Grassley pulled out his M-9 pistol and flipped off the safety.
The three walked right past two men chopping away at a cannon carriage, but neither looked at them. The next two axe men saw the three passing by and stopped in mid-swing. They stared at Rogers as he prowled past them, his M-4 aimed right at the first man’s chest.
“Make sure they don’t follow,” grumbled Rogers.
Grassley watched them until one of the men dropped his axe and jumped out the port. The other man quickly followed.
They made it to the bow end of the gun deck, but the only way out was either through the first gun port or up a ladder to the deck above.
Gunfire continued to crackle around them, but now the sounds of frantic shouting added to the cacophony.
“Let’s swim for it,” Grassley said. “Williams ain’t coming.”
“How deep do you think it is?” asked Watts.
“Twenty-one feet,” answered Grassley. “Give or take.”
Rogers looked at him and started to remove his gear. “Dump your armor. Unless you wanna hold your breath and walk.”
All three tossed their helmets, vests and tactical gear out the gunport.
Grassley watched his gear hit the water and sink. “And these?” He slapped his M-9.
“I’m sure as hell not gonna dump ’em.” Rogers put the sling of his M-4 around his back and ensured his M-9 was secure in its holster. “Twenty-one feet, huh?”
Grassley nodded. “Just go feet first. It’s probably a reef.”
Rogers blinked. He crouched into the gunport opening and scanned in all directions, then jumped holding his rifle tightly above his head. He dropped deep, but not enough to touch bottom, then eased up through the surface and looked toward shore. He saw at least a dozen sailboats circling the Philadelphia like sharks.
Grassley and Watts splashed into the water nearby, and the three started swimming toward the rocky jetty. They’d only swam about fifteen meters when a sailboat cleared the bow of the frigate. Rogers quickly disappeared below the surface, but Watts and Grassley weren’t as quick in ducking below.
On the boat, men yelled and let its sails loose. The boat turned toward their last position and slowed. Grassley peaked his head above the surface and saw a musket pointed right at him. He held up his left hand, but put his right on the grip of his pistol. His index finger depressed the release button, but he waited for Rogers and Watts to surface.
Watts surfaced several meters away, and a man yelled at him while pointing a musket. Watts looked over at Grassley, but Rogers still hadn’t surfaced, at least not where either of them could see.
Grassley nodded at Watts, and Watts nodded back.
Watts also raised his left hand, but not his right.
They looked at each other.
Watts took a deep breath, and so did Grassley.
———————
Rogers heard the yelling on the boat, but he couldn’t understand the mix of Turkish and Arabic. He slipped below the surface again and swam toward the sailboat that had stopped to search for them. Swimming in the darkness, he held out his hand until he felt the hull. He pressed his body up close to the seaweed and barnacle covered hull, and slowly lifted his head out of the water.
The small gunboat’s hull was only seven or eight meters long, and it had a low profile. Near the center, the boat was only half a meter tall from the waterline to the railing, where two small swivel guns were mounted on each side. All of the occupants were on the other side of the boat looking down at the water and yelling. Rogers saw only five men on board, and none were looking his way.
Rogers reached down to his holster, but his pistol had been ripped out during his feet-first landing. He let go of the boat, submerged, and pulled the rifle sling from his back. Still under water, he wrapped the sling around his right arm and ensured the safety was off. He quietly broke the surface and guided himself aft and around the other side of the stern. He peered along the edge of the hull to see the five men still looking out into the water, giving Rogers a perfect lineup on which he could engage all five targets without having to sweep much in either direction.
Rogers thought through his actions one final time and reached his hand up to the top of the transom. He counted himself down: three, two, one, go!
He pulled out of the water with his left hand on the transom and raised the barrel with his right. The boat’s sudden movement and the water dripping from him and his rifle drew their attention. The five men turned to look just as Rogers pulled the trigger. He quickly fired ten rounds, trying to put two in each target. The men fell quickly and he pulled himself up high to see them laying in the boat. None were moving.
