Tomcat

by David E. Meadows

  Ten minutes later, the explosive sound of one of the smaller damage control cones shooting out of its hole by seawater pressure caused everyone in the control room to jump. Ears popped because of the change in pressure.

  Water rocketed through the reopened wound, hitting the far-side bulkhead and ricocheting through the control room.

  Two sailors slammed a rubber padding over the opening.

  Water, pushed it out of their hands as the increased pressure fought their efforts. They searched frantically for several seconds, groping in the water for the rubber gasket before finding it.

  Ibn Al Jamal slowed the submarine to eight knots, and even as the submarine slowed, he ordered it further slowed to two knots. Slower speed meant less water pressure against the temporary repairs. Slower speed also increased the opportunity for detection, but at this moment, the Americans knew where he was, and if they were going to attack, they would have done it already.

  Others rushed to help. Two sailors held the rubber padding, while three others fought the cone into position over the hole. They forced an inch of the tapered end of the damage-control cone into the hole, the water fighting their effort, trying to rip it out of their hands. The sledgehammer rose and fell in one smooth, heavy blow, knocking the cone into the opening, wedging the rubber padding tight and sealing the damaged bulkhead. The water stopped immediately.

  For the first time, he thought of surfacing and surrendering to the Americans. But would they give him a chance before he could make the offer? He doubted they would accept the surrender of the submarine that attacked their fleet.

  He increased the speed slowly until the submarine reached eight knots again. Crew members and officers went about their jobs silently, their eyes continuing to stray toward the three temporary repairs on the bulkhead of the conning tower. If two or all of them failed, the submarine would have little choice but to surface.

  Ibn Al Jamal pulled a compass rose from the drawer beneath the lighted plotting table. Placing it over the chart, he and the navigator took a wild guess to their position. He drew a line along their course and added estimated times along their position of intended movement, called PIM in navigation ese The navigator meant to draw a couple of inches, stopping the pencil mark at the edge of the deep water, but his hand slipped, and the line went the complete length of the ruler.

  Ibn Al Jamal stared at the line. It went past the deepwater edge, continued on a northeastern path through the last known location of the USS Kearsarge and USS Nassau Amphibious Task Forces. It did not stop there; the line passed within fifty miles of the USS Stennis Battle Group, which was farther east. The line stopped at the edge of the combined French and British naval forces one hundred miles farther out. The Americans would have already reached the conclusion that he was heading out to sea to attack them. He realized then that attack was inevitable, and if the Al Nasser was going to survive, it needed to reach deep water and turn away from this course as soon as possible.

  He would turn now, but the risk of hitting one of the numerous undersea mountains or centuries of uncharted wrecks that cluttered the North African coastal sea was high. Wrecks stretching all the way back to the age of the Phoenicians dotted the undersea landscape. Many from the nineteenth century onward continued to raise their masts above their graves to fish for unwary ships passing within their hooks. Last year, two coastal merchants had been lost in this area because heavy seas caused them to collide with uncharted wrecks. He had little choice but to stay the course for another hour.

  The Americans knew his position. They would share that information with the British and the French. The French would enjoy nothing better than to sink an Algerian Navy vessel.

  The navigator estimated approximately seventy minutes at eight knots before they could turn northwest. They needed a two-hour northwestern leg until they reached the center of the transit lane leading toward the Strait of Gibraltar and far enough away so they avoided the dangerous seas along the North African coast.

  Ibn Al Jamal muttered a short prayer to Allah. Before he reached the deeper water, Al Nasser would have the attention of the antisubmarine forces of the Americans. British, and French. He hoped they only watched. He shook his head. No, they would be coming after him. The Americans first, if for little else than revenge for the attack three weeks ago.

