offshore, the USS albany turned away from the coast. The Marconi radar detected earlier by the electronic warfare system had turned out to be an Algerian coastal patrol boat. Unknown to the American Navy, Algeria had been maintaining a nighttime maritime patrol along the coast to complement the helicopters flying the same surveillance during the day.
The EW antenna on the periscope showed the Marconi loitering in the rendezvous area. USS Albany continued, reluctantly, to move away from the area even as Jew ell developed a firing solution on the craft. At six thousand yards it’d be like shooting fish in a barrel. However, torpedoing the ship would alert everyone up and down the coast and endanger the SEALs ashore. It was also against the Rules of Engagement promulgated by Sixth Fleet. He lowered the periscope and ordered a new depth. The submarine descended as it headed further out to deeper waters to hunt Kilos until it returned for the second rendezvous at midnight, twenty-one hours away.
The Algerian coastal patrol craft loaded its cannon and fired. Ashore, Duncan continued his attempt to convince Colonel Yosef and President Alneuf to come with them. If they went east on the trucks, Duncan would take his teams back out to the rendezvous place. He did not intend to head out into Algeria with Yosef.
“But, Colonel,” Duncan began, stopping in mid-sentence as the familiar whistle of an inbound artillery shell reached his ears.
“Take cover!” Duncan shouted. “Incoming!” He dove to the side, rolled once, and came up against the aged fountain. Looking back, he saw Colonel Yosef staring at him.
“Incoming!” he shouted again, pointing upward to the colonel, who gave Duncan a puzzled look that changed to recognition.
The intensity of the whistling grew. Colonel Yosef pushed Alneuf to the ground and threw himself over the president.
“Get down!” Yosef shouted.
The Algerians joined the Navy SEALs hugging the ground as the first shell hit the house, blowing the roof apart.
Pieces of red clay tile and dry stucco rained down on them, followed by a choking cloud of red dust.
Colonel Yosef jumped up, pulling President Alneuf with him. “Quick, into the trucks, everyone.”
Duncan rose to his knees, his hand on the rim of the fountain. Well, there went his plan to head back out to sea and wait for the Albany.
The roll against the fountain had slammed his right knee against the brick and porcelain fixture, bringing renewed waves of pain. He ran his hand searchingly down his leg, checking to make sure that nothing was broken. He limped to the truck. H.J. and Helliwell pulled him up onto the flatbed. Why did growing old have to be so painful?
Bashir hoisted his massive body into the driver’s seat. His cellular telephone fell out of his pocket and landed beneath the front tire of the truck. Yosef shoved Alneuf into the cab and plunged in beside the Algerian president.
“Let’s go, Bashir. Quick!” Yosef commanded.
The whistle of another shell drove out the sounds of the other men scrambling into the truck. It hit the rear of the old house as Bashir, with a jerky start, floored the gas. The truck bounced along the unkempt driveway that led out of the villa garden.
“Beau!” Duncan called.
“Here, Boss!”
“Take muster!”
“Have already and we’ve got a problem!” “What is it?” Duncan asked, pulling himself upright on the wooden rungs of the truck siding.
“No passports.”
The truck hit a deep hole as it pulled out of the entrance to the villa gardens, knocking Duncan and Beau off their haunches. Bud Helliwell leaned over the top of the cab. He pointed his carbine ahead. Mcdonald took a prone position along one side of the truck with the barrel of his MG-60 sticking through the lower rung of the wood siding. Monkey had the right side covered similarly. Duncan and H.J. guarded the rear of the truck. Alternating among the SEALs, the Algerians took their own defensive positions.
“Gibbons, come here,” Duncan commanded.
The radioman crawled over to where Duncan sat.
“Yes, sir.”
“Turn around. I need the radio.”
Gibbons turned so that the captain had access to the radio.
“Shit,” said Duncan.
“What is it, sir?”
“You can throw the radio away, Gibbons. And you can thank Motorola for your life.”
Gibbons removed the manpack and twisted it around in front of him. A sliver of roof tile, like a foot-long icicle, stuck out of the center of the radio.
“So, that’s what’s been sticking me in the back.”
“Can you fix it?” Duncan asked expectantly.
Gibbons shook his head. “I’m sorry, Captain. I don’t think I can. I’m a gunner’s mate trained to do first aid, not an electronics technician.” Gibbons pulled the fragment out. A tangle of burnt wires and destroyed circuit cards filled the center of the radio where the audio-control system and antenna connections had once existed. “What’ll we do, Captain?”
Duncan shook his head. “We’ll do something, Gibbons.
Right now, looks like we’re going on a dynamic tour of this North African country.”
They were a hundred yards from the villa, bouncing across the weather-eroded drive, when the third shell hit the fountain killing the three prisoners.
“captain, i’m picking up naval gunfire,” the sonar operator said to Jewell. “Look at the waterfall display on my CRT. See this blip across here?” “Give me a headset,” Jewell said, grabbing an extra pair hanging above the console. The muffled sound of the second round came through the underwater detection system.
He watched the slow waterfall of the CRT change its intensity as the sonar device recorded the Naval gunfire. The two sailors and Jewell looked at each other.
“It’s definitely Naval gunfire,” the chief sonar technician said confidently.
Jewell nodded in agreement. “Range and bearing?”
“Bearing one niner zero, Skipper. Range has to be under ten thousand yards because then you hit land.” The officer of the deck. “Captain, the sonar bearings cut through the rendezvous area and correlate with the EW bearing on the Marconi radar. The gunfire must be from that Algerian coastal patrol craft.”
“Doesn’t sound like large-caliber shells, Captain,” the sonar operator volunteered.
Jewell hung the headset back up. “Can you hear the shells hitting?”
“No, sir. I would guess they’re firing at a target or targets ashore,” the chief replied.
“No splashes, Skipper,” the sonar operator confirmed.
“Officer of the deck, clear baffles and prepare to come to periscope depth. I want a firing solution on that ship ASAP!” Jewell ordered as he hurried to the periscope.
Seeing the XO arriving through the forward hatch, Jewell stared intently for a second and then said calmly, “XO, man battle stations.”
“Officer of the deck, man battle stations!” the XO shouted.
The OOD turned to the senior enlisted man in the control room. “Chief of the watch!”
“Aye, sir!”
“Man battle stations!”
“Aye, aye, sir!” The chief of the watch reached over and pushed the red lever on the ship’s alarm system down. A soft honging vibrated inside the sound-insulated hull to reach every nook and cranny in the attack submarine. Sailors tumbled out of their racks and left their night snacks scattered as they ran to their battle stations. Events began to roll off in sequence to turn the submarine into a deadly machine.
“Baffles clear,” said the officer of the deck.
“This is the captain, I have the conn, make your depth six two feet.
“Up scope,” Jewell said, more calmly than he felt.
“Steady on course one niner zero,” the helmsman announced.