If he was quick about it, he could move to the shallow side and climb in.
But before he moved, his vision flashed to white and he felt a searing pain rip into his side. His rifle fell out of his hand and the sling pulled his arm down, then his left hand gripping the boat broke free. Rogers had felt this feeling twice before in his short career. He’d been shot, but this felt nothing like before. He sank below the surface to hide.
———————
They heard the muskets firing as soon as they submerged. Until now, neither Grassley nor Watts had ever heard a bullet pierce through the water, but there was no mistaking the high-pitched scream and then the dull whirling of three musket rounds slowing in the water above them. If it was lighter, Watts could have seen how close two of the rounds were to hitting him with enough speed to give him a nasty new scar.
Grassley pulled hard with an underwater breaststroke toward the bow of the frigate. He tried kicking, but with his boots on, it felt like he was swimming in molasses. He swam blindly and expected to hit the hull of the frigate with every stroke.
Watts felt turbulence wash past his hand. The sleeves of his cammies were full of water, so he thought it was just the water getting squished out. He pulled hard again, but this time his fingers caught on to something covered in fabric. He reached out and touched it again. It was Grassley’s leg, and they were both swimming toward the same spot under the bow of the frigate. He’d have to remember to tell Rogers how they’d coordinated an escape route and an underwater linkup with just a look and a deep breath.
Sounds traveled far in the salty water of the harbor. Above they heard the muffled sounds of war. Men were yelling, muskets were firing and cannons thundered all around them. They heard deep thudding noises, like the sounds heard in a pool when boys jumped in cannonball-style to see who could make the biggest splash. A few more strokes is probably all they needed, Grassley thought. Occasionally each man would reach out and grab for the other, just to ensure they were on the same underwater heading.
Watts grabbed for Grassley’s arm and held on to it.
They slowly surfaced and quietly stuck their heads out of the water. Grassley gasped for air, and he hoped the noises all around him were loud enough to compensate for his poor physical conditioning.
They were meters past the bow of the Philladelphia, but they were still in its shadow and so far remained undiscovered. They could only see the stern of the gunboat that was chasing them. The rest of the gunboat and the men who were shouting at the water were out of sight on the other side of the Philly’s grounded hull.
“Where to now?” whispered Grassley in between deep breaths of exhaustion.
Before Watts could answer, he saw Rogers peering around the stern of the gunboat, pause, and then thrust up into the air with his M-4 blazing. And just as quickly as Rogers’s sprang up and eliminated whatever threat he faced on that boat, a musket shot rang out from behind. He watched helplessly as Rogers flinched in pain and sank.
“Buck!” Watts reached for his M-9 with his right hand and paddled with the left to twist himself toward the shooter. Another small gunboat full of corsairs was closing on their position, and his scream and movement had drawn their attention. Musket shots rang out and pounded the water around them. Watts felt a burning blow to his upper trapezius,
right between his neck and shoulder, and it shoved him back into the water.
The sensations of the musket round’s deep bruising and searing heat were quickly replaced by the feeling of a slow, powerful current of electricity coursing through his entire left arm. Still in his boots and now with an immobilized arm, he couldn’t tread water and started to sink. Without thinking he dropped his pistol.
Grassley was lucky enough to not get hit, but he knew what happened to Watts. He quickly raised his hands out of the water. “Surrender. Surrender,” he repeated, spitting out saltwater.
“I dropped my nine,” said Watts.
“Good idea.” Grassley reached down and removed his M-9 from his holster and let it sink. “Y’ought’a drop your rifle, too.”
Watts looked at all of the gunboats swarming around the frigate, then up at the boat nearing their location. With all of the muskets drawn and no where to run, Watts reached for the sling of his M-4. He pulled it off of his bloody shoulder and let it drop to the harbor bed.
