The Sixth Fleet tsf-1

by David E. Meadows

  “I pray that Allah will have mercy on Algeria.”

  Yosef gazed for a few seconds at Aineuf. He wished he knew who had ordered the troops to their garrisons. If the Algerian Army had remained deployed, it would be the FLA mnning now instead of them. Aineuf seemed to have shrunk in size.

  “Mr. President, the last signal received reported loyal forces fighting a successful counterattack from Oran. We may still control the western half of the country.

  If we do retain that control, then we will join them.

  Your survival means hope for Algeria, Mr. President. With you and those remaining forces, we can restore democracy to our country.”

  President Aineuf’s gray face, depression etched into each wrinkle, disappeared back into the shadows.

  “I am in your hands, Colonel Yosef,” he mumbled.

  Colonel Yosef lowered the top of the milk crate and pushed down. The nails slid easily into their original holes.

  The open sides permitted the warm night air to flow through the cramped crate. If the president had been a large man, he would never have fit in it. The only protection the crate offered was its ability to hide Aineuf’s presence.

  Yosef motioned the driver of the electric milk truck forward.

  The vehicle moved off, the quiet hum from the battery-powered engine lost in the sounds of nearby gunfire.

  A half block in front, two Palace Guardsmen darted from doorway to doorway along the dark street, avoiding the few remaining streetlights. It amazed Yosef the electricity was still working. If he had been in charge of the revolution his first target would have been the power plant. You shut down a city’s infrastructure and you own it. Even so, not a light shined from the gray windows mourning the battle-scarred street.

  A mile away a series of explosions lit up the night behind them, the sound roaring by a second later.

  “They’ve started the assault against the presidential palace,” Yosef said to Sergeant Boutrous, walking beside him. “I hope they are gone.” Yosef referred to the forty Palace Guardsmen who had volunteered to remain behind and delay the FLA terrorists. Yosef had issued strict orders to the young captain to abandon the palace an hour after Yosef left with the president. He looked at his watch-sixty-eight minutes. More time than he’d expected. Hopefully, an empty palace greeted the rebels.

  “I am sure they are safely away, mon colonel,” the squat, square-shouldered sergeant replied.

  “Besides, you know how the captain is. He would never disobey your orders.”

  Yosef turned his attention forward as he walked alongside the milk truck. Another hour, he estimated, before the search of the palace revealed that President Aineuf had escaped.

  By then, they should be at the harbor before rebels swarmed through the city, searching for the first and last freely elected leader of Algeria. The capture of President Aineuf would mark the end of the battle for Algeria. The country would descend into the same religious nightmare running rampant in Iran and Egypt.

  The Guardsman at the point of the column waved his hand, pointing emphatically to the left.

  “Quick, turn the truck in here!” Yosef ordered, pointing to a narrow dead-end alley to the right.

  He motioned the Guardsmen to take cover. Once everyone was out of sight, Yosef took position near the milk truck.

  Ahead, two armored personnel carriers, with rebels on top, sped across the road to disappear in the direction of the embassies.

  The point man ran out and peered around the corner of the building. A couple of minutes passed before he pumped a raised fist several times, signaling all clear.

  “Let’s go,” Yosef said, glancing up and down the street to make sure it was empty. The vehicle backed quietly into the road and the column continued its march toward the harbor. Yosef tapped his chin. About three more miles to the warehouses that lined the west side of the port area. Months ago, when the government renewed its offensive against growing terrorism, Yosef had developed several scenarios around sprinting the president to safety. They were just planning exercises in the privacy of his room. More to ensure his survival and escape, as he had been ordered to do when he accepted this mission, than for the president. Good thing he never submitted them. They would have found their way into rebel hands and, by now, they would either be dead or prisoners. The milk truck had been a pleasant discovery after exiting their underground escape route from the palace. Yosef didn’t know how long the batteries would last, but it wasn’t much further to the harbor. It was just dangerous.

  Yosef knew his life was worthless if caught. They would shoot him and the Guardsmen. Him, for being an officer, and them, for being members of the infamous Palace Guards.

