The Shores of Tripoli

  Williams shrugged his shoulders. “Me neither. Do you?”

  Childress shook his head. “No, sir. The last thing I remember was green sparks on my Kindle.”

  Williams nodded. “I remember green sparks, too. All over the cabin.”

  “Yes!” exclaimed MacFarland. “The NLE was firing at the skiff—”

  “I was watching in my gun camera,” said Marathyachi. “It bounced off the Argonaut.”

  “You’re right,” said Williams. “It arced from us to the skiff, to the Argonaut, and back at us. Right?”

  MacFarland nodded. “Where are those ships? Why aren’t they around here with us?”

  Childress looked at the others but held back.

  Marathyachi snapped his fingers. “I recorded that! Maybe the footage saved before the computers got zapped.”

  “Go try, Shiv.” Williams pointed toward the gunner’s console.

  “What do you know about the Philadelphia, sir?” asked Childress.

  “Nothing more than what you know,” replied Williams. “We just found her there, grounded in the harbor.”

  “No, sir. I mean historically. Know any of her history?”

  “I don’t know, private,” replied an agitated Williams. “Name’s familiar. I just can’t remember right now.”

  “Any of you know?” Childress looked at the others. “Why would the Philadelphia be in Tripoli?”

  Williams threw his hands up in the air. “What, an anniversary of the Barbary Wars? We don’t celebrate that.”

  “Yes! Barbary Wars.” MacFarland smacked her thighs. “Now I remember.”

  “Sir, uh,” started Childress. “What if—we—what if we, you know, went—”

  “Where? What if we went where?”

  Childress took a few deep breaths. “Not where. What if we went, um, back in time?”

  Smith laughed. “It’s probably a fucking goodwill tour or something. Just ’cause it’s an old ship—”

  MacFarland held out her hand. “Why do you think that, Tricky?”

  “What bullshit.” Smith turned away. “Let’s think about how stupid that sounds. Can we?”

  “Hey, skipper?” Marathyachi turned his chair toward the group. “Come check this out.”

  “The video saved?” Williams stood next to Marathyachi’s console and looked at the freeze-frame image of the second pirate skiff in the test. Smith, MacFarland, Brewster and Childress huddled around the monitor.

  “Yessir. Watch this.” Marathyachi tapped on the screen and the video resumed.

  The video showed the five occupants of the skiff rocking as it motored through the surf. One of the occupants slumped into his chair. Two others soon did the same. A green electrical discharge shot across the skiff like a lightning bolt, and then the display went green for an instant. The video went dark and then black at the end of the file.

  “Well, that’s fascinating.” Williams turned and walked towards his chair. “What about the satellite antenna. Do you think they—”

  “Sir? You didn’t see what I was trying to show you.”

  Williams returned to Marathyachi’s console. “What?”

  Marathyachi slid his finger along the slider and the frames stepped backward through black and green. He went to the frame with the green flash and then stopped on the very next frame.

  “So the camera got fried. No surprise there,” said Williams.

  “No sir. Look.” Marathyachi pointed to the dark outlines of the waves.

  “Black and white?” asked Williams.

  “No. Night. And stars.” Marathyachi pointed to a bright star or planet above the dark horizon.

  “Holy shit.” Brewster looked at Childress. “Was that the green shit we saw on deck, Tricky?”

  Childress pursed his lips and nodded.

  “What? What are you talking about?” asked Smith.

  “We saw that same green color on deck about twenty minutes ago,” replied Brewster. “It looked like a cloud of sparks.”

  “And?” pressed Smith.

  “And I know why the nav system isn’t working,” said Childress.

  MacFarland nodded.

  “It’s because there aren’t any satellites. Not now. Not yet at least.”

  “Come on, Tricky. This ain’t one of your damn space stories,” said Brewster.

  “I’m serious. Go on deck. Try to find one satellite.” He pointed toward the sky. “And it’s dark out there. You should be able to see one in seconds.”

  MacFarland and Smith left the cabin for the deck. Williams walked out, but slowly. They all looked up for nearly two minutes and saw only shooting stars.

