by Ron Sewell
Rono placed his hands behind his head. “As you said, the sea’s calm and I pray it stays that way. Who’s cooking dinner?”
“Ibraham is a good cook. He worked in a big hotel before the uprising. Come on deck and enjoy the evening sun.”
“So are we ready to follow our ship?”
“We are,” said Khaled.
“It’s the doing nothing that unsettles me. My boredom threshold is low. I prefer to get on with the job.” Khaled shrugged. “You’re a policeman. Your job is waiting for something to happen.”
***
The long-haired man of medium height wore a tattered army uniform that hung loose on his frame. His eyes glared from a face masked by a bushy black beard. He limped along the concrete dock, his bent body supported by a makeshift crutch. He shook his tin at everyone. Most averted their gaze as if he did not exist. Somehow, he had ceased to be human. The odd sailor from a visiting ship often tossed a few coins in his direction. As the beggar crawled across the concrete, he breathed hard and slow. He screamed abuse at the man as he flung the useless foreign coins into the sea. The sun rose baking the jetty, and he retreated into the shade. Old packing cases formed a refuge and with the thick foam from boxes as a pillow, he relaxed.
The coffee house owner gave bread and a bottle of water to the vagabond. “It’s not much but you are welcome.” With the aid of his crutch, he sat upright. “Thank you.” Grime-stained hands clutched the bread. His eyes shifted from left to right as if worrying others might steal his food. Since the Arab Spring, people remained suspicious of others.
Late in the evening, a man leaving the American Queen tossed him an apple.
The tramp settled into the shadows. Towards nightfall, few people frequented the docks. Those who did gave him a wide berth. He drew himself upright and hobbled along the jetty, paused at the edge and urinated into the harbour. The crutch slipped from his grasp and with a yell, he tumbled into a pile of rubbish. He staggered back to his crude shelter and made himself comfortable. For the next few hours he watched, listened, and made mental notes. To his boss this mission was important and if it mattered to someone, it mattered. As the sun peaked over the horizon, he stretched his arms high and massaged cramped muscles. After the morning rush of customers, the coffee house owner gave him food and water. “Have you been here all night?”
He raised his head. “Here, there, it’s of no importance and I’ve eaten three times in twenty-four hours. This week that’s a record.”
“Can I offer you a job? I must add it’s not much.” With his mouth full of bread he spluttered, “I can’t serve coffee.”
The coffee house owner smiled. “When I finish for the day, clean my shop and you can stay there until I arrive in the morning. It’s safer and you eat another meal.”
“Best offer I’ve had in months. I’ll be there when you finish for the day.”
“Good.”
As the coffee house owner strolled away, a welldressed man stopped. “I assume nothing has happened. You stay another night until we gather the right information or that ship leaves.” He flung a few coins and left.
Today was like any other day. The dock activity diminished as he expected except now he had a job. Stiff, he shuffled to the coffee house.
“I didn’t think you’d come. The broom’s over there. You have plenty of time to do a good job. Your dinner is under the counter.”
He leant against the door and breathed in the aroma of ground coffee beans. One minute elapsed before he smiled. “Thank you. I’ll have this place sparkling before morning.” The man had gone.
He closed the door and brushed, scrubbed and polished. While he worked, his eyes continued to scan the American Queen.
At sunset, he placed a table next to a window and took up his position. Red and green channel lights from those buoys still working flickered. With the lights out, no one on the outside could see him. As the dock remained quiet, he relaxed and made a cup of strong coffee. Monotony set in as the time dragged. The vibration of rattling cups on a tray revitalised his attention. He sat, observing and listening as six heavy-duty trucks arrived followed by a mobile crane.
A few minutes later, the floodlights on the American Queen illuminated the deck. The rumble of deck covers shifting confirmed his thoughts.
The din from the crane’s diesel engine killed conversation. A man on the deck guided the driver with hand signals. For a long time, the crane hoisted large containers and crates from the trucks and lowered each one into the centre hold. The white lettering in Russian identified one container, thermal lances. Steel cages filled with oxygen gas bottles followed.