  CHAPTER 8

  The convoy was stretched father apart than Stapler wanted. The three vehicles had slowly been increasing the distance between each other for the last twelve hours. He should have noticed sooner. Stapler wiped the sweat from his eyes and shaded them with his hand. He pushed the sunglasses off his nose. The overhead sun glared off the packed clay. He gently touched his swollen lips. So dry and cracked. The terrain was becoming rougher, the closer they got to the wadis ahead of them. The sand had given way to clay somewhere behind them. He slapped the roof of the humvee, causing the vehicle to stop. Stapler pulled his dirty handkerchief from his back pocket and dabbed at his left hand. He had bumped it against the side of the sunroof he was standing through minutes ago and burst several of the sunburn blisters.

  His humvee led the convoy, followed by the truck nearly two hundred yards behind. The LT had told the drivers to keep a minimum of fifty yards between the truck, but two hundred? About fifty yards behind-the truck was the second humvee with the LT. Inside it, Miss. Sheila Anne Forester rode with the LT. Why did she bother him so much? Stapler stuck his head inside the humvee and told the driver to wait for the others to close their position.

  This was the second time they had stopped in two hours.

  This land convoy was a lot like a sea convoy; the slowest vehicle limited the speed, and in this case, it was the truck.

  The straining engine of the truck bothered Stapler. It had not bothered Stapler until it bothered Heinrich Wiishaven, the oil rigger in charge of vehicle maintenance, and Bearcat Jordan, the supervisor of the oil riggers.

  Two hours ago, at a rest break, they passed their concerns to him and the LT. Wiishaven had shared his expert opinion that the old Volvo truck, with nearly two hundred thousand miles on it. “It was going to give up dat ghost,” he had said in a heavy German accent while rubbing an oil drop from the engine between two grease stained fingers and shaking his head.

  The truck carried most of the oil riggers, Professor Walthers, and his male aide Karim. All the food, water, and extra fuel, with the exception of two fuel canisters mounted to the rear of each humvee, was strapped down on the bed. They had made good time since leaving the oasis before dawn this morning, traveling constantly and only stopping for a few minutes every two hours. Modesty for the women consisted of going in front of the humvee, while for some reason the men earned the nearest thing to an off-color comment from Professor Walthers about dogs drawn to the wheels.

  The journey had grown easier in the last few hours as the sand gave way to flat, sun-bleached terrain speckled with small, wiry bushes that had forced their way through the brick-hard clay. The heat of the sun never varied. It moved across the sky, beating down on them constantly, a sledgehammer of draining, broiling heat. Stapler glanced up. The same, hour after hour, day after day: not a cloud in the sky to provide a moment of blessed shade. The heat was taking its toll.

  Nights provided some relief. The twinkles of the stars lit the crystal sky like lights on a Christmas tree. Night feli quickly, but the heat dissipated within an hour, and the sunburn caused the cool wind to feel colder than it was, forcing them to button collars, strap vests tighter, and some, like Catsup, to seek others’ body warmth.

  Somewhere ahead lay a series of wadis — small valleys — they would have to navigate. Stapler believed it was less than ten miles to the wadis and safety. Professor Walthers argued ten miles to the wadis and danger. The professor warned that the wadis would be swarming with Tauregs. But the professor had been the voice of doom since they started. If Stapler or the LT had listened to him, they would probably be dead by now.

  Once through the wadis — Stapler figured
thirty miles through them — they still had one hundred more miles to travel to reach the agreed rendezvous point with the Army.

  Only then would they be in range of the Army CH-47 Chinook helicopters — if the Army showed.

  Three days had passed without radio contact with the Army. The jerry-rigged radio had worked well the first day. Then, for some inexplicable reason, nothing but static. Stapler knew the thing was broadcasting; every one of the Marines could pick up transmissions from the radio on their bricks. Lieutenant Malcolm

  “Jeff to Miss. Sheila Anne Forester” Nolan worried about the Algerians picking up the transmissions before the United States Army did. Stapler believed the LT had worried a bit less since the oasis. Couldn’t get that shit-eating grin off the officer’s face. You would think it was the first time the LT had had a leg thrown across him, thought Stapler. Of course, those were a fine pair of tits from what glimpse he got— definitely pass the pencil test — and with quarter-size, pink nipples. Seemed to Stapler that most tits tended to be various shades of brown rather than any shade of pink. He shook his head. It would be a while before he looked at a quarter the same way again.

