“This your boat?” Yosef asked.
“No, ya effendi. I work on the boat. I am but a fisherman…. And not too good of one, if you listen to my captain.”
He grinned, showing his teeth as he swabbed the sweat from his brow.
“Then what are you doing here?”
“When …” he stuttered, then stopped and tilted his head slightly to the side.
“Excuse me, sir, are you Algerian Liberation Front freedom fighters or are you renowned members of loyal government forces?”
“We are soldiers of the Palace Guards.”
“Oh, praise be to Allah!” the fisherman cried, beating his chest.
“I am a loyal follower of Aineuf and the People’s Democratic Party. I have voted for the government in every election since 1997—sometimes twice.” He held up two fingers. “I apologize, mon colonel. When the fighting started I was afraid for my family and came here to hide until the shooting stopped.”
“You mean until the winner was determined,” Yosef mumbled.
“Stay here!” Turning to President Aineuf, he said, “Sir, we need to get you below.”
Aineuf nodded and failed to object this time when two Guardsmen helped him down the ladder to a small table crammed into the center of what passed for a dining space.
The fisherman showed no recognition of the Algerian president as the trio passed; his concern focused on Yosef, his own well-being, and his wife and child below.
“Do you know how to drive this thing?” Yosef asked the fisherman.
“Of course,” the man replied, acting shocked that anyone would think otherwise.
“I am the helmsman whenever we are fishing.”
“Can you start her and take us out of here?”
The fisherman looked puzzled.
“Why would we want to do that? You are here, in control of the harbor, so we must be winning the battle for Algiers.”
“Fisherman, I asked, can you start the engines and take us out of the harbor?”
“But, of course….”
“Then, do it!”
“Yes, sir. Yes, sir,” the fisherman replied, hurrying aft.
There, he opened the hatch above the engine and crawled down. A minute later, after several outbursts of cursing, followed with intense hammering sounds, the diesel motor coughed twice and then chugged to life. The fisherman climbed out, wiped a greasy hand across his sweating forehead, then tugged the cover over the hatch.
“There! We are cranked.” He smiled at Yosef. What he didn’t say was that this was the first time he had ever cranked the engine and it was only luck that he stumbled across the on-off switch.
An explosion to the left caused everyone to reflexively take cover and raise their weapons in that direction.
Grenades blasted the locked gates of the harbor’s main entrance.
The smell of cordite rode the summer night winds to whiff across the boat. Two armored personnel carriers burst through the smoldering ruins of the gates. Automatic weapons fire from armed rebels, riding on top, hit the pier in front of the boat.
The two Guardsmen at the top of the pier came running out of the darkness.
“Get this thing underway!” Yosef yelled, shoving the fisherman toward the helm.
Yosef jumped onto the dock and, with two Guardsmen helping, disconnected the four lines keeping the boat tied to the pier. Throwing the lines onto the fishing trawler, they leaped on board.
The two APCs roared onto the top end of the pier. The first turned so fast the left wheels came off the road, tossing a rebel off the top.
Yosef brought his gun up, led the APC slightly, and fired a ground-level burst. The front right tire on the APC blew.
The vehicle veered right and crashed through a stack of wooden loading crates, knocking those on top off, before hitting a concrete bullock, driving the engine of the APC into the chest of the driver. Smoke poured from the wreckage.
The second APC swerved left to avoid the crash. It squealed to a stop, running over and killing a rebel, who had crawled from the burning APC. Rebels leaped off and started running down the long pier toward the boat, their weapons raking the fishing trawler as they charged.
The fisherman shoved the throttle forward. Hand over hand he whipped the wheel to the left until it locked. The low-power engine didn’t do much for Yosef’s confidence.
Hiding behind barrels and fishing nets on the stern, the outnumbered Guardsmen returned fire against the attacking force. A rebel bullet caught a Guardsman, who clutched his stomach and tumbled into the filthy harbor waters.
Shots peppered the fishing boat, lodging in the wooden hull. A stitch of bullets sped up the bridge, narrowly missing the frightened fisherman, who repeatedly pushed the throttle harder, even though it was as far forward as it would go. He reached over and flipped on the running lights.
“Turn off those lights!” shouted Yosef.
It took two tries for the fisherman’s shaking hands to flip the lights off.
The Algerian rebels reached the mooring as the fishing trawler disappeared into the night. Standing on the pier, looking out at the dark silhouette heading out to sea, Mohammed cursed. Five minutes earlier and he’d have caught them.
The rebel leadership believed that President Aineuf was on that boat, escaping out to sea from the capital of the new Algeria. He picked up his mobile phone and dialed Colonel Safir. He cursed. Someone else would have the glory of capturing Aineuf.
CHAPTER SIX
Duncan placed his hand over the khaki uniform cap, tucked under his belt, to keep the helicopter’s prop wash from sucking it into the engine intake or blowing it overboard. His seabag bounced off his left leg.
Beau and H. J. trailed as the three ran from under the props of the helicopter. An officer, wearing the hat with the scrambled eggs of a captain, waved them toward the entrance of the forecastle on the amphibious carrier USS Nassau. The oily aviation fuel and hot exhausts filled the air.
The captain’s lips moved, but noise from the flight deck drowned his words. Duncan pointed to his ears and shook his head. The captain nodded, shook hands briefly with Duncan, and pointed to the nearby hatch. The four ducked as they entered. Inside, the officer pushed the lever down, closing the watertight door, muffling the flight deck noise outside. A master-at-arms, the ship’s sheriff, stood nearby with two sailors sporting shaved heads and standing at attention.
Brig rats. “Welcome aboard. Captain James. I’m Dan Carter, the Nassau’s executive officer.”
“I thought XOs of amphibs were commanders,” Duncan replied congenially as they shook hands again.
“They are. I just put it on the first of the month,” Carter replied, smiling.
“Congratulations.”
“Thanks. The commodore will meet you in the operations conference room. I know you must be tired from your trip over, but the current operations brief starts in a few minutes. The commodore specifically asked that you attend.”
Captain Carter looked at H. J. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know that a woman was coming. I was told to expect three SEAL officers so I arranged for two of you to share a stateroom and you to have one to yourself. Captain.”
“She’s a SEAL,” interrupted Duncan.
“A SEAL? I didn’t know that they had women in the SEALs.”
“They’ve been discussing it for years. Even tried it once before with mixed success, but she’s the first one to make the grade. Lieutenant McDaniels will be going on our exercise with the Spanish. Are they on board?”
“Right now they are, but not for much longer. They are being airlifted off this afternoon to Sigonella for further transfer to Spain.”
“Why? We’re supposed to conduct a joint exercise.”
“Events of the past few days have changed that. Spain is very concerned over the Algerian crisis and…” he paused, glancing at the brig rats.