  President Hawaii Aineuf, if captured, would remain alive only long enough to quell fighting by government forces; then, once the country was firmly in the hands of the rebels, his life would be forfeited also. Quietly, to disappear in some far region of Algeria — the Sahara was a big wasteland that had swallowed thousands without trace. He touched the pistol strapped to his side. No, Aineuf would not fall into FLA hands.

  Ten minutes later the point guard raised his hand again.

  “Stop the vehicle, Omar,” said Yosef to the corporal driving.

  The Guardsman motioned Colonel Yosef forward. Yosef ran down the street, where the man crouched at a corner behind a telephone junction box installed flush against the side of the building.

  “What is it?” he whispered.

  The Guardsman pointed up the connecting street to where a large opened-back military truck was parked. Surrounding the truck were rebels, herding civilians into the back of it. Arguing and crying could be heard coming from the captives.

  “What are they doing?”

  “I heard English and French from the civilians, man colonel,” the Guardsman replied.

  A rebel shouted, “Search the buildings and see if there are more Westerners hiding there. I count twenty-eight and there are supposed to be thirty-two. Twenty Americans, ten French, and two British. Come here,” the voice demanded.

  The rebel leader walked over to a male captive.

  “Where are the others?” he screamed.

  “Bloody hell! I don’t know,” a posh English voice replied.

  The rebel leader jammed the barrel of his gun hard against the forehead of the man.

  “This is the last time I ask. Where are they? There are twenty-eight others here I can ask, so unless you answer, your life is as useless as the two over there.” He moved the gun long enough to point to where two bodies lay on top of each other.

  A woman in the back of the truck spoke up, her voice shaken.

  “I’ll tell you. Don’t kill him, he doesn’t know, he’s English and the missing are Americans.”

  “Veronica, don’t,” the Brit said.

  Two rebels leaped onto the truck bed, pulled the American woman to the tailgate, and shoved her off. She threw her hands out as she landed hard on her knees in front of the rebel leader. A cry escaped as she toppled sideways, her knees and hands torn and bleeding. The leader, lips curled, moved the barrel of his pistol to the Englishman’s chest and pushed him roughly away.

  The British captive stumbled and fell, whereupon the rebels began kicking the older man as he struggled to his feet.

  Like a ball tossed between a circle of players, they herded him toward the tailgate where eager hands of the captives in the bed of the truck pulled the old man on board. The Englishman’s eyes searched for the American woman.

  “Oh, Veronica,” he said, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.

  She looked up from where she crouched on all fours.

  Their eyes met and she mouthed, “Michael, I—” A nearby rebel kicked her hard in the stomach and her breath whooshed out; he continued to kick her, but less violently, giving the American time to regain her breath.

  Yosef pulled his pistol. He tapped the Guardsman twice on the shoulder and put his mouth near the man’s ear.

  “Go bring up everyon
e but Corporal Omar and two others. Tell the corporal to stay with the president.”

  The Guardsman nodded and took off running.

  Yosef motioned to the point man on the right side of the road.

  “Where are they, woman?” the rebel shouted.

  Veronica tried to stand, but a rebel behind her put his foot on her back and shoved her roughly back down onto the cobblestones.

  “The Americans left here over an hour ago,” she said, her voice wavering in fright. Looking up, expecting to be hit again, she eased off her knees.

  “They got restless and struck out on their own. They were oil riggers, drunks, and we were glad to see them go.” She reached up and wiped the blood from her lips.

  The sound of flesh on flesh reached Yosef as the rebel leader leaned over and slapped her. The slap knocked the woman flat onto the street.

  “Don’t lie to me, infidel! No one has left the premises since this afternoon. You don’t think we have been watching? You think that the Algerian people are your friends? You are a stupid bitch.”

  “Don’t hit me,” she screamed.

  “I’m an American!”

  “I’m not going to hit you, you American bitch,” he snarled. He grabbed her hair, pulling her head up off the street.

  Unexpectedly, she reached up and, with a wild scream, pulled her sharp fingernails down both his cheeks, ripping the skin down both sides, drawing blood.

  The rebel leader punched her, knocking her head down against the road. With a quick motion he rammed his pistol against her head, drawing a groan from his hostage, and pulled the trigger.

  “You Americans disgust me.” The shot echoed off the silent buildings, mingling with the cascade of distant gunshots and explosions. The civilians in the truck began a renewed round of screaming and crying. The rebel leader pulled his scarf out and wiped his cheeks.

  “Damn, bitch!” he said, seeing blood on the cloth. He fired two more shots into her back.

  He swung the gun toward the captives.

  “Shut up! Or I will personally kill every one of you!” he screamed, his face contorted in anger. Two of the hostages held the British gentleman by the arms as he fought to go to the side of his dead American lover.

  The Guardsmen from the milk truck ran silently up to Colonel Yosef. Counting the colonel, there were ten of them. Omar and the two staying behind made thirteen-not much for an offensive operation.

  “We need to get across the intersection without them seeing us,” Yosef said to Sergeant Boutrous. Another shot came from the direction of the truck. The screaming of the captives took on a new intensity. The berserk FLA commander had killed again.

  “Sir, they are killing the hostages,” the point man said, pointing toward the truck.

  “I know, but if we stop to help, then we compromise our position.”

  “Yes, sir, but if we don’t, then the FLA will massacre those people. People we could save.”

  Yosef looked toward the scene again. The FLA commander continued to scream and while Yosef watched, he pointed his pistol into the crowded bed and fired again.

  Yosef took a deep breath.

  “Okay. For all the wrong reasons we are going to engage this force. I counted twelve rebels. The Westerners are on the truck. We are going to go in, do the job, and get the hell out of here as soon as we can.”

  “They’ll kill us before we’re halfway to them,” a Guardsman standing beside the point man added.

  “No, they won’t. They’ll think we’re fellow revolutionaries.

  Just follow me and act like you’re FLA.”

  “What about President Aineuf?”

  Yosef looked back at the milk truck.

  “I know. I thought about it, but Corporal Ghatan is right. If we do nothing, they’ll kill the hostages. President Aineuf will be okay for the few minutes we need.” He started to move forward, then turned and spoke.

  “If something goes wrong, all of you get back here and get him away. Sergeant Boutrous, take four and flank me.”

  Yosef straightened and began marching confidently up the left side of the street, his head held high. His men glanced at each other, shrugged their shoulders, and then spread out on both sides as they nervously followed the colonel. Sergeant Boutrous paralleled Yosef on the other side. When they were fifty yards away, the rebels saw them and raised their weapons.

  “My brothers,” Yosef shouted, “to whom am I speaking?”

  He hoped his voice sounded stronger than he felt.

  “Who are you?” the rebel leader shouted, moving cautiously to the front of the vehicle.

  “I am Colonel Safir. What is going on here and who are you?” Colonel Safir was a senior officer in the Algerian Liberation Front.

  Hearing the name, the FLA commander stepped in front of the truck and saluted.

  “I am Kafid. Kafid of Altamira,” the rebel leader replied, identifying himself with a small farming village southwest of Algiers where two years ago the FLA killed and dismembered every one of the three hundred inhabitants — women, children, and babies included.

  One of the worse acts of terrorism that Yosef had ever witnessed. His hand unbuttoned the holster as he remembered walking between two rows of heads impaled on stakes, lining the one dirt street that ran through the middle of the village.

  “We are rounding up infidels — the Westerners.” Kafid patted his bleeding cheeks again with the scarf.

  “Damn bitch,” he mumbled, glancing at the blood on the scarf.

  Kafid noticed the Algerian Army uniforms, but many of the rebels were members of the Algerian Army.

  The Guardsmen closed the gap. Yosef hoped his men could control their anxiety until he gave the signal.

  “I had not heard that we were going to round up the Westerners. What are you going to do? Shoot them like you did this woman and those two? And how many have you killed in the back of the truck?” Control your anger, Yosef said to himself. “She was an infidel, and a woman,” Kafid said. He spit on the street.

  “She interrupted men talking, she was too old to bear children.” He laughed.

  “She was too ugly to copulate with and she was an American.” He held the bloodied scarf for Yosef to see.

  “What more excuse do I need?

  See what she did! She attacked me. Yes, Colonel, I am going to kill them — every one of them. Kill them all as a warning to the West.”

  Behind Kafid the rebels bunched together, shouting chaotically in agreement. Their weapons were held at their sides.

  “Kafid, you hear the sound of fighting coming from over there? That’s our force capturing the Algerian traitor Aineuf. By tomorrow, Algeria will be ours. Allah Alakbar!”

  Kafid and the rebels raised their guns above their heads and fired into the air as they shouted, “Allah Alakbar!”

  Yosef pulled his pistol and fired. The shot blew a quarter-inch hole in Kafid’s forehead and took the back of the head off as it exited, spraying red and gray matter over the rebels around him. The bullet knocked the dead terrorist backward into two rebels standing behind him, knocking them down. A dying twitch caused Kafid’s gun to go off.

  The bullet nearly hit Yosef; he felt the wind and the heat as it passed by his left ear. Gunfire erupted as Guardsmen fired into the packed group of rebels while on the truck the captives’ screams and cries grew in intensity. Yosef calmly stepped forward and shot the two rebels wriggling free from beneath Kafid’s body. He leaped over the dead and dying to reach the back of the truck. A rebel appeared around the tail at the same time as Yosef. Yosef ducked back and shot him. On the other side of the truck. Sergeant Boutrous stepped around the edge of the tail and shot another rebel.

  The shooting stopped. The entire action took less than twelve seconds. Yosef peeped around the tail edge and looked up at the packed truck. The burly Bedouin sergeant did the same from his side. Seeing the two faces, the captives shoved and pushed each other as they fought to get as far into the military vehicle as possible.

&nb
sp; “You’re safe!” Yosef shouted in English and then in French. He stepped around the edge and faced the Westerners.

  “We are Algerian soldiers. Who is in charge here?” When no one answered, he continued.

  “Okay, if no one is in charge, who knows how to drive this vehicle?”

  Michael, the British man beaten a few minutes ago, edged forward, dabbing blood from the top of his head, the red easily discernible in the white hair.

  “At the risk of volunteering again, I do. I was in the Sixteenth Lancers years ago, before the bloody Tories did away with the regiment.

  I suspect I can acquaint myself quickly, considering the alternatives,” he said in a shaken voice. Tears made his eyes shiny.

  “Then I guess you are in charge. Please listen, everyone.

  Algiers is gone. I cannot tell you what to do, but we are unable to stay and provide protection. Unfortunately, you are on your own. The embassies are surrounded and there is fighting to the west. Eastern Algeria has already fallen.” Yosef shook his head. A fat lot of good that did!

  He had rescued them; they were alive; but he could offer no hope. Still, they had a better opportunity to survive than they had two minutes ago. He had his own concern and that concern was hiding in a milk crate on a damn slow milk truck and he still had three miles to go. Yosef motioned to his men and turned to leave.

  The British gentleman eased himself down from the back of the truck and took several steps to where the body of the American woman named Veronica rested. He lifted her body gently, getting blood on his suit coat, and kissed her cheek before carrying her to the back of the truck. Two of the men in back helped lay her body in the center of the truck bed.

  “You can’t leave us!” cried one of the women.

  She moved forward, clutching a baby to her breast while her other hand gripped tightly the small hand of a young child. In the dark, Yosef could not tell if the toddler was a boy or girl. They reminded him of his wife and children killed in a market bombing nearly ten years ago. He’d never forget. That bombing shattered his life, leading him to where he was tonight. When this was over, if he escaped, he would return to their graves and sit among the rocks and olive trees…. Yosef realized he was staring at the woman.