The older man was obviously in charge. All of the other men steered clear of him, and those who did have to interact with him showed respect and immediate compliance.
The younger man seemed to carry quite a bit of respect with the men as well, but was somehow beholden to the older man. There was a slight resemblance to the older man, and their constant back and forth made it look like they were father and son forced into service together. Grassley thought that his face—cleaner, younger, and less hairy than the older man—looked far more determined and serious than any of the others. His dark brown eyes focused on Grassley as soon as he saw him staring at him.
He walked up to the cell door and pointed his flintlock right at Grassley’s head. He glared at him until Grassley looked down at the sand. The man slid his pistol back into his waist sash and continued walking.
“What was that?” The sleeve of Watts’s arm was buttoned to his chest pocket to form an improvised sling. It did little more than immobilize his arm, but that kept him from aggravating his wound. His trap muscle was still bleeding and throbbing in pain, but at least his uniform was starting to dry in the cool morning air. “What’d you do to him?” asked Watts.
“Nothing. Just looked at him.” But with that look, Grassley knew that man was his way out of the cell.
The older man yelled something in a guttural tongue and pointed back toward the city, and the younger man threw his hands up and walked back past their cell. As he passed, a merchant pushing a cart lifted a bowl of figs toward him, but the man knocked the bowl to the ground and—as Grassley assumed by the tone—cursed.
“Definitely father and son,” mumbled Grassley.
“What’s that?”
“That must be the boss’s son.”
Watts looked out toward the harbor and sighed. “How the hell are we going to get out of here?”
Grassley lied. “No idea.”
———————
“I don’t get it, Boats. These things won’t generate more electricity than the diesels. Why even bother?” Marathyachi pulled a chain out of the storage locker on the port side and laid in on the deck.
“Cause we’re gonna run out of diesel before the fuel cells are charged. If that time travel bullshit is true, there won’t be any diesel fuel for at least a hundred years.” Chavez pulled a chain out of the starboard locker. “Clip that chain to the mushroom.”
Each of the boat’s four tidal chargers relied on nothing more than a mushroom anchor connected to two meters of chain and a spindle of thin composite line. Each mushroom anchor was lowered into the water and the composite line was locked into a guide pulley. In a recessed deck compartment, the composite line was wrapped around a sprocketed pulley that connected to a flywheel and generator motor.
Chavez let out each line until the mushroom anchor rested on the bottom, then he engaged the high-efficiency generators. The rocking motion of the boat in the waves spun the pulleys like yo-yos, which slowly accelerated the flywheels. In minutes, the generator on each of the four corners of the Dauntless was producing nearly 75 watts of power.
“There we go,” Chavez said, looking at the display on the charging control station. “285 watts of free juice.”
“That’s it?”
“Better than nothing, Shiv. Besides, we get any waves, it’ll go up a bunch.”
“So how long till the fuel cells are charged?”
“We’re not really charging the fuel cells. They run on hydrogen gas, which is what we’re making from sea water. Just a slow process.”
“How slow?” asked Marathyachi.
“At this rate, I’d say a few days,” answered Chavez.
“You, know? It occurred to me that the skiffs didn’t get zapped back in time. And neither did the Mauler. But we did.”
“Yeah?”
“We’re the only boat that had an e-drive on board,” said Marathyachi. “And ours was running pretty hot when the NLE sparked.”
Chavez closed the charging panel and shut the locker. He looked at Marathyachi.
“Maybe our e-drive’s got to be on when we hit that bubble.”
———————
Grassley was thirsty, his stomach was growling and his bloodstream’s nicotine level was extremely low. He knew what he’d prefer if given the chance to ask his captors for just one thing, but the best decision would be to ask for water.
It wasn’t cold anymore, but it still wasn't warm enough to make him feel any better. And it certainly didn’t feel like the middle of a July day in the southern Med.
Grassley had the door all to himself again, which gave him a chance to watch and think.
Merchants were busying themselves sorting the goods that had arrived in yesterday’s ships. They bickered amongst themselves while unloading boxes and barrels and loaded bags they’d sling over their shoulders for the walk toward the city center.
They moved rugs, fabric, and sacks of tea, tobacco, spices, figs or nuts, but never anything modern. No electronics, no packaged foods, no fresh vegetables, and no canned drinks. In fact, none of the merchants had anything that brought twenty-first century conveniences to wherever they were.
He pulled a five-dollar bill from his wallet. “Hey! Got any food?” He waved the bill through the bars of his cell door.
None of the merchants reacted, at least not immediately.
A merchant carrying a large sack on his back stopped as he passed the cell and looked at the paper in Grassley’s hand. He snatched it from Grassley and examined it for a minute, then threw it on the ground and walked away.
“Give that back!” He reached through the bars for the bill, but it was just out of his reach. “Hey, asshole!”
Footsteps crunched the sand from outside the cell, and a short fat man wearing a ruddy-orange tunic stopped at the bill. The man put his sandaled foot on Grassley’s hand and pressed it flat into the sand.
“Ow! Son of a bitch! Get off me!”
The man bent over and picked up the bill and looked at it.
Watts shuffled up next to Grassley. “What the hell are you doing now?”
“Get off my hand!” He reached through the bars and slammed his fist on the man’s toes.
The man recoiled his foot, then kicked sand through the bars into Grassley’s face.
Grassley spit out what little saliva he had in his dry, sandy mouth. “Fucker!”
The fat man laughed through his tiny brown-stained teeth and said something that sounded guttural and vile.
Watts leaned against the wall with his good shoulder. “You’re gonna get your ass kicked.”
Grassley rubbed sand out of his eyes. “I gotta get out of here.”
“I can’t fucking lay down. I can’t sit back. Shit hurts.”
Grassley ignored him and looked back out the cell door.
Midshipman Crothers walked up and looked out the door. “The Captain says you are only making things worse.”
Grassley turned and sat with his back against the sun-warmed bars.
“Is that so? And how could it get worse?”
“I, uh, don’t know, sir,” said Crothers.
Grassley looked at the Captain and the other men in the room. Most were sitting up, but none looked anxious. “So how’s this work.” He nodded toward Bainbridge. “Does he know what comes next?”
“Aye, sir.” Crothers looked at the Captain, then back out the cell door. “The Pasha tells the Consulate that we’ve been captured, and they send a message to the President to negotiate for our release.”
Grassley nodded. “So, what, couple’a days?”
Crothers shrugged. “I’m not sure, sir. But it’ll take weeks for the message to get to Washington.”
“Weeks!” Grassley laughed. “Where are we? What city?”
Crothers looked down at Grassley. “Tripoli, sir.”
Grassley nodded. “What’s the date?”
“Today is the thirty-first.”
Grassley kept nodding. “Thirty-first of what mon
th?”
“Well, October, sir.”
Grassley smiled, wildly. “And what year is it?”
“Sir?”
“What year is it?”
“1803, of course.”
Grassley laughed. “Of course.”
Chapter 14
Recharging
Lance Corporal Shawn Graves threw the wet, bloody pants into the RHIB’s bow storage compartment. “This sucks.”
“This dude’s leg is gone.” Childress pulled a corpse closer to the edge of the RHIB.
“The shirt’s still good, right?”
Childress snorted. “Looks like it.” He pulled off the sailor’s shirt and pushed the body away. “I don’t feel right about this. We should be saying something.”
“Yeah, but they weren’t going to say anything either.” He hitched his thumb toward the harbor.
Childress rolled a pirate’s body over and found a dagger tucked into the sash. “Check this out.”
Graves glanced at the brass knife. “Sweet. Hurry up.”
Childress took the sash and shirt off the body, trying not to make too many splashes in the process. “See any more?”
“Yeah, over there. About twenty meters to port.”
They paddled the RHIB to the next clump of floating debris. Among the remnants from one of Philadelphia’s rowboats floated three more corpses.
Graves looked at their faces. “I think we need to stop shaving.”
Childress nodded and pulled the next corpse to the side of the boat.
By the time they were done, Graves and Childress had nearly filled the RHIB’s bow compartment with a pile of wet clothes, boots and sandals.
Graves looked around the shore line, but didn’t see any more bodies. “This should be enough for some of us to blend in.”
“How the hell are we gonna do that?” asked Childress.
“Who knows.” Graves patted his armored vest. “I’d rather go looking for Watts wearing this if the skipper’d let me.”
Childress’s phone alarm went off. “17:00. Better get back to the ship.”
———————
“It is not your ship, Mudawar.” Nasser kept walking through the narrow path between the buildings.
“I captured that ship. I fixed the damaged planks, salvaged and straightened every nail, and I myself boiled the tar that covers the hull.” Mudawar stepped in front of his father and blocked his way. “I bled for that ship. And you took it from me while I pledged a debt to the parents of a boy who died on its deck. It is my ship.”
Nasser pushed Mudawar aside. “It is my fleet. And you captured that ship while working in my fleet. All that comes from the fleet is mine. Including that ship.”
Mudawar closed his eyes and listened to his father’s footsteps. He turned to follow him and thought of what his old friend Hassad said about needing the sextant. If you ever strayed far from home.
Mudawar swiped the curtain of his father’s building.
“Even this toy of yours is mine.” Nasser threw the copper steam ball onto the ground and added wood to the fire pit. Nasser laughed. “But what do I need with toys. That, you may have, my little Mudawar.”
Mudawar grabbed the sail bag he packed last night and left without saying a word.
———————
Brewster jumped on the beach and pulled the RHIB ashore. “The shoreline doesn’t quite match our maps.”
“Tell it to the Navy,” said Marathyachi. “Got our position marked?”
Brewster marked their location on the map then buried three large stainless steel washers in the sand. “Yep. Good to go.”
Marathyachi pulled out the radio. “Dauntless, team one in position, over.”
“Team one, Dauntless copies both teams in position,” said MacFarland over the radio. “Keep your eyes open, guys. Dauntless out.”
Marathyachi leaned against the inflated gunwale. “How much time we got?”
Brewster looked at his phone. “’Bout five minutes.”
“You really believe this is going to work?”
“I sure as hell hope so.” Brewster looked north. “I don’t wanna be here.”
Marathyachi looked at the barren beach. “You married?”
“Five weeks ago.”
“No shit.”
“She wanted to get married and have a honeymoon before my tour.”
“Cracking the whip, huh?”
Brewster laughed. “No. Nothing like that.” He scanned the horizon with the binoculars and got used to reading the built-in heading display. “I’d do anything for her.”
Marathyachi nodded. “What’s she do?”
“She’s going to school to be a music teacher. But she’s a pianist.”
“Hmph.” Marathyachi smiled. “She any good?”
“Breaks my heart, man.” Brewster smiled. “It’s how I met her. I went in to BB’s one night. She was—”
“Barnacle Bill’s! I know that place.”
Brewster nodded. “She was in the band. Kind’a shitty. Lead singer was a real douche-bag. Anyway, they go on break, but she stayed to play a song. Said it was for her grandma.” Brewster lowered the binoculars and watched the horizon. “She started playing this song. She’s Got A Way. Billy Joel. Place was rowdy as hell, no one’s listening to her. No one but me.” He laughed. “I don’t think she cared if anyone was listening. She just watched the keyboard. So the place was real loud, everyone’s being rude. One by one, though, people start listening. But she didn’t play any differently. Just kept looking at the keyboard, closing her eyes when she sang into the microphone. Just sang her heart out.” Brewster teared up.
Marathyachi looked away, toward the northern horizon.
Brewster laughed again. “I started crying back then, too.” He wiped his eyes. “I was kind’a drunk, sitting at the bar, watching her. Crying. So, as she’s finishing the song, not a single person is ignoring her. Place was dead quiet except for her. She had everyone. Even the lead singer’s watching. When she’s done, she gets up like nothing happened and went to the bar to get a glass of water. The place goes nuts. She looked around surprised that everyone was clapping. That’s when she saw me crying two spots down the bar.” Brewster stopped talking and lifted his binoculars again.
“So then what happened?”
“She felt bad that she made me cry. Then the lead singer fired her. Four months later, we were married.”
Marathyachi slumped against the side of the boat. “Wow, Brew.”
“Yeah. She’s pregnant, too. I gotta get fuckin’ home.”
———————
Graves leaned back against the sharp rocks of the jetty and looked through the binoculars. “If you’re right about this, I’m going to name my next kid after you.”
Childress looked back toward the harbor and made sure they were hidden from view by the rocks. “What if it’s a girl?”
“Sure as hell ain’t gonna call her Tricky.” He paused. “I don’t want my boy named Dick, either. Forget what I said.” Graves twisted around and scraped an X into the rock with his Leatherman tool.
Childress looked at his phone. “Two minutes.”
Graves rested the binoculars on the chest-plate of his vest. “See any boats coming?”
Childress looked into the harbor. “None coming out. Counted fourteen that left early this morning. See two of them over there.” He pointed to two fishing boats off the eastern shore.
“What do you suppose they think of us? When they see our ship?”
“Hopefully they think stay away.” Childress laughed. His alarm went off. “One minute.”
———————
The alarm on MacFarland’s phone sounded. “Should be within the minute, skipper. Will you take pictures?”
Williams took her phone and opened the camera application.
Smith jumped off the deck and onto the beach. “Boats has the rear camera recording, and I’ll time it with my phone.”
“Here we
go.” Williams took a few rapid breaths.
“You holding on there, sir?” asked MacFarland.
He chuckled. “Yeah. I’m fine. How about you?”
“I’ll let you know after I get this bearing, sir.”
“Lieutenant, you hanging in there too?”
“Yessir. I just hope this happens,” replied Smith.
“You’re telling me.” Williams looked west, but he couldn’t see the team on the jetty rocks. The RHIB team was further up the coast to the northwest. “I think our triangulation’s big enough.”
“I think so, sir. Just wish we knew how big the bubble was. What if it’s getting smaller? Or fading?”
“Ensign, whatever it’s doing, I intend for us to be in the middle of it the next time it appears. We’ll deal with any changes later.”
“Holy shit! There it is!” MacFarland looked through the binoculars and focused on the green orb. “It looks huge!”
Williams started taking pictures. “I see it. I got it.”
“Heading three five one! Uh, yeah, three five one!” MacFarland lowered the binoculars for a second, and by the time she raised them back up, the bubble had faded.
“Three point eight seconds. I don’t fucking believe it. He was right and it lasted three point eight seconds.”
Williams blew out a quick breath. “Nice work. Nice work all of you.” He handed the phone back to MacFarland then looked at Smith. “Got our spot marked?”
Smith nodded and buried a few large washers under MacFarland’s feet. “Aye, sir. I took some pictures of the geo-features, too. We’ll get back to this same spot if we need it.”
“Let’s get off this beach and find the center.”
Smith smiled. “Aye, sir.”
The three officers climbed back aboard the Dauntless and Chavez backed her off the beach for the second time in the last 24 hours.
———————
MacFarland picked up the microphone. “Stand by. Stand by. Just like we practiced. Team one calls east-west, then two calls north-south. Copy?”
“One copies.”
“Two copies.”
“Roger,” she replied. “Try again. Go, team one.”
The Shores of Tripoli Page 13