Contents
Title Page
About Fisher T. Samuels
About "The Shores of Tripoli"
Dedication
Chapter 1 - Agile Shield
Chapter 2 - Tripoli Harbor
Chapter 3 - Asleep
Chapter 4 - Corsair Fleet
Chapter 5 - Hard Aground
Chapter 6 - Blood and Water
Chapter 7 - Fish out of Water
Chapter 8 - The Philadelphia
Chapter 9 - Captured
Chapter 10 - Out of Time
Chapter 11 - Prisoners
Chapter 12 - Echoes
Chapter 13 - Sunrise
Chapter 14 - Recharging
Chapter 15 - Paroled
Chapter 16 - Betrayed
Chapter 17 - New Crew
Chapter 18 - Darkness
Chapter 19 - Intercepted
Chapter 20 - Following Seas
Chapter 21 - Shipwrecked
Chapter 22 - Home Port
Chapter 23 - Debrief
EPILOGUE
The Shores of Tripoli
By Fisher T. Samuels
© 2014 Fisher T. Samuels, All Rights Reserved
ISBN: 978-0-9898853-3-1
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This is a work of fiction based on real events. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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About Fisher T. Samuels
I’ve always loved writing, but never committed myself to it until recently. It happened a few years ago, when I woke up in my bunk in the small shipping container that had been converted into my living quarters. The government called the containerized housing units, but we called the CHUs. It was a small metal box with no windows and a powerful contractor-maintained air conditioner, surrounded by concrete blast barriers on the outskirts of Baghdad. I was close to the port-a-johns, but not too close, and far from the fence line, but not far enough to be completely safe from mortars and rockets. My CHU was shaken more than a few times by incoming rounds, but never close enough to do any damage or cause me any injury. Others weren’t so lucky, though.
My job was boring but safe, unlike a lot of other guys and gals who we call heroes for doing what they did in the midst of all the chaos. But I was envious of the excitement—even the danger—and I wanted more out of life. I started doing what most folks do in the middle of their lives: I asked myself how I got where I was. I won’t bore you with the details, but that one morning started the long journey of self-analysis that led to the realization that I wanted to be a writer.
I’ve got scraps of stories littering the corner of my apartment that I call an office, and a folder of half-finished stories on my laptop. I like all kinds of genres, so you’ll either like the variety or be frustrated by my inability to focus. I’ve got a few more books in the pipe, and hope that whoever reads them will enjoy them, think about what I write, and maybe be inspired to try something new.
I’ll just keep cranking out all the stories that occupy my thoughts and keep trying to make a living out of it. After all, I know for a fact that it’s better to try than to ignore that gnawing feeling that you should be doing something else with your life.
Please review my books or share your thoughts with me directly at www.facebook.com/fisher.t.samuels.
Thanks,
Fisher
About The Shores of Tripoli
Patrol Boat USS Dauntless is taking part in Agile Shield, the US Navy’s latest exercise against North African Piracy. While testing a new non-lethal weapon, a malfunction sends the Dauntless and her crew somewhere they never imagined possible. Lieutenant Commander Robert Williams, the Dauntless’s new skipper, wakes up in a strange place, amidst strange events, and with a crew that’s on the verge of tearing itself apart. Thrust into the middle of a naval battle, Williams must handle the unknown circumstances to get his crew out alive and preserve the nation’s prestige in this troubled part of the world.
Time Flies
I am dreaming,
one foot stuck in the past,
the other ready to leap forward and capture all that is mine.
—Fisher Samuels
__________
Time is like a sword.
If you don’t cut it, it will cut you.
— Arab Proverb
Chapter 1
Agile Shield
“Four pirate skiffs, closing from the east! Occupants armed! AK-47s and RPGs!” The radio crackled with the sound of gunfire and went silent.
The helmsman looked at the tactical display on his central monitor. “Time to vessel three minutes.” His voice was calm, practiced.
“I’ve got the skiffs.” The ensign tracked the four small speedboats with her binoculars. “Four to five hostiles in each. They’re shooting flares at ’em.”
“Who’s shooting flares?” the commander demanded.
“Argonaut.” The ensign shook her head like he should have known better. “The Argonaut is shooting flares at the skiffs.”
“Be specific in your observations, Ensign.” Lieutenant Commander Robert Williams grabbed the microphone. “Argonaut, this is a coalition warship. We are inbound and have a visual on the pirate skiffs. Maintain current heading at best speed. Over.”
“Coalition warship, Argonaut copies.” The radio was clear enough over the cabin’s built-in audio system to hear the commotion on the other end. “One skiff trying to board. We’re fire-hosing them now.”
The Dauntless sliced through the roiling swells of the southern Mediterranean Sea. Cruising at forty knots, the peaking waves offered little resistance to the 85-foot, 185,000 pound armored patrol boat.
Williams looked younger than his age of thirty-five, but for his first week in command on one of the Navy’s newest and most advanced patrol boats, he seemed calm and in charge. “Twenty-fives on line?”
