He grinned, thinking about the expression on the faces of his officers as the Ramage had towed the carrier safely through the Strait of Gibraltar. He’d told them not to worry. He was glad it worked. He had kept his fingers crossed the entire transit, unsure himself if his guess was right.
“They’re getting closer. That one was about a thousand yards. Life doesn’t get more exciting than this, Duncan.”
“Or last much longer if help doesn’t arrive soon.” A burst of machine-gun fire from their stern caught their attention.
“Hold your fire!” Duncan shouted. “They’re too far out for small arms yet.”
“Beau, put the son of a bitch off our port stern. It’ll reduce our cross section. It’s taking him about a minute between firings, so we’ll stay this course until we’re within range of his guns. Then, every time he fires, we’ll give him a chance to reload and then change course.”
“I’m willing to try anything. I can’t stand to think of the wailing and crying at the Fort Myers officers club if I got myself killed.”
Beau reached down and twisted the volume knob on the radio. The loud screeching of the jammed frequency filled the air. He shook his head as he spun the wheel to starboard.
“Shout if they quit jamming!” Duncan yelled.
“Sure! You’ll be able to hear me all the way to Washington,” Beau replied, then added in a whisper, “Which is where 1 wish we were.”
Duncan climbed down from the open bridge.
“President Alneuf, would you go below and watch the wounded? It looks as if things are going to get hotter out here. And you and them put on life vests!”
The Algerian president nodded, and climbed down the narrow ladder to the cramped kitchen area below the bridge.
“Mcdonald, Monkey! Come here!” Duncan shouted.
“Sergeant Boutrous,” he added. “Space your men around the ship and try to pick off anyone topside on the craft. Our only chance is to keep them at a distance and hope their aim fails to improve.”
“Oui, man capitaine,” the Algerian replied with a snappy salute. He hurried off to brief the remaining Guardsmen.
The two machine-gunners stopped in front of Duncan.
“Listen up,” Duncan said to the two men. “We’re turning tail to the patrol craft. You keep that forward deck where their gun is clear. If they can’t stay topside, then they can’t fire that peashooter of theirs. Rake the bridge, too. Convince the captain of that Kebir to stay away from us and we have a chance. Keeping them at a distance is the key. Too close and they won’t need accuracy to sink us.”
He knew they wanted more. They wanted assurance they were going to survive. But there were few assurances in life, and even less in the SEALs. “Help is on its way,” Duncan added. “All we have to do is stay afloat until it arrives.”
“We’ll keep that deck clear, Captain. Just leave it to Mcdonald and me.”
“You know, if they hit this old tub it’ll break apart,” Mcdonald said.
“Then, let’s make sure we keep them far enough away they don’t hit it,” Duncan told him. “Good shooting and good luck, men.” “No sweat, Captain,” Mcdonald said.
The two SEALs hurried aft. Monkey stopped at the engine compartment and yelled for Gibbons to get his butt topside. The African-American crawled out. The two put their heads together for a quick conversation. Gibbons turned, reached into the compartment, and retrieved his carbine. Monkey pointed to the approaching patrol craft, easily visible about five miles from them. Gibbons nodded twice, strapped his carbine to his back, and scrambled up the aft mast.
Duncan looked up at Beau. “Beau, be careful. You’re awful exposed up there.”
“Duncan, if they hit me, they get the entire boat.” “Good luck, shipmate,” Duncan said earnestly.
Duncan limped aft, moving carefully as he watched his footing along the narrow one-foot-wide walkway between the curve of the water tank and the deck edge.
Behind him, Ensign Bud Helliwell crawled up, his face scrunched in pain and bathed in sweat. Lieutenant H.J. Me Daniels held his belt to help her up the small ladder. Tears eased down her cheeks from the pain she was fighting to make the short trip topside. Bud let his satchel fall to the deck.
Seeing the captain moving aft, they turned to Beau. “Where do you want us?” H.J. asked, her breathing short and rapid.
“Washington, D. C.” is where I want us, but you might as well sit down right where you’re at. See how many times you can send the sailors on that patrol craft scurrying belowdecks. Three points for each sailor, four for an officer, and you get five points if they fall overboard.
Six if a shark gets them. Winner to be determined later.”
“H. J.” you ever get a straight answer from Commander Pet tigrew?” Bud asked.
She used Bud’s good arm to ease herself down against the starboard side of the cabin. Sweat-matted hair stuck to the side of her head.
“I’ve known him about a week. I think a straight answer from him is like truth out of a politician. Of course, it could be he had a troubled childhood.” She shut her eyes and took several deep breaths.
Helliwell coughed as he sat down. “Damn, Lieutenant, just when I was beginning to think you might be an ‘all-right Joe,” you turn into a psychoanalyst like other women.”
“Sorry,” she fired back, grinning. “Just when I was thinking of you like a sister, you act like every other man I’ve known.”
“How are you feeling?”
“How do you think? My hair’s a mess and I’ve lost two nails.”
They both laughed.
H.J. raised the butt of the carbine against her good shoulder and took aim at the approaching warship. She fired. Her shoulder bounced off the bulkhead, drawing a painful grunt and sending stars dancing across her vision. Her face appeared pasty for a few seconds as pain racked her.
“Watch those carbines. They kick when you least expect it. Take several deep breaths.”
“I know. It must be hard to remember I’m a woman,” she muttered through the pain. “It’s easy to do when your nails are broken, two side teeth are missing, and you’re having a bad hair day. But the good news for us and the bad news for them,” she lied, “is that I’m in the middle of PMS.”
H.J. lifted her carbine again and sighted it carefully. Her tongue showed partially through her lips as she concentrated on her aim.
Squinting her right eye, she leaned forward slightly, aligning the left eye with the barrel and the two sights. She braced herself for the kick this time. Gently squeezing the trigger, she fired another round.
Helliwell watched the patrol craft, and saw the tiny figure to the left of the bridge wing throw his hands into the air and tumble backward out of sight.
“Damn, H. J.! No one can do that! It’s too far.”
“I’m not a no one, Helliwell. I was number two at the all military rifle championships two years ago, and the Navy Academy’s leading marksman for my last three years there.”
“Wish we had the winner here.”
“You don’t. You’re stuck with me.”
The patrol craft eased left, away from the water carrier. It seemed to Duncan the rifle fire had been effective. The Kebir had stopped closing the water carrier. It began maneuvering about a mile away.
Zigzagging close enough for the odd rifle round, but more than close enough for their cannon.
The next shell sailed over the water carrier to impact seventy feet off the starboard bow. Water from the geyser rained over the small craft.
“Man capitaine,” Palace Guard Sergeant Boutrous said. “My men have discovered two barrels of petroleum products in the engine room. Maybe at such a time as this we should consider smoking our departure.”
“Smoke screen?”
“Out, a smoke screen,” Sergeant Boutrous replied, nodding his head as if he understood the term.