“With your permission, Admiral, I would like to return to the crypto logic spaces.”
“Permission granted, Commander. Keep me up to date. And, Commander, good job. Go ahead and notify Washington of what’s happening.”
“Already done, sir,” the crypto logic officer replied as he saluted.
He then hurried out of Combat, leaving Commander Mulligan behind to support the intelligence needs of the admiral. Intelligence needs hindered by national resources targeted half a world away, leaving the European command blind except for its own tactical crypto logic and intelligence resources. Mulligan grimaced at the thought of the crypto logic officer’s teasing comment a month ago that the Naval intelligence triangle was
“CNN, USA Today, and cryptology.” Why can’t those cryppies stay in their box? Cryptologists’ job was to bring the information to him. He’d decide whether to pass it on or not. But, no, they wanted credit for every damn thing they did.
Paul Mcmillan, the CIA agent, pulled himself aboard the third truck in the convoy as it moved slowly past. He patted the shoulder of a young Marine he recognized from the embassy security force. He couldn’t recall the Marine’s name, though he should know it as many times as they had chatted.
“Glad to be out of there, Corporal?” he asked, jerking his thumb back toward the abandoned embassy.
“You know it, Mr. Mcmillan. I can think of many other places to be, and every one of them is better than Algiers.” The Marine’s eyes searched the area as he spoke.
Paul sat down on the wooden bench that paralleled the side of the green Algerian Army vehicle.
“Just think, you’ll have one hell of a story to tell your grandkids someday.”
“Just hope that I’ve reached the end of the tale. I’ve had all the sickness, frustration, anxiety, and fear I care to add to any story I would ever tell.” Paul laughed. “You’re still young, plenty of time to add some colorful sides to the story. Try to relax a little.
Another thirty minutes and we’ll be at the harbor.” He pushed his graying hair out of his eyes.
“Aren’t you scared?” the young Marine asked softly.
“Scared? I’m petrified,” Paul replied, nodding his head. “And I’ll stay that way until I’m on board one of our Navy ships. Funny, isn’t it, how much we forget about you guys until something like this happens.”
The truck jerked as its revved-up engine engaged the second gear, and the speed increased to five miles an hour. Only six miles to the rendezvous point.
“Whoa,” Paul said, grabbing the Marine by the belt to keep the young man from falling off the rear. “Grab hold of the side or sit down, Corporal. Won’t do to have you fall out this close to rescue.” Paul nodded at the Algerian driver in the truck following. “Don’t think he’d stop if you fell out.”
The Marine corporal eased himself onto the edge of the wooden bench.
Paul knew the Marine couldn’t be comfortable sitting like that. Made his butt hurt just thinking about it.
Paul studied the corporal’s face. Marines made you feel safe. The corporal’s eyes never ceased searching the surrounding area. Where would America be without them?
The convoy moved from the open area in front of the embassy into the city street, where dark, silent buildings on both sides closed like a haunted forest in a fairy tale filled with ghosts and goblins. The corporal’s fingers twitched nervously on the M-16 as he scanned the quiet buildings and gray shrouded streets.
Paul pinched his nose to stifle a sneeze. So this is how a cornered rabbit feels. He recalled the hunts in North Carolina with his dogs, and the rabbits he brought home time after time. He didn’t think he’d ever hunt again after this. He opened and shut his mouth several times, trying to assuage the dryness. He wished he’d remembered to bring his bottle of water. Thirty more minutes; forty-five at this rate.
Fifteen minutes later the last truck in the convoy entered the maze of buildings as they inched their way toward the harbor. The grinding of gears, the noise of racing diesel engines, and the smell of bad exhausts filled the air.
The Marine looked at Paul and smiled. Paul was a station CIA agent who masqueraded as a State Department political analyst; not that it fooled anyone inside or outside the embassy. The corporal knew Paul was armed. Fifty-six Marines to guard six hundred plus people! What were they thinking?
Along the route, shops and darkened apartments hid behind boarded windows and pulled shades. Little chinks of missing plaster and bricks decorated the walls of the buildings where bullets and shells left evidence of how violent the revolution had been. “Looks like a city with smallpox,” Paul said to the corporal as the noisy trucks continued their trek through the otherwise silent city.
Paul looked at his watch. Another twenty minutes and they would be at the harbor area. He’d feel a hell of lot better when they arrived.
Another eighty jarheads waited there. He watched the Marine wipe his sweating palms on his pants leg, and did the same.
“How you doing, Corporal?”
“I’m okay. Mr. Mcmillan, when I get to that harbor where the other Marines are, I’m gonna kiss every one of them unless it’s a gunny sergeant. No one kisses gunny sergeants and lives.” He grinned.
Paul laughed. “Know how you feel. I may join you.”
The “whump-whump-whump” of helicopters caused the corporal to point his M-16 skyward. The light-green silhouette of two Marine Cobra gunships passed overhead. Paul touched him on the shoulder as they watched.
“What a beautiful sight!”
The helmet deflected the bullet, causing it to ricochet downward into the corporal’s temple and out the right eye. Brain and bone parts splattered Paul and several of the other evacuees. Two mothers reflexively threw themselves over their children. The crowded truck hampered movement, causing everyone to knock each other around as they fought for the bed of the truck. Ignoring the screams, Paul instinctively drew his pistol and fired several shots at a window on the third floor where he thought he saw movement. He pushed the young Marine corporal to the floor.
“Oh, son, so sorry. So sorry,” Paul mumbled, his hand touching the dead Marine, but his eyes remained fixed on the building. He had seen death enough to recognize it. It affected him more as he grew older and recognized his own mortality.
Firing erupted simultaneously from the buildings, raking the convoy.
Ahead, a light armored car pulled across the street and blocked the convoy’s route. Snipers fired into the mass of unarmed humanity, scoring hit after hit. The Marines returned fire at the unseen enemy.
Many jumped from the trucks and took cover near the rear of each.
Paul holstered his pistol and grabbed the dead corporal’s M-16. Along with two other Marines in the truck, Paul sent a burst at the surrounding buildings that stood like silent sentinels of death hanging over the stalled convoy. New pockets of missing plaster and brick joined the earlier ones.
A Cobra helicopter whirled around at the top of the buildings; stopping directly over Paul’s truck, the downdraft blew dirt and debris into the air, causing everyone to shut their eyes. A missile blasted forward from the helicopter, its heat felt by the occupants beneath it. Ahead of the convoy the missile hit the armored car. The vehicle exploded, sending a shower of burning metal raining down around it. The Cobra roared up and over the buildings.
The Algerian drivers jumped from the trucks and ran, leaving the occupants to their fate.
Paul grabbed a Marine near him. “Get in the truck and drive!”