The gunner tapped on the screen integrated into his shock-isolated chair. “Locked and loaded, sir.” On the deck, the remotely-operated 25-millimeter Mark 38 machine gun system remained stabilized on the horizon as the Dauntless rocked over the swells.
“Warning shots. Abaft the freighter.”
“Aye, sir. Ready.”
“Fire,” said Williams.
The gunner pulled the joystick’s trigger and five snorts of white smoke popped in quick succession. The faint smell of nitrocellulose wafted through the cabin.
Ensign Jacqueline MacFarland watched the skiffs through her binoculars. “No reaction.” She was not quite two years out of Annapolis but already seemed comfortable in her position as the day crew’s executive officer.
Williams ran his hand across his chin. “Two more volleys. Fire.”
“Aye, aye! Firing!” The gunner fired five more rounds, waited three seconds, and fired another five.
MacFarland scanned the scene. “One skiff’s running. No, two are running. Two more still trying to board the Argonaut. They’re getting hosed down pretty good,” she said, smiling.
Williams tapped on his panel to select a secure channel. “Watchtower, Dauntless. Two skiffs b
roke off, running home on course one niner zero. Two skiffs trying to board. We’re going in. Over.”
“Dauntless, Watchtower copies. Cleared to engage. Out.”
“Here we go.” Williams surveyed his crew. Ensign MacFarland was strapped in to the XO’s chair to his left. Gunner’s Mate Petty Officer 3rd Class (GM3 for short) Shivrav Marathyachi was at the weapons console to his right. And directly in front of him at the helm was Engineman Petty Officer 1st Class (EN1) Don Grassley. They were all wearing standard Navy-issue dark blue digital camo fatigues topped with armored vests and kevlar helmets. And even though the boat shuddered as it smashed through each wave, all four gently bobbed in their shock-absorbing chairs equipped with an array of integrated displays and touch-panel controls. “Helm, hold standoff distance abaft the freighter. Gunner, prepare to fire.”
Grassley brought the Dauntless through the chop of the freighter’s wake and pointed the bow down the side of the freighter. The profiles of the two dark green skiffs blended in with the waves, but the heads of the pirates stood tall and made sufficient targets.
“Gunner, you have a shot?”
Marathyachi pushed a second small joystick forward and the image on his screen magnified to show the view from the computer-stabilized barrel. “Aye, aye, sir. No friendlies in field of fire.”
“Roger that.” Williams looked at the time displayed on his chair-mounted monitor. This might be a record, he thought. “Fire when ready.”
Marathyachi was twenty-four years old, but he looked eighteen. And for that, he seemed right at home on the game-like remote weapon systems console. He started with the pirates closest to the hull of the freighter and strafed his weapon abeam. He fired 30 rounds before stopping.
“Watchtower, Dauntless. Pirates engaged. What’s the observation? Over.”
“Yes!” MacFarland excitedly clapped once and hooted. She looked at her indifferent crew mates and stiffened. “Muster the fire team, sir?”
Williams was stoic. “Set counter-piracy condition alpha.”
MacFarland punched in a command on her communications panel and pressed on her throat transducer. “All hands, all hands. Counter-piracy condition alpha. Counter-piracy condition alpha. Fire team, prepare for boarding.”
“Dauntless, Watchtower. Stand by.”
———————
“What are you reading now, Tricky? Some shit about green women?”
Private First Class Rick Childress didn’t look up from his tablet. “Classic sci-fi. Citizen of the Galaxy.”
PFC Charlie Watts grimaced. “Citizen? What’s it about?”
“Don’t know yet.” Childress pulled the tight mandarin collar of his armored vest away from his neck. “So far it’s about a guy who wakes up as a slave. Some old dude just bought him.”
Watts shook his head. “Sounds kinky. How can you read all that crap?” He ran his hand from the back of his shaved head to the front of his high-and-tight haircut and put on his kevlar helmet.
“It’s not crap. It’s actually pretty good. Heinlein, the author, was a Navy guy, after all.”
“Hate ’im already. Got any sex in it?”
“Doubt it.” Childress slid out of the narrow bunk that defined the extent of his personal space on board.
Watts clipped the sling of his compact semi-automatic M-4 rifle to a D-ring on his tactical vest. “You ready to go?”
Childress put on his kevlar helmet without snapping the chin strap. “Yep.”
Corporal Walter Rogers slid in sideways through the tight space between the berths. He’d painted his lean face and muscular neck with green and black camo sticks. “PC Alpha. Pre-check. Galley. Now.” Rogers left without waiting for an answer.
“Oorah!” They both replied simultaneously.
“Were we supposed to camo up?” asked Childress in a whisper.
Watts shrugged and grabbed his gear.
In the galley adjacent to the narrow corridor that held their berths, Lance Corporal Shawn Graves was doing pushups.
“Robber, are ya’ ready?” asked Rogers.
“Rah!” Graves stood up, the veins on his neck pulsing.
The four members of the Marine fire team grounded their helmets against the galley wall and formed up in a circle for a quick pre-check. To an outside observer, their broad shoulders, thick necks and tight haircuts made the descriptive phrase ‘jar-heads’ seem completely appropriate.