  The baying of a camel drew his attention. Camels!

  What a sight! Two humvees, a truck, eleven marines, and eight camels. The baying passed around the camels. Reminded Stapler of turkeys; all you had to do was get one turkey to gobble, and they all joined in the cacophony like dominoes falling. Someday he would be reading about this in Naval Proceedings — if they survived. To the right rode two camels, Cowboy Joe-Boy on one with Private Raoul Gonzales on the other. Behind Cowboy, her arms wrapped around his waist, rode Catsup. Stapler felt a slight pang of jealousy but quickly tucked it away in a different part of his thoughts. He was an old man at thirty seven in comparison to her twenty. What in hell was he thinking?

  Cowboy rode his camel nearer the humvee, pushing and tugging on two long ropes leading from the camel’s rope bridle. The Marine’s M-16 was strapped across his front, so Kellogg could lean against his back.

  “See, Gunny!” he shouted. “These camels are great!”

  Cowboy Joe-Boy Henry pointed to the other side of the humvee, where two oil riggers rode two other camels. Behind them, four Marines rode four more camels.

  Christ! Where do they get their energy? thought Stapler.

  He shook his head at the image of Marines in the middle of the Sahara desert riding camels as if they were on some sort of Disneyland excursion. He would be the laughingstock at the mess, but he’d punch Top Sergeant Macgregory square in the face if he laughed. He thought of the ice machine at the mess — slide that glass under it, lift the lever, and slivers of chewable ice tumbled into it.

  He wiped the sweat from his forehead, the tenderness of the skin aching from the pressure of his hand. In survival school, they taught that as long as you were sweating, you were okay. When you quit sweating, your hours were numbered. Well, he was definitely sweating.

  “Yeah, Gunny,” Catsup slurred. “Just think, no one has to walk now. Great, ain’t it?” Her head fell back on Cowboy Joe-Boy’s back.

  “Yeah, Cowboy, Catsup. It’s great, but keep your heads down. You two make a tempting target.”

  “We know, Gunny, but it’s either double up or one of us walks.”

  “Yeah, Gunny, or. of us walks,” Catsup mumbled.

  Stapler looked up at Cowboy. “Get her back to the truck and under the canvas. Private. Tell them to give her water — lots of it.”

  Cowboy nodded. “Okay, Gunny.” He tugged on the reins, turning the camel around toward the truck. “Come on, Osama.”

  “You two, be careful! Kellogg, stay awake!”

  “I’m okay, Dad.”

  Grinding sounds from the truck like fingernails down a chalkboard drowned out the last few words. Stapler turned White clouds rose around the hood of the old Volvo. The truck had stopped. Both doors opened, and Heinrich and Bearcat crawled out.

  Stapler leaned in and told the others about the truck.

  Then he pulled himself out through the roof and slid down the back, careful to keep his bare hands from touching the hot metal. From the rear ham vee the IT headed toward the truck. This might be the end of the road for the truck.

  “Without it, some were going to be walking. How were they going to make it? The two humvees could not carry the water, food, and gasoline they needed to make the rendezvous.

  He knew it. Heinrich Wihhaven knew it. Bearcat Jordan had already voiced it, and no one had disagreed.

  He reached the truck a few seconds after the LT.

  Wiishaven had the hood up and his head buried inside.

  Curses in German bounced off the top of the hood. No one spoke. Stapler nodded at the lieutenant, who returned the nod and said nothing. The group stood, waiting for the verdict like nervous, expectant fathers waiting for news from the doctor.

  Stapler pulled on his earlobe as he watched the men around the engine. The M-16 hung loosely in his left hand, the barrel pointing toward the earth. Not having talked with Base Butler in three days made him paranoid the Army wouldn’t be there. It reminded him of the time he arranged to meet a distant relative weeks in advance, only to show up on the appointed day at the appointed bar without ever reconfirming the date. The cousin never showed, and Stapler spent the rest of the day getting drunk at a bar he would never have been in except for the anticipated rendezvous.

  The two female partners walked around to the front of the truck. All three riggers who had suffered heat exhaustion earlier in the trip had recovered, but the LT had ordered them under the canvas Bearcat had stretched across half the bed of the truck to provide some shade. The younger graying blond, who twenty-four hours before was out cold from the heat, was still unsteady on her feet. Stapler started to say something and then thought, What the hell! She wants to kill herself, let her.

  Wilshaven stepped down from the bumper and wiped his hands on a rag. He shook his head. “It’s gont. It’s dead! Dat problem cannot be fixed, I said. The fan belt est broke, and the truck est no can to be fixed. Dirt est in da oil. Dat tubes have leaks And, there est no spare part. Da Volvo est kaput.”

  Cowboy Joe-Boy and Catsup rode up behind the group.

  From the back of the truck came the professor and Karim and, to Stapler’s fine pleasure, strolled the fabulous Miss. Sheila Anne Forester from the other humvee. Bad enough the truck est kaput.

  “What do we do now, Lieutenant?” Bearcat Jordan asked. “We’re about ten miles from the wadis.”

  Lieutenant Nolan scratched his head. “Gunny, you got any ideas?”

  The angry baying of the camel caused him to look.

  Cowboy said the camels could carry heavy loads. They had eight of the ugly, foul-smelling creatures.

  “Camels,” he said.

  “Camels?”

  “Yes, sir, LT.” “Cowboy,” Stapler said, motioning the private to him.

  Corporal Heights walked up from the other side of the truck. He had been in command of the truck and riding in back. “Corporal, help Cowboy get Kellogg down and under the canvas. Fill her up with water. She’s got heat exhaustion.”

  Heights helped get Kellogg down from behind Cowboy.

  She was able to walk on her own to the truck. The older woman partner helped the Marine to the back, making motherly cooing sounds as they moved.

  “Cowboy, go round up the rest of the camels and bring them here on the double.”

  “LT, we have to strap as much of the water and fuel to the camels as we can. Cowboy, you and Raoul are going to have to be the leaders in this, so get moving.”

  “What about Catsup, Gunny?”

  “Cowboy, what the hell do you think we’re going to do with her? Bury her? You get your ass moving, and do what I told you!”

  “Yes, Gunnery Sergeant!”

  “Corporal Heights, organize a working party to start off-loading the truck.” He turned and saw Cowboy still watching.

  “Cowboy, didn’t I tell you to go get t
he rest of the camels?”

  Cowboy Joe-Boy dug his heels into the side of the camel. “I’m on my way, Gunny.”

  Stapler saw the glazed look in the private’s eyes. Another heat exhaustion in the making, he thought. He looked at Gonzales. The Hispanic Marine had taken his T shirt off and tucked it under his helmet so that the back of it fell across his neck and down his back.

  “We’ve got some rope in the back of the truck,” Bearcat added.

  “And, der est some heavy tape under the front seat,” Heinrich Wilshaven said as he hurried to the driver’s side to get it.

  “Let’s get moving,” Lieutenant Nolan said. “We’re still ten miles from the wadis. Should be safe once we reach there.”

  Wilshaven handed the two rolls of tape to Stapler. “Herz, my fine Marine friend,” he said. Wilshaven looked as if his face had been stuck inside an oven; blisters and faint scabs covered the once immaculate profile. Stapler wondered briefly how the man retained his jovial attitude.

  Cowboy came back leading the awkward calvary of baying, protesting camels.

  “Cowboy, get everyone off the camels.”

  “Gunny, do you think they are following us?” Lieutenant Nolan asked.

  “Of course they are following us,” the professor answered testily. “We are in the middle of the Taureg homeland.

  They know exactly where we are and when we enter the wadis — and I want everyone to recall that I recommended against this — we are going to be considered more than just invaders. We are entering what they consider near holy ground.”

  “Gunny, why don’t we send out a patrol while we are transferring the supplies to the camels?” Lieutenant Nolan asked, ignoring the professor’s outburst.