———————
Marathyachi guided the RHIB through the narrow gaps in the rocks at the northern section of the scimitar-shaped seawall. He idled the silenced outboard and coasted through the gap. The scene unfolding in the middle of the harbor looked like an old movie, being shown on a screen too far away. Flashes from the fort on the western jetty were soon followed by the concussive booms of the old cannons. Or in this time, maybe these cannons were new, thought Marathyachi.
Sailboats swarmed around the Philadelphia, as fast as old, inefficient sailboats in a gentle breeze could swarm. White puffs of gun smoke would appear from their decks, and waft slowly behind them. On those moving with the breeze, the silvery clouds of gun smoke would hang over the boat, shrouding it in an eery, moonlit haze.
Marathyachi thought that the leaning frigate looked like an injured knight falling on his sword. From its deck, cargo spilled over and musket fire popped. And somewhere inside it, Grassley, Rogers and Watts were fighting for their lives.
Clear of the rocks, Marathyachi twisted the throttle to increase the RHIB’s speed. He adjusted his position to lay even flatter in the stern. Ahead of him, LCpl Graves and PFC Childress laid on the rigid hull and each rested their weapons and helmeted heads on the inflated tubes of the gunwales.
Sailboats surrounded the Philadelphia, leaving no clear course to approach the ship. Marathyachi eased back on the throttle and slowed the RHIB.
“What are you doing?” asked Graves in a whisper. “Hurry the fuck up.”
“Where do you want me to go?”
“In. Just go.” Graves leaned forward and trained his rifle on the nearest gunboat. “Wish I had a goddam suppressor. I’d clean that whole boat.”
“Skipper said to stay out of sight.”
“Fuck that.” Graves glared at Marathyachi. “Buck and Charlie are in the middle of that shit. Probably out of ammo!”
“And Grassley,” added Marathyachi.
Graves turned toward the Philadelphia and surveyed the situation. “Son of a bitch.” He looked back. “Just give me another 30 meters, Shiv.”
Marathyachi nodded and bumped up the throttle.
Graves took off his helmet, unclipped his tac vest and rolled back and forth a few times while pulling it off. Childress started doing the same thing. Graves ripped the hook-and-loop fasteners on his heavy armored vest and pulled it off, too. He fished the M-4 magazines out of his tac vest and stuffed one into each of his shirt pockets.
“Tricky, you ready?”
Childress nodded and leaned his rifle on the side of the boat, muzzle up. “Yup.”
Marathyachi idled the throttle.
“Come out this side,” said Graves. He extended his back leg and rolled it on top of the inflated gunwale. He rolled over the side and silently slid into the water. Childress held his rifle until Graves grabbed hold and shook it to signal that his grip was firm.
Childress slid to the same side and lifted his leg just as a hard, wet object hit the inside of the boat with a familiar tinny, springy sound. Childress stopped and looked over at Graves.
Graves was holding on to the RHIB, intently watching the ships moving around the harbor.
“’Zat you?” whispered Childress.
“What?”
Something else hit the water near the boat with the familiar metallic clink.
Childress knew what he was looking for before he found it laying next to him in the boat: an empty M-4 magazine.
He popped his head up and scanned around the boat. Marathyachi lifted the brow of his helmet and looked aft.
Ten meters away, they saw the dark shadow of a head sticking up from the water.
“Holy shit, it’s Buck!” said Childress.
Graves pulled himself to the bow of the RHIB and looked. He wrapped his gloved fist in the hand rope. “I’m good. Go get him.”
Marathyachi throttled the motor and guided the boat over to Rogers. His white eyes stood out like saucers in his dark, greasy face paint.
Graves put his rifle back in the boat and grabbed hold of Rogers. Still holding on to the hand rope near the bow, Graves hooked his foot up on the gunwale and pulled Rogers on top of him, then Childress pulled him in while Graves pushed. The water on Graves’ stomach was suddenly darker, and he knew what that meant.
“Charlie?” asked Graves.
“Captured. Grassley, too.”
Graves pulled himself into the RHIB. “Go, Shiv.”
Chapter 10
Out of Time
Williams flipped through a book of harbor diagrams until he found the page for Tripoli. “This definitely isn’t the same harbor. Close, but a lot has changed.” He laid the charts in his lap. “No GPS. No radio. Anything else work on this boat?”
“I tried INMARSAT, too, sir.” Chavez tapped at the comm console and called up the satellite communications system. “No satellites at all.” He paused. “Tricky might be right.”
Williams pushed back into his chair. “What do you think about the E-drive?”
“I don’t know, sir. The gel cells are all charged up. So is every other battery powered device.” Chavez shook his head. “But fuel cells for the e-drive? We’d have to run the diesels for hours. Days. Takes a lot’a juice to make hydrogen.”
“XO? How much fuel do we have?”
MacFarland pulled a note pad out of her pocket. “Don’t know, but I’ll find out, sir. Range is about 600 nautical miles on diesel, and we probably used about a fourth of a tank in the exercise. Plus we’ve been idling for almost two hours now.”
Williams nodded. “Figure out exactly what we’ve got left. Need you to keep track of our usage.”
“Aye, sir,” she replied. She started down the ladder.
“And, XO?” he asked. “There’s no diesel to fill up with here. Figure out a rationing plan.”
MacFarland wrinkled her brow and nodded.
“Boats, we can’t afford days of running on diesels to charge the fuel cells. Need you to figure something else out.”
Chavez nodded. “We could try the tidals, sir. I just hope the e-drive didn’t get fried, too.”
“Speaking of tides, Lieutenant Smith, I need you to find a good place to anchor for a bit. Out of the way, but not too far away.”
Smith nodded. “I pulled up the last tide tables, but they don’t match what we’re seeing.” Smith shook his head. “I still don’t believe this.”
Williams held up his maps and tapped on them. “I know. But just go with it.” He waited for Smith to look at the chart of the harbor. “These depths show today’s—I mean our time’s—shipping channels. Odds are that these are the same shipping channels used back then—or, now.” Williams paused. “You’re right. This is pretty frickin’ weird.”
Smith crossed his arms. “It’s fucked up, skip. You sure about this?”
“It’s all we got.” Williams turned the chart more towards Smith. “So, let’s just keep going.”
Smith took a deep breath and
looked at the map. He looked out the window toward the harbor. “Shit.” He studied the map again and after a pause ran his finger along a few channels that cut across the map from east to west. “These were probably dredged after World War Two. So there probably wouldn’t be many ships passing through here now.” Smith rested his finger on an area five nautical miles northwest of Tripoli.
“Good.” Williams traced his finger on the map from the north. “Ships from Italy and Sardinia would probably stay east to get into the harbor.”
Smith pointed to the coastline west of Tripoli. “Think there’d be any traffic from here?” He craned his neck to read the names on the landmass. “Tunisia?”
Williams crossed his arms. “I doubt it. Tunis is up north, but I don’t remember anything historic about any other port cities along that coast.”
Smith stared at the map. “You don’t honestly think it’s 1803, do you?”
“I don’t know what else could explain what we’ve just been through.” Williams took a relaxed breath and handed the map to Smith. “Mark that location. That’ll be our rally point. Get us over there now until we figure out how to get Grassley and Watts.”
Smith penciled in the coordinates at the location and stood next to Chavez. “Helm, take us to—three two degrees five six minutes north and one three degrees four minutes east.”
Chavez wrote the numbers on the glass with his grease pencil. “Aye. Proceeding to three two degrees five six minutes north and one three degrees four minutes east.” Chavez looked at the console and realized the nav system was still useless. “Skipper, I’ve got no way to navigate there.”
“Best guess, Boats. Time to practice dead reckoning. Drop anchor when we get there. And kill the diesels.” Williams paused. “You sure they’ll fire up again when we want ’em?”
Chavez shrugged. “They should. Wish I knew for sure, though, skipper.”
———————
The Shores of Tripoli Page 9