The watcher scratched his head. When a truck emptied, its huge diesel engines roared as it drove away. Within three hours the jetty was empty, the hatches sealed, and the lights extinguished.
At six in the morning, the owner arrived. “This place is spotless. Thank you. Here is a loaf of fresh bread my sister cooked, and a bottle of water. Will I see you tonight?”
“For the first time in months I had a roof over my head and a full stomach. I will be here.”
“Where will you spend the day?”
“This is a good place to beg.”
“I’ll fetch you a snack after lunch.”
Supported by his makeshift crutch he hobbled towards his crude shelter for the day.
***
Rono ran along the jetty alternating between a sprint and a jog. From one end to the other, he checked his time and strived to better it. With the American Queen still in harbour, he used his daily run to stimulate his mind. What could go wrong? He thought of everything and nothing. Again, he sprinted flat out along the jetty.
Finished and sweating, he stretched and then strolled back on board, showered and dressed. In the lounge, he reached for the packet of cigarettes Khaled had left on the table. He shook his head, stood and sauntered to the main deck. The sea breeze wafted over him as the urge to smoke diminished.
***
Alone with his thoughts, the vagrant scanned the American Queen. Alert, he sat resting his back on an upright packing case and rubbed his beard. The morning sun made him sweat. He sipped from his bottle of water. Time slowed, and he wished something would happen.
On hearing the rumble of heavy trucks, he lifted his head. One stopped in front of him, the other to one side. Armed men vaulted to the ground. One man shouted, and they ran towards the tramp.
The soldiers wielded their rifle butts as clubs. Those working in the vicinity heard screams but turned their eyes away.
Finished, they hauled the body of the tramp across the concrete. Two men lifted and heaved him into the rear of the first truck. With a roar, it drove away, and the other followed. On the jetty, a pool of animal’s blood congealed. The sergeant tapped the tramp with his boot. “You can sit up now. In ten minutes we’ll drop you off and you can go home.”
“You scared the shit out of me back there.” “Anyone who saw it happen will think you’re a thief or worse. In a few hours, the ship will leave harbour. Have a guess where it’s going?”
“I’m tired so tell me.”
“The captain told the harbour master, Benghazi.” He shrugged, took a deep breath. “Last I heard the port was closed.”
“They do but not for much longer. The Americans and the British are bombing specific objectives. Joint Terminal Attack Controllers guide them.”
He settled on the rough boards. “Who the hell are they?”
The sergeant laughed. “They're specialists who identify the target with a laser that only the pilots can see. They score a bull’s eye every time. Those in charge tell me our forces retreat and then bombers strike. When the dust clears our soldiers mop up the odd survivor. Your ship plans to rescue the Isis scum.”
“Why not destroy the ship?”
“Go home and report for duty in two days.” He jumped from the truck. Released from the boredom of his duties fatigue assaulted his body.
20
Antarah Hasan sauntere
d into the captain’s cabin of the American Queen. “I have new orders.” He removed a pad from his trouser pocket and gave it to Captain Barre Zogby. “We go to this position and rendezvous tomorrow at three in the morning.”
Barre checked the position and his anger was immediate. “Sirte is a battleground.”
“You will do as you’re ordered.”
“And if I refuse?”
Antarah could see the rage in his eyes. “You have one hour to get this boat underway or I will kill you.”
“I have done nothing to offend Allah, kill me and this ship does not sail.”
Antarah grinned. “You insult me.”
“This vessel cannot leave harbour without me.”
Antarah sat in the one chair. “I can use the first officer but tell me, Captain, do you love your wife and three children? Two girls and a baby boy.”
Barre said nothing. He glared and clenched his fists. His father’s words of advice came to mind; you cannot think straight when you are mad. His time would come. “I’ll require a pilot.”
“You will not.”
“And if we run aground?”
