there as the soldier pulled up on the grip.

  “Here. I’ll show you. Slowly.” Grassley deliberately moved his hand down and depressed the button to release the pistol. “There. Now you can pull it out.”

  The soldier slid the pistol out of the holster and looked curiously at it. He put it on the floor and slid it to the same low corner where his musket leaned against the wall. He repeated the process with Watts’s and Rogers’s pistols, then looked at the black, blocky weapons that hung from their chests. He pulled on Rogers’s rifle, but the strap around his chest kept it close to his body.

&
nbsp; Rogers stiffened and looked at Grassley, then at the muskets that were still pointed at him.

  “Just give it to him,” said Grassley. “We’ll get ’em back.”

  ———————

  “They’re aboard.” MacFarland panned her binoculars up to the preoccupied lookout, then flashed the targeting laser at the RHIB. “Shiv’s on his way back.”

  Smith crossed his arms. “We’ve been awake how long now, an hour and a half? Two hours?”

  Williams nodded. “Two hours. It was 0125 when I woke up.”

  “And you’ve got the only working watch, sir,” said MacFarland. “All the other watches are dead. Probably their batteries.”

  “And you think that because all of the other batteries on board are dead, too?”

  She nodded and held up her digital binoculars. “Had to recharge these to get the laser to work.”

  Childress stepped forward. “Any device with a battery. Kindles, iPads, phones. They were all dead.”

  Chavez nodded. “But everything with a rechargeable battery is coming back on line now that we’ve been on diesel a while. Except the E-drive and the non-lethal emitter. The fuel cells are completely drained.”

  “We’ll be back in port soon enough.”

  Childress shook his head. “I don’t know about that, sir.”

  Williams looked at the Marine. “How’s that?”

  He hesitated. “I, uh, think we’re pretty far from where we think we are.”

  Williams turned to Chavez. “Any luck getting the nav system on line?”

  He shook his head. “All the computers are working, but they’re not on line.”

  MacFarland rolled her shoulders to adjust the heavy vest. “They’re not. We’re not getting a network signal. Clocks are all still off. Satellite links are all dead. Still searching.”

  Childress grunted.

  “Got something to add, private?” asked Williams.

  “Does anyone remember passing out?” Childress looked at the others around him. “’Cause Brewster and me, we can’t remember it.”

  Smith shook his head. “I don’t. I just remember waking up lying on my side in the berth. Right before Ensign MacFarland came and got me.”