“Listen up. Standing by for sweep and clear. Two pirate skiffs trying to board an American cargo freighter. Ten to twelve hostiles total. Likely out of Egypt, but could be Libyan. Copy?”
The other three responded with a simultaneous “rah.”
“If they get on board, we go in, and we go in hard. Tricky on point, then Robber, Charlie and me. Copy?”
“Rah,” they quickly responded.
“Stack it up at the hatches. Don’t get pumped and go running in. Wait for the push. Rah?”
“Rah.”
“Sweep and clear, engage targets, watch friendlies, move on. We hold here for word to roll. Copy?”
“Oorah!”
The entire briefing lasted no longer than thirty seconds.
———————
“They’re not moving, sir,” said Ensign MacFarland from behind her binoculars. “Just sitting there getting hosed.”
Commander Williams repeated his call. “Watchtower, Dauntless. Pirates engaged. What’s the observation? Over.”
The Dauntless rocked in the wake as it maintained its position behind the massive freighter.
Gunfire erupted from behind the Dauntless. Williams spun to look aft. “Full speed, hard to starboard!”
EN1 Grassley slammed the throttles forward and spun the wheel as the power of the water jets dug in. The Dauntless banked and climbed out of the wake, then quickly got on its own plane to skim higher in the water.
“Any damage?” Williams asked loudly. “Gunner, what’s behind us?”
GM3 Marathyachi tapped his controls and the display switched to the camera on the aft gun. “Fuckin’-A, sir. Two skiffs. They’re in small weapons range, but falling behind.”
Williams tapped at a control to mirror the gunner’s display. On it, the first two pirate skiffs he thought they’d chased off were now pursuing the Dauntless, firing their AK-47s. Williams knew he had screwed up.
“Dauntless, Watchtower. Slow to 15 knots. Do not engage. I say again. Slow to 15 knots. Do not engage. Over.”
Williams ripped the mic from its cradle. “Negative, Watchtower. Engaged by two pirate skiffs. Over.” He released the transmit button. “GM, do you have a shot?”
Marathyachi trained the rear gun on the lead skiff. “Roger, sir.”
“Dauntless, Watchtower. Simulated damage input. Slow to 15 knots. Slow to 15 knots. Over.”
“Dauntless copies.” Williams slapped the mic into its cradle. “You heard him, helm. Fifteen knots.”
The Dauntless slowed to fifteen knots and the skiffs began to close.
“Dauntless, Watchtower. Turn off your rear gun camera. I say again. Turn off your rear gun camera. Simulated damage, aft gun in-op. Over.”
“Do it, gunner,” Williams said.
Marathyachi shook his head and tapped the controls. “That’s some bullshit damage from small arms fire.” The rear view on the consoles went blank.
Williams tapped at his display panel and called up the tactical map. He spread his fingers open to zoom the display. “Helm, fire up the e-drive.”
Grassley started tapping at his control display. “Aye, conn.”
“Watchtower, Dauntless. Engaging electric drive. What’s our max speed? Over.”
“Roger Dauntless. Max speed on electric drive is 35 knots. I say again. Max speed 35 knots. Over.”
Williams nodded. “Dauntless copies. Preparing to re-engage. Out.”
“Skiffs are gaining, sir.” MacFarland tightened her shoulder belts.
“Alright, helmsman. We’re on the bow gun only, so it’s all up to
you.”
Grassley nodded.
“Gunner, fire at will.”
Marathyachi swept the bow gun to starboard, anticipating Grassley’s next turn.
“What’s the tactical, XO?”
MacFarland had been watching the pursuing skiffs. “Hostiles closing 200 meters, dead astern!”
Grassley looked at his display. The electric drive was up to speed, so he killed the diesels. The deep growl of the twin diesels gave way to the quieter but high-pitched whine of the electric turbines. “Here we go!”
Grassley spun the wheel to turn the boat starboard and the Dauntless accelerated and dug to the right. The skiffs scrambled in response to the Dauntless’s sudden acceleration and fled in different directions, but the tight turn allowed Marathyachi to target one of the skiffs with twenty rounds from the bow-mounted Mark 38.
“Dauntless, this is Watchtower. Exercise input. Targeted skiff eliminated. Targeted skiff eliminated. Out.”
Grassley continued his starboard turn. “Engaging second skiff.”
Marathyachi already had the second skiff in his sights and fired five bursts of rounds at the fleeing skiff before Grassley completed his final turn.
“Attention on the net. Attention on the net. Pause-Ex, Pause-Ex, Pause-Ex. All pirate skiffs eliminated. Exercise will resume at 1300 hours. Out.”
“Oh, yeah!” Marathyachi rotated his chair and raised his hand to high-five Grassley. “Nice driving, bro.”
Grassley ignored the hand. “Don’t call me a bro.”
“Don’t know what you’re celebrating.” said Williams. “We screwed up.”
Grassley rolled his eyes at Marathyachi, but Williams didn’t see it. Grassley tapped the station keeping icon and rotated his chair around. “How’s that, sir?”
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