“Fear is a most effective emotion, why don’t you think of your children.” Antarah left the cabin not bothering to shut the door and headed for the bridge. Poor bastard, he thought, he doesn’t understand. In the warmth of the morning sun, he made a call to Linda via a go-between in France.
Linda’s mobile rang six times before she answered. “What’s the problem?”
“Our Glorious Leader has ordered we rescue the soldiers of Allah from Sirte.”
“He’s your superior, not mine. Why are these men so important?”
“They fight for God.”
“My men obey without question. These people will cause problems.”
“It’s an order I must obey. On rescuing God’s soldiers, I will have the captain sail for Algeciras. I’ll send you the details when I have them.”
“I will inform the repair yard and change this SIM. Contact me using the secure method.” She ended the call. As always, she destroyed the SIM card. Her mind wandered as she tossed the little card into the bin. Her pay-as-you-go SIM cards, used twice, remained the safest method of communication.
***
Tense, Captain Barre Zogby told Antarah. “The tide is in our favour. We must sail now.”
“You are the Captain. Do your job.”
Barre gave orders to the helmsman but set the pitch of the propeller himself. Pushed by the wind the American Queen drifted off the jetty and proceeded at three knots out of the basin.
“Hard to port.” Barre scrutinised the bow as it swung and checked the ship’s head before ordering, “Amidships.”
The bridge radio crackled. “American Queen. This is the harbour master. Bon voyage.”
Barre went to reply but a leer from Antarah stopped him. As the bow rose on reaching the open sea, he set the pitch to full ahead. With a sigh of relief, he sat in his chair.
“Excellent,” said Antarah. “We have plenty of time before we reach our rendezvous.”
“We have fifteen hours and two hundred nautical miles to travel,” said Barre. “Where are these men going to sleep?”
Antarah shrugged. “On the deck, anywhere. It doesn’t matter and I don’t care.”
Billy stood on the jetty as his old ship departed from Tripoli. He speculated the odds of ever seeing her again. His right hand never strayed from the roll of hundred dollar notes in his trouser pocket. He had followed the instructions of the dark-haired woman. She had paid well for information on his ship. It was enough for a hotel room until he found another job. As the vessel sailed past the breakwater into the open sea, he lifted his holdall. With a final glance, he strolled towards the Mission for Seamen.
***
“Get those engines running, Taruq. Our ship’s at sea,” shouted Khaled.
The two powerful engines roared into life. Khaled waited until the revolutions settled. Satisfied, he nodded to Abdullah on the stern and Ibraham on the bow.
The white nylon ropes vanished into their deck lockers. At five knots, Desert Wind eased her way out of harbour. Once on a safe course, Khaled set the autopilot and switched on the radar.
“Rono, I have two ships near Sirte. Which one is the American Queen?”
“I was hoping you’d tell me. Why not select the nearest one and pray.”
Khaled laughed. “I will choose the one outside Libya’s territorial waters.”
Rono sat and stared at the fast retreating land. “I hate boats and I hate the sea.”
Khaled glanced at the radar screen. At twenty knots, the gap between them and the dot on the screen closed. He raised a pair of Zeiss 10X42 binoculars and handed them to Rono. “I will remain at a safe distance. You’ve seen this ship.” He pointed to a smudge on the horizon. “Is that her?”
Rono adjusted the magnification. “Rust-coloured heap of shit. That’s it.”
Khaled reduced their speed and drew a square on the radar screen. "Abdullah, I want you on the bridge."
With a huge grin on his face, Abdullah slid into the driving seat. “Don’t tell me; keep the dot in the box.”
Khaled slapped him on the back. “Teach Rono what to do. He needs to keep his mind busy. I will rest my eyes.”
The craft skimmed across the calm water at fifteen knots. They saw three tankers steaming in the opposite direction.
“Come and I will explain what we are doing,” said Abdullah.
Rono refrained from gazing at the now distant North African coast. “Okay, what do I do?”
