The Shores of Tripoli

by Fisher Samuels

  The water jets reversed to slow the ship to a stop and the e-drive quieted to an idle.

  “Alright. Let’s get in to it. Ensign? What’d you do wrong?”

  MacFarland was slow to turn. “I didn’t track the first two skiffs that broke off.”

  “That’s right.” Williams paused. “Neither did I. Feigned retreat. We fell for the oldest trick in the book.”

  MacFarland looked surprised. “Old trick?”

  Williams nodded. “Battle of Hastings, 1066. The Norman calvary feigned retreat and broke up the Saxon army. But instead of us chasing the retreating pirates, we gave them a chance to regroup and attack our stern.” Grassley rolled his eyes again, but this time Williams saw it. “None of us kept an eye on them. I need all eyes on watch. These low profile skiffs can fall off radar in these waves, so we can’t rely only on our systems.”

  Grassley glared at MacFarland, but she ignored him.

  The door to the lower cabin popped open. Corporal Rogers lumbered through, his tactical vest scraping the edge of the hatch. “Ain’t we going?” Sweat dripped over Rogers’s face, but it blended in with the camo paint.

  “Negative. We’re pause-ex, but maybe after lunch.” Williams turned to MacFarland. “Get ’em shipshape, then chow, but we only got an hour. Meet me in the galley in five.”

  As soon as Williams closed the belowdecks hatch behind him, Grassley grunted. “Dammit.”

  “What are you pissed about?” MacFarland looked right at Grassley. “He called me out first.”

  “Whatever, ensign. He’s still trying to figure us all out, and I don’t want your fuckups making me look bad.”

  MacFarland sat stunned for a few seconds. “Just get reset.” She looked flustered. “Then eat.”

  “Sure thing—ma’am,” replied Grassley.

  MacFarland paused, then went below, leaving Grassley and Marathyachi alone on the bridge.

  “You should lay off the ensign, Grass.”

  Grassley snorted a sarcastic laugh. “What, she already tried sleeping with you, too?”

  “What?” Marathyachi spun his chair towards Grassley. “No shit?”

  Grassley shook his head. “Never mind. Looks like our new boss is a bookworm, huh?”

  “Seems like he knows what he’s doing.”

  “Come on, Shiv. You’re not going to fall for that crap, are you?”

  “Just cause he isn’t like Rockford doesn’t mean he won’t be a good captain.”

  Grassley grunted again. “I’m going out for a smoke.”

  Marathyachi nodded. “Don’t fall overboard.”

  ———————

  “You’re not like other bosses I’ve had.”

  Williams was looking in the freezer. “How’s that, ensign?” He sorted through the boxed meals that had been delivered by the supply ship.

  “Up there. Admitting your mistake like that.”

  Williams shut the freezer and grabbed a granola bar instead. “I don’t know everything. I think it’s fine to admit that sometimes.”

  “You know a lot about history, too.”

  “Every leader should.” He sat across from her at the aluminum table. “Remember that saying about knowing history to avoid repeating it? That out there just goes to show that it can happen even with a lot of study.”

  MacFarland nodded.

  “So we learned a few things. Keep me informed with specific details. Don’t assume I know what you’re talking about until we get more acquainted. And when you’re on watch, tell someone when you need more eyes.”

  She looked down at her mug of coffee. “Like when the two skiffs feigned retreat.”

  “And ensign? Stay even keeled. Show hesitation only when it’s prudent. Don’t use emotion for effect. Watch the outbursts of excitement.”

  She looked surprised. “What outbursts?”

  “Clapping. Hollering. After we engaged the first skiff.”

  MacFarland nodded and nervously bit her lip.

  “Looks like you’ve got something else on your mind.”

  She paused, choked something back and looked down at her mug. “How do you deal with petty officers who challenge you?”

  “Grassley?”

  She looked at Williams and nodded.

  Williams took a drink of his coffee. “POs have been around long enough that they know what they’re doing. Some think they don’t need officers. Some do. Either way, you’ve got to earn their respect. I’ve got to earn it, too.”

  “Doubt Grassley will ever respect you.”

  “And why is that?” He saw her starting to squirm. “Because I’m black?”

  She relaxed a little.

  He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. Some people will judge you no matter what you are when you’re the boss. Black. White. Female. It’s their problem.”

  “What about when it does become a prob—.” She shook her head. “Never mind. I know what I’m supposed to do.”

  “I know you do. But if you ever need help, you’ve got to let me know.”

  “I will.” She paused. “It’s just hard being a woman on board with a bunch of men.”

  Williams nodded. “Can’t imagine it’d be easy. I’d be out of my mind if one of my daughters joined the Navy.”

  “You have daughters?”

  Williams nodded. “Three kids. All girls. Twelve, ten and five.” He smiled. “I’m outnumbered.”

  MacFarland smiled back. “It was the opposite in my house. Two older brothers and dad.” MacFarland looked down again. “Lost my mom when I was three.”

  Williams clenched his jaw muscles. “So we’re both used to being outnumbered.”

  “I guess so.”

  Williams studied her troubled expression. “So how did you handle your older brothers?”

  MacFarland looked surprised. “I don’t know. I guess I just didn’t take any of their crap.”

  Williams nodded. “Sounds like a good start.”

  “But some POs, they’ve been around for years, and they—”

  “And they know a few things. That’s for sure. But you’re a commissioned officer. Just start by learning how to be a good officer. Learn from them what you can, but don’t take any shit. And keep working hard.”

  “Aye, sir. Thanks for the, uh, mentoring.”

  “Any time.” Williams finished his coffee and stood. “See you on the bridge.”

  MacFarland needed a second cup. She’d just returned the decanter to the machine when Grassley walked in. She glanced over her shoulder when she sensed him walking in her direction.

  “How’s the coffee, ma’am.” His pronunciation of ma’am sounded smarmy and almost condescending.

  “It’s good enough.”

  “Excuse me.” He leaned in close and reached for the sugar dispenser.

  MacFarland saw him turn his nose towards her and heard him inhale. She stepped to the side quickly.

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” He poured sugar into his travel mug. “So, you doing anything fun this weekend?”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know. Might go to a museum with a couple of friends.”

  “Oh, yeah? Friends from our crew?” He wiped his narrow mustache, which was far fuller than the hair on his balding head.

  “No. Classmates from Annapolis. They’re here for the exercise, too.”

  Grassley chuckled. “Annapolis. Mmm. What I'd give to see what you were like as a cadet.” He turned his body to face her and filled his mug with coffee, swirling it as he poured.

  MacFarland felt sick to her stomach and didn't know what to say. She glared at him and left quickly.

  Grassley smiled.

  ———————

  Ensign MacFarland was back in her chair, scanning the horizon for the other boats that would play in the next phase of the exercise. “Mauler’s in place.”

  The patrol boat Mauler was holding position 100 meters off the Dauntless’ starboard side. The Mauler was a diesel-only precursor of the Dauntless, just twenty
years older but without most of the modern automated systems. 100 meters ahead of the pair of patrol boats, the two skiffs crewed by mock pirates rocked in the waves.

  Ahead of the skiffs, the freighter Argonaut was slowly steaming into the wind.

  Williams looked at the skiffs, even though his view was somewhat diminished by the new anti-piracy weapon that was mounted on the side of the bow Mark 38. He’d never seen it fired before, at least not in person. “Shiv, weapons report.”

  “Aye sir. Full power to the non-lethals. Fuel cells at 98% and generators at 110%. Ready to fire.”

  “Roger.”

  “Attention on the net. Attention on the net.” Williams tapped on his console to turn up the radio speaker volume. “Exercise Agile Shield has resumed. All vessels stand by.”

  “Why would those idiots even volunteer for this?” asked Grassley. “It’s crazy!”

  “Somebody’s gotta test the non-lethals,” Williams replied.

  Marathyachi nodded toward the skiffs. “You think they’re getting paid for it?”

  Williams shook his head. “If they are, it’s not by the Navy. Probably contractors.”

  Grassley spun up the electric drive and watched the system’s performance on his console. “E-drive’s ready to roll.”

  “Dauntless, Watchtower. What’s your status? Over.”

  Williams grabbed the microphone. