The Shores of Tripoli

by Fisher Samuels

  “Oh, no. You two are going with me. We might need a good doctor.” Grassley smiled at MacFarland. “And you, I’ve always liked you, Jackie.”

  “It’s Ensign or ma’am, you disgusting pig!”

  Grassley stepped quickly right up to her and grabbed her by the throat. “You better learn how to talk to me.”

  She grabbed his hand and tried to pull it off, but she couldn’t break free.

  Ruiz knocked Grassley’s arm down, but Grassley quickly recovered and grazed Ruiz with a right jab.

  “Don’t you ever touch me again. My boat, my rules.” He pointed at Ruiz. “You’re my doctor!” He pointed at MacFarland. “And you’re my bitch!”

  MacFarland snarled, and smacked Grassley on his face. As he recoiled, she stood quickly and started kicking and smacking, trying anything she could to knock him down.

  Grassley blocked his face and started laughing. He swung at her with his left arm and swiped her arms away, then followed with a backhand to her cheek.

  She screamed and crumpled into Ruiz’s arms, who’d just stood to help her.

  Grassley saw that her cheek was bleeding. “Oh, it looks like I might have given you a scar on your pretty little face.” He straightened. “You do that again, and I’ll kill you.”

  ———————

  Mudawar licked his lip and tasted blood. He ran his hand across his lip and beard and smiled when he saw the blood. He always felt good after a victory, as long as the costs weren’t too high. He looked around the cabin made of smooth, clean metal. It was smoother than the metal of his father’s sun burst mirror, but not as shiny. Other parts of the boat were made of glass, but entire windows, not just the small pieces he’d seen in telescopes. The deck of the boat was solid, smooth and clean, but inside the cabin, the carpet on the ground was tightly woven and solid in color, and covered the floor seamlessly from wall to wall.

  He saw one of his shipmates still laying on the carpet. Mudawar leaned over and slapped him lightly on the face.

  Grassley heard Mudawar speak more of the mixture of Turkish and Arabic that he couldn’t understand.

  Mudawar looked at Grassley. “What is wrong with Sayeed?”

  Grassley shrugged. “Doc? There’s your first patient.”

  Ruiz looked at Grassley, then walked to the unconscious man laying at the aft end of the cabin. “Excuse me,” he said to Mudawar.

  Mudawar stood, put his hands on his hips and looked down at Ruiz.

  Ruiz rolled the man on to his back. “Oh, shit.” He looked at Grassley and gestured at the man’s swollen groin. “I need to get him some ice.”

  “What is wrong with him?” Mudawar pressed his hand down on Ruiz’s shoulder.

  “I don’t know yet, but I need to get the swelling down.” He pointed at the softball-sized lump between the man’s legs. “Obviously.”

  Mudawar glared at Ruiz. “What?”

  Grassley stepped in. “Just let him work, Mudawar.”

  Mudawar snapped his head toward Grassley. “Do not call me that. Call me saydee, or sir if you can’t say it in my language.”

  Grassley wrinkled his mouth. “I ain’t calling you sir. I don’t work for you. We’re partners, remember?”

  Mudawar stiffened. “Do not talk so fast.”

  Grassley shook his head. “I—don’t—work—for—you. Got it? I’ll call you whatever the hell I want.” Grassley looked at the M-4 still slung over Mudawar’s shoulder. “But we work together now. You need me for this ship. I need you for the language. Right?”

  Mudawar stared at Grassley. “For now.”

  Grassley smiled. “For now.”

  ———————

  Grassley poured another double of Jack Daniels into his coffee mug and sat at the clean table in the galley. The other table was still covered with blood-spotted blankets, straps and other remnants of its use as Rogers’s recovery bed.

  He took a drink and swirled the whiskey in his mouth before gulping it down. He smiled and pulled out his pack of Marlboros. He lit one and took a deep drag, then fanned it out with a deep exhalation. Another drink of Jack and another drag from his cigarette made him feel relaxed and in complete control. After all, there weren’t any more rules against drinking and smoking on board.

  He went to the cooler and looked through the food. There were still frozen meals, but he knew they wouldn’t last long. He grabbed a chicken fried steak meal and put it in the microwave, then counted the remaining meals. If he was the only one eating, it would be enough food for maybe two weeks, but with his new crew of pirates, it would last only a few days.

  Halfway through his whiskey, the microwave chimed. He sat in the middle of the table and spread out to enjoy his meal, but his quiet enjoyment didn’t last long.

  Ruiz, MacFarland and Mudawar came down the ladder and into the galley.

  Grassley took a bite of steak. “Well, well, well,” he said while chewing. “Look who’s here.”

  “What are you eating?” asked Mudawar.

  “A southern specialty. Chicken fried steak, mac and cheese, and okra.” Grassley took another bite. “Just like mama used to make.” He smiled at MacFarland.

  She curled her lip in disgust.

  Grassley washed it down with more Jack. “What do you want?”

  Mudawar looked oddly at the bottle on the table. “We must leave Tripoli.”

  Grassley nodded. “We will. No rush.” He took another drag of his cigarette. “We need supplies. Food. More weapons.”

  Mudawar grabbed the bottle of Jack and smelled it. He put it back down on the table and stared at Grassley. “Why do we need more weapons? This ship breathes fire.”

  Grassley snorted. “Bullets don’t grow on trees, my dear Mudawar.”

  Mudawar glared at him. “Bullets?”

  “Rounds. Heavy metal projectiles wrapped in copper. Bullets make the fire that comes from the guns.” Grassley took the last bite of his meal and slid the tray across the table. “Toss this in the trash, sweetie.” He looked at MacFarland and winked.

  She crossed her arms.

  “And where do we get bullets?” asked Mudawar.

  Grassley shook his head. “Won’t be easy. Might be able to make some from the blanks, but I doubt it. That’s why we need other weapons.”

  Mudawar looked confused for a second, then his face tightened with anger. “I don’t understand!”

  Grassley pinched his cigarette and took a long drag. His eyes narrowed and he studied Mudawar through the smoke. “I know. But trust me. We need more weapons, gunpowder, food and supplies.”

  Mudawar put his hands on his hips. “For how many days?”

  Grassley put his leg up on the bench and leaned on the table. “Maybe two or three. Thought we’d zip up to Italy. I hear Venice is nice this time of year.”

  “What?” yelled Ruiz. “Come on, man. We can get back tonight. We know right where to go and when!”

  MacFarland put her hand on Ruiz’s shoulder. “Don’t do this,” she said to Grassley. “Just let us get out of here. Back to where we belong.”

  Grassley smiled and snubbed out his cigarette. “I belong right here.”

  One of the other men called out from above, but Grassley only understood one word: Mudawar.

  Mudawar yelled something back. “Come,” he said to Ruiz. “Sayeed is awake.”

  MacFarland turned to follow them out of the galley, but Grassley stood up. “Hold on, Ensign.”

  She looked at him walking around the table toward her. He looked loose, but close to off balance, and she tensed. She backed toward the ladder.

  Grassley reached out and grabbed her wrist. “No, no. Just sit down. Have a drink with me.”

  Mudawar looked in the galley before he turned and went up the ladder.

  “I don’t want to drink. With you or anyone else.”

  Grassley pushed her down to sit, then he sat next to her.

  She tightened her shoulders.

  He looked at her and smiled again.
“You really are beautiful. But you know that don’t you?” He reached over and touched the small cut he’d left on her cheek. “Sorry about this. Make sure the Doc takes a look at it. Little butterfly bandage is all you need.”

  She smelled his breath, soured with whiskey, cigarettes and southern fried food, and it made her nauseous.

  He swung his leg across the bench, aiming his groin at her as she faced the table. He slid forward, close to her. He poured more Jack into his coffee mug. “Come on. Have some. It’ll relax you.”

  She slid away and started to stand, but he grabbed her uniform shirt and pulled her back toward him. “Stop it! Let me go!”

  He snatched the bun of her black hair and yanked her head back. “God, you’ve got a nice neck.” He ran his finger across it. “I’d hate to have to cut it.”

  She glared at him, and clenched her fists.

  “Don’t fuck with me, Jackie,” he whispered. “You always wanted to be one of the guys, didn’t you?”

  “No! Let me go!” She started breathing quickly and looked for places to punch him.

  Grassley heard steps on the ladder, but he didn’t move.

  “What are you doing?” Mudawar stared at Grassley.

  Grassley pushed her head forward and let go. “Disciplining my crew.” He pushed away from MacFarland and stood. “What do you want?”

  “I want to get supplies and leave Tripoli. Now.”

  Grassley nodded. “Fine. I’ll drop you off on the jetty. You get the supplies and I’ll pick you up.”

  Mudawar shook his head. “I am not a fool.” I will send two of my men, but I will stay.” Mudawar glanced at MacFarland. “With you.”

  ———————

  Grassley tried to start the e-drive, but the system reported insufficient energy. “What’s wrong with the fuel cells?”

  MacFarland shrugged her shoulders. “Boats was working on them, but he couldn’t get the e-drive to fire up.” She glanced at Ruiz. “Thinks it got fried by the test fire.”

  Grassley laughed. “Great.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Mudawar.

  Grassley sat in the skipper’s chair. “Just like we’re going to run out of bullets, we’re going to run out of fuel.”

  Mudawar looked agitated.

  “The engines that make the boat go,” he said with a wave of his hand. “They need fuel to run.”

  Mudawar put his hands on his hips. “I do not know what you are talking about!”

  “I know,” replied Grassley. “But trust me.” He looked at MacFarland. “So it’s over to you, Jackie. How much fuel do we have?”

  She shook her head. “Don’t know.”

  Grassley smiled again. “Are you going to lie to me now, too?” He got up from the skipper’s chair. “It was your job to track fuel and come up with a rationing plan.”

  She looked at him.

  “I read the skipper’s log.” He stood close to her. “Now how much is left?”

  She took a deep breath. “Two hundred nautical miles at speed. A week at idle.”

  Grassley turned and looked out the cabin window. “Fuck.” He sat at the helmsman’s chair and started the diesels.

  Mudawar and the other pirates bristled. Mudawar put his hand on the cabin wall and felt the vibration rumbling throughout the boat. He stood next to Grassley’s chair and watched.

  Grassley tapped at the screen and the boat started moving forward.

  Mudawar saw Grassley touch the glass a few more times and he heard a whining noise from the bow of the boat.

  Grassley weighed the anchor and nudged the throttles up and turned toward the seaside of the jetty.

  Mudawar looked back at the other pirates. They all looked terrified.

  “They ready to get your supplies?” asked Grassley.

  Mudawar took a moment to respond. “Yes. They are ready.”

  “Good. Get them on the bow. Gonna drop them off right up there,” he said, pointing to the gap in the rocks that Marathyachi had used with the RHIB last night.

  Mudawar bristled. “Why? Get closer.”

  “Why? Because your friends will probably start shooting at us again, that’s why.”

  Mudawar nodded.

  “Go on. Get them out there. And tell them to hurry back. Can’t wait all night.”

  Chapter 18

  Darkness

  Fatin had been waiting through two calls to prayer, and for that, he vowed to make up for them with qadaa’ as soon as his task was complete. He didn’t know Mudawar’s routine, nor did he know if he’d even come in the smallest room of his nearly empty home. But this room held more objects than any other room in the house, making it look like Mudawar spent most of his time here in this tiny room.

  The room was lined with books stacked on wooden planks that were elevated just off the dirty floor. In the center of the room, a standing table displayed a few more books and an old tin oil lamp, its tip blackened with soot from many hours of use after sunset. In the far corner was a black chest, and on it was Mudawar’s prayer rug and Qur’an.

  Fatin thought of the book and of what he was here to do. He thought of the knife in his hand, and how Mudawar had laid it at his feet. The dagger’s gold handle and encrusted rough-cut gems would never make up for losing Jamal, and Fatin meant to explain that when Mudawar got home.

  He heard footsteps crossing the threshold of the outer entrance to Mudawar’s home, but many more than he expected. Fatin quietly unsheathed the dagger and pressed himself flat against the wall.

  In the outer room, Fatin heard dozens of footsteps shuffling on the stones and a man whose voice he didn’t recognize barking out commands. “Sit! There! Sit!”

  Fatin had no idea who the man was or who he was talking to, but the voice continued and neared the doorway.

  The figure entered the tiny room. He wasn’t tall, like Mudawar, but short and pudgy.

  The short, fat man turned and looked right at Fatin, then down at the golden dagger clenched in his trembling hand. The man inhaled to cry out, but Fatin struck before he could say a word.

  Fatin thrust the dagger quickly without aim into the short man’s chest. The man’s eyes opened to a ghostly white and he sucked in air. His breath turned to a gasp and he shuddered forward, then grabbed Fatin’s shoulders and pushed in to him. He took a few lurching steps forward and gurgled a foul, stale moan through his clenched brown teeth.

  Fatin’s back hit the wall and he tripped on a shelf of stacked books. He turned and pushed the man down with one hand while the other held tightly to his dagger.

  The man’s body slipped off Fatin’s dagger and fell flat to the ground. Blood bubbled from his chest and the man’s body went limp.

  Fatin looked at the blood dripping from the gold blade and on to his hand. He wanted to show it to Mudawar, just to let him know that it could have been him lying in his study room, and then he would lay the dagger at Mudawar’s feet to show him that they were even.

  “What is the matter?” asked a second unfamiliar voice.

  Fatin raised his blade again and staggered toward the doorway to the main room just as the other man approached.

  Their eyes locked. The man was holding a short sword, but the man was young, and didn’t have hate or revenge in his eyes like Fatin. The man looked down at Fatin’s bloody knife and stepped back. He looked again into Fatin’s eyes and dropped the sword on the ground then turned and ran outside.

  Fatin scooped the sword off the ground and looked at the two blades in his hand, one rusty and unused, the other golden and bloody. He turned his head slowly toward the six men sitting on the ground. They were strange men in strange clothing and Fatin thought they must have been Mudawar’s friends. He thought about killing all of them.

  But none of them moved. They all sat against the wall with their hands behind their backs, and two of them had swollen faces. If they were Mudawar’s men, he thought, they must have been beaten. Fatin stiffened and turned toward the door.

  �
�——————

  “Wait! Wait!” Williams pressed his back against the wall and struggled to stand.

  Fatin turned and raised his bloody dagger.

  Williams spun around and showed his bound wrists. “Help. Saadni. Saadni.”

  Fatin stared at Williams, but didn’t move.

  Again, Williams flexed his wrists toward Fatin. “Saadni. Saadni.” Williams didn’t know if his Arabic pronunciation of the word help was good enough or whether the man even spoke Arabic. He turned towards Fatin again. “Mudawar!” He spit on the ground.

  Fatin wrinkled his brow, but stayed where he was.

  Williams tried again. “Mudawar!” He spit at the floor and repeated it again and again. “Mudawar! Mudawar!” he said, spitting each time.

  Fatin took a step towards Williams then stopped again and watched him.

  Williams nodded at Fatin. “Mudawar.” He spit and shook his head. “Saadni.” He turned and lifted his hands toward Fatin.

  Fatin stared at Williams’s bound wrists for a moment, then lifted his dagger and slipped it under the coarse hemp line. He sliced and cut the rope free and shoved Williams away.

  Williams rubbed his wrists and slowly turned around. He raised his hands together, then clasped them and gently shook them towards Fatin.

  Fatin looked at Williams and the other men sitting on the ground. “Mudawar?” he asked.

  Williams smiled and sliced his thumb across his neck. “Mudawar.” He spit on the floor one more time. Williams quickly waved his arm at his men on the floor. “Saadni.”

  Fatin took a startled step back and again raised his dagger.

  Williams raised his open hands. “No. No.” Williams patted Brewster’s shoulder. “Saadni. Habibi. Brother.” Williams looked at his men. “Lay down. On your stomachs. All of you.”

  Brewster and Marathyachi looked at each other.

  “Do it. Now.” Williams looked at the jailer’s body in the next room. “He was here to kill Mudawar. I think he can help us.”

  ———————

  “What are you looking for?” Smith watched Williams rifling through the books and maps on Mudawar’s table.

  “Anything that’ll tell us more about him.” Williams pulled the English map of the Mediterranean from under a stack of books. “Like this. If he’s a pirate, he’s well studied.”