“Touch nothing. Just keep your eyes on our friend. Tell me if he stops, or alters course to port or starboard. Maybe I should write P on your left hand and S on the other. Remember, there’s no port left.”
Rono grinned, nodded and scanned the sea with the binoculars.
On autopilot, the boat carved a straight path through the water. Abdullah checked the instruments, took a sat-nav fix and marked a chart with a small cross.
“Why do you keep checking where we are?” asked Rono.
“For two reasons. If something goes wrong, I can tell the world, and for safety. Out here, there’s plenty of water but not as much below us as you may think. It’s best to avoid the shallow bits.”
“That I understand.” The smell of roasting meat wafted from the cabin. “Someone is cooking dinner.”
“That's Mohammed. He is making one of his stews. Each day he will add different herbs.”
Rono grinned. “My mouth waters at the thought of such a gastronomic delight.”
“With a hunk of bread you will enjoy.”
“The American Queen is on a steady course and her speed has remained constant.”
“She’ll not alter until she reaches her destination.”
This far out the waves had no white crests, no foam spray; instead, they rolled across an endless sea. The minutes became hours. Rono glanced at the radar and then the brass chronograph screwed to the bulkhead. A minute had elapsed since he last checked. Standing there with nothing to do but watch the stern of a ship in the distance, he likened to watching paint dry. He drifted into a daydream or was it a fantasy? So hard to tell and he did not care. It passed the time.
He tapped Abdullah on the shoulder. “Do you mind if I eat?”
He nodded. “Go. Eat and relax. Nothing will change for hours.”
Rono dropped into the main cabin to find it empty. Everyone, apart from Mohammed, had retired to their cabins. He took a spoon and plastic bowl from the rack and filled it with stew. After two mouthfuls, he admitted it was delicious.
His meal finished, he rinsed the bowl and placed it in its rack. In his cabin, he tumbled onto his unmade bed. He lifted his sat phone and texted Eric.
Change of plan. I am on a boat following the American Queen. Will let you know when and if I find Linda.
He rested his head on the soft pillows and drifted into a deep sleep.
***
“Rono, come.�
� He went to switch on the light.
Abdu llah grabbed his hand. “Khaled has ordered no lights.”
Still half asleep, he made his way to the flying bridge. “Problems?”
The moon and stars shone out of a pitch-black sky as they increased speed. With the light from a red torch, Khaled pointed to the American Queen’s position on the chart. “Tomorrow the Americans and the British will bomb Sirte. When they finish our government troops will attack. Isis is withdrawing their men before the bombing.”
“How can you know?”
“I eavesdrop on the radio chatter from our troops and the man you know as David has been in touch by sat phone. In addition, the radar confirms they are leaving. In English two plus two equal four.” Khaled showed four thin lines of dots on the screen. “I suspect they are large rubber rafts filled with men. I intend to destroy them.”
Rono thrust his fingers through his hair. “This is not a good idea.”
“Do you have a better one?”
Khaled’s team placed four RPG launchers and four boxes of RP grenades on the flying bridge deck.
Rono thought long and hard. “This is a floating gin palace not a gunboat. If they take aim and fire, their bullets will go straight through the hull. Then we’re up shit creak without any paddles. I suggest you place a machine gunner on the bow, and for your men to fire as many of those grenades as you can in one pass. Whatever you do, don’t drive this boat through the rafts because the towline could be a thick rope or even worse a wire. The last thing we need is that wrapped around our propeller Those Isis bastards don’t take prisoners. These men will be professionals. That’s why someone is taking the time and troubles to rescue them. Believe it or not, I prefer my head attached to my shoulders. Don't forget we have a job to do that takes priority over you reenacting the Charge of the Light Brigade.”
Khaled shrugged. “Have you finished your rant?”
“Yes I have and it’s still not a good idea.”
“So we let these people live while they kill my people. You have one of two choices. Take a machine gun and go forward or go below decks and pray I can do the impossible.” His pulse quickened as he manoeuvred the craft into position.