  “Son of a bitch,” said Williams. He turned and looked at the harbor. “This is not the same harbor we were in this morning.” He looked at the sails of the Philadelphia still visible over the jetty. “Son of a bitch. Capture of the Philadelphia, eighteen oh two, no, three?”

  MacFarland nodded. “And then destroyed by Lieutenant Decatur’s team in 1804.”

  “Ha! So you think we got zapped back to 1804? That makes a hell of a lotta sense,” said Smith.

  Childress nodded, then shrugged. “I know it doesn't, sir. But how else do you explain it?”

  Williams shook his head. “There’s got to be a rational explanation.”

  “It all makes sense,” said MacFarland. “Our radios work, but no one else is listening. Our computers are on, but there aren't any satellite networks to link to. Clocks are all off ’cause there’s no GPS.”

  Williams looked at the dim lights from the city.

  “We toured that Red Castle!” exclaimed Brewster.

  “Yes we did.” Tricky pointed. “But it wasn’t on the water like that, was it?”

  Williams put his hands on the railing and looked at the listing frigate. “How the hell can this even happen?”

  “Sir, none of us can explain why it happened,” said Childress. “But it did. And if we don’t get out of here, we could change—history.”

  Williams turned slowly toward Childress and stared at him. Tricky looked at the others.

  “Holy shit!” Ensign MacFarland looked down. “Do you think we already did? We sank that corsair. We saved two of the crew from the—Philly.”

  “Come on. This is such bullshit,” said Smith.

  “How else can you explain it?” MacFarland leaned on the railing and looked into the water.

  Smith stood next to her. “Maybe the NLE fried our brains or something. Maybe I’m just dreaming this.”

  MacFarland looked at Williams. “We could’ve already changed history.”

  “We didn’t travel through time,” said Williams. “There’s got to be an explanation.”

  “May be, sir. But we should get out of sight while we decide,” said Childress.

  “He’s right,” said Brewster. “I can feel it. Something’s really wrong here.”

  “Come on, Brew. Stop that.” Williams looked agitated. “You’re worrying the crew, private.”

  “I know, sir. But I’m completely serious.” Childress walked up to Williams. “I know that nothing about what I’ve said makes sense. But don’t you think we should figure things out somewhere where they can’t see us?”

  Brewster started pacing.

  Smith shook his head. “So what if we’re seen. What’s the big deal?”

  “The timeline,” replied Childress. “We screw something up in the timeline, and some crucial decision is changed that could change the course of our history.”

  Brewster laughed wildly. “It’s just like that movie! Uh, uh, Back to the Future!”

  Williams watched Brewster laughing. “Cut it out, Brew.”

  “We don’t got a fuckin’ DeLorean!” Brewster screamed and slammed his hands on a deck locker. “We’re stuck here with a big fucking boat!”

  “Keep it down, dammit.” Williams looked at Smith and nodded towards Brewster.

  Smith put his hand on Brewster’s shoulder.

  “Get your fucking hands off me!”
Brewster laughed hysterically. “What year did you say it was?”

  “Stop it, Brewster.” The gun fire in the harbor increased. Williams tried to look, but couldn’t see much over the rocks of the jetty. “We better get back in there.”

  MacFarland watched helplessly as Smith tried to calm Brewster down.

  Brewster started breathing heavily, and then rapidly. “I—I just—I wanna go home. Gotta see my wife.”

  “Go get Doc,” Williams told MacFarland. “Have him bring something to calm him down.”

  “We got to go that green shit. It was right over there!” Brewster pointed wildly to the northern horizon. “Come on! Let’s go!”

  “Petty Officer Brewster!” yelled Williams. “Stand at attention!”

  “You got us in to this shit! Now get us out!” Brewster was out of control, jumping up and down on the deck.

  Smith grabbed his arm, but that only agitated him more.

  “We’re gonna miss it!” he yelled, looking north. He looked back at Williams and then at the bridge.

  “No you don’t.” Williams took a step to block Brewster if he made a run for the helm. “Just hold on. Doc’s bringing you something. Childress, help me out if he makes a run for it.”

  “Oorah, sir.”

  Brewster looked at the deck and saw the three men looking at him. He turned around and jumped over the railing before anyone could stop him.

  “Brewster, no!” Smith reached for him, but it was too late.

  Brewster dove into the water helmet-first and disappeared. He surfaced a few meters from the boat, flailing to stay afloat.

  “Fuck!” Smith grabbed a rescue ring from the railing, but hesitated before throwing it.

  Williams and Childress neared the railing and watched Brewster slapping the water wildly to stay afloat.

  “He’s got his damn vest on,” said Smith. He peeled open the hook and loop fasteners of his vest and dropped it on the deck, along with his helmet. He climbed over the railing, rescue ring in hand.

  Brewster was floundering, the heavy vest and helmet proving too much for his swimming strength.

  Smith jumped in just as Brewster disappeared below the surface again. Smith pulled Brewster onto his back, unlatched his helmet and let it sink. He slid the rescue ring over Brewster’s arm, then grabbed him by the buddy handle on the back of his armored vest. In a few strong strokes, Smith had his hand on the rescue platform.

  By the time they got back on deck, Smith was exhausted and Brewster was sobbing.

  “I wanna go home,” he muttered.

  Williams patted him on the wet shoulder of his vest. “Me too, Brew. Me too.”

  ———————

  Grassley, Rogers and Watts had been standing on the sloped floor of the Philadelphia’s stateroom for only a few minutes, but Grassley’s calves were burning.

  If Watts and Rogers were in the same pain, they’d never show it.

  The three stood motionless, their arms still up, but now clasped behind their heads. Leaning against the wall at the lower end of the tilted room, three soldiers still stood guard, though they took turns holding their muskets on their prisoners. One of the soldiers had even moved one of the chairs in front of him to use as a stand for his rifle. It was a good idea, but his commanding officer probably wouldn’t appreciate the creative solution for muscle fatigue.

  In the corner next to one of the guards, the team’s three M-9 pistols and two M-4 carbines lay on the ground. Grassley could tell that Rogers and Watts were cooking up plans to recover their weapons, but there was enough activity outside the room to keep the musketeers alert.

  “Heave! Heave! Heave!” Grassley could hear the men hauling cargo out of the hull and dumping it into the harbor. From the way the ship was canted, Grassley figured their efforts were futile.

  “Swing all the cannons to port. Swing them as high as they’ll go!”

  “They’re persistent. I’ll give ’em that much,” said Grassley.

  Rogers studied the three men holding the muskets. “These guys are tired, man. I can take ’em.”

  “No shit. Maybe just one of us’d get shot. Not both,” said Watts.

  “Just hold on guys. Dauntless’ll be here soon.”

  “How do you know?” asked Rogers.

  “Because if that sailing fleet really is returning, Williams wouldn’t let us sit here.” Grassley smiled. “He’s a jackass, but he’s not dumb.”

  “Heave! Heave! Heave!”

  Rogers looked at who he figured was the youngest musketeer of the three. “Your captain said that you’re Marines?”

  The young musketeer looked to the others.

  The older musketeer closest to their weapons shook his head. “He’s not going to talk to you.”

  “We’re Marines, too. See?” Rogers looked down to his chest, but the armor covered his name tapes. “Uh, here!” He pointed to the Marine Corps logo sewn into his vest. “See, globe and anchor.”

  The older musketeer looked at the others but didn’t respond.

  “Don’t think they want to talk with us, Corporal Rogers.” Watts looked at Rogers and then at all three of the musketeers standing down the slanted floor. “Man. Just one good jump and I’d be there.”

  Grassley shook his head. “Just wait a—”

  “Heave! Heave! Heave!”

  The boat rocked with a shudder and canted another degree or two to port. Deep thuds echoed through the ship and men yelled from above and below them. With his burning calves, Grassley lost his balance and stumbled toward the low side of the room and into one of the off-balance musketeers.

  “Now!” yelled Rogers. He took two long steps and jumped toward the musketeers below.

  Watts followed quickly.

  Rogers and Watts quickly overpowered all three of the musketeers. Rogers was standing with each of his boots on the back of a man, pinning two against the floor of the tilted room. Watts had his knee on the back of the third, and wrenched the man’s musket free.

  “Get their muskets!” Rogers yelled to Grassley.

  Grassley grabbed the remaining two muskets and moved them to a far corner.

  “Now get our weapons!”

  Grassley climbed over to the other corner and put an M-9 in his holster. He handed the others to Rogers and Watts, and then handed them their rifles. “Now what?”

  “Listen up, you!” Rogers looked down at the three startled men. “We got your weapons and ours. You try to move, you’re toast. Got it?”

  “Toast?” asked one of the men.

  “What?” asked Rogers. “You a damn comedian?” He slung his M-4 over his shoulder and checked the safety. It hadn’t been touched since they’d taken it. “Don’t move!”

  “What the hell just happened?” asked Watts.

  Grassley climbed up towards the door. “Boat shifted. Think they moved a bunch of ballast to kedge off, but they’re still stuck.” He grabbed the three muskets. “Let’s get outta here.”

  “What do we do with these guys?” asked Watts.

  Rogers bent down. “Are you going to stay here!?” he thundered.

  The men all nodded.

  Watts shrugged. “And you believe them?”

  Rogers shook his head. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter 9

  Captured

  The gun deck was brighter now that the upper gun ports were tilted even more to the moonlight, but the steeper angle made it difficult to move. Men were busy tying ropes around the cannons on the high starboard side and guiding them out of the hatches above, while others were using axes to chop the port-side cannons out of their carriages. As they chopped, pieces of the carriages started cracking under the load, and when the cannons broke free, they tumbled out of the gun ports and fell into the harbor with resonant splashes.

  “Holy shit,” whispered Watts. “Go low? Swim for it?”

  “And get a fucking cannon dropped on my head?” asked Rogers. “No way.” He looked around the dark gun deck. “Let’s go to the bow. Cl
imb off the sprit. We’ll be closer to the Dauntless.”

  Grassley shook his head. “There’s thirty or forty men in here.”

  Rogers breathed through his nose like an agitated bull. “Fuck,” he whispered.

  Men started yelling and musket fire erupted above.

  “Sailboats must be close,” said Grassley.

  Cannon fire echoed through the boat, but nothing seemed to be hitting the ship.

  “What the hell is going on around here. Sailboats? Cannons? Seriously?” Watts grimaced.

  More gunfire broke out, this time from below and they heard rounds thudding into the thick wood of the hull. Men screamed and sounds of the battle grew thicker all around them.

  “Fuck this. Come on.” Rogers slapped Watts on the shoulder.

  They climbed down to the first empty gun port. Rogers laid in the opening and gestured for Watts to take the next one.

  Rogers flipped off the safety on his M-4 and turned the knob of the holographic red-dot sight, but it was dead. He had a clear field of fire on three sailboats approaching from not more than fifty meters away. He watched the men on the deck of each boat. They were dressed in dishdasha and had muskets, swords and daggers. “This has got to be a fucking joke,” he mumbled. One of the men stood up and fired what looked like a flintlock rifle at something above him. A body tumbled from above and splashed into the water. “Engaging!” He put his finger on the trigger, aligned the sights to the man’s chest, and fired two quick shots.

  Grassley watched Rogers and Watts firing at whoever was attacking them from below. They were calm and methodical, firing just twice at each target and then moving to the next. Grassley figured they didn’t miss very often as they lined up new targets after each double-tap.

  “Last mag!” Rogers yelled out.

  “Me too!” yelled Watts.

  “Where’s the goddam Dauntless?” Rogers lined up for another shot, but couldn’t get the angle. The sailboat captains must have learned to steer clear of this quadrant of the boat.

  “They’re boarding!” someone yelled from the deck above.

  “Shit.” Rogers looked towards the bow again. A few men were still chopping at cannon carriages, but most of the others had gone above. “Bowsprit. Now.” Rogers crawled out of his cover position and moved towards the bow, his M-4 at the ready. Watts joined up right behind him and covered the left side. “Grassley, take the rear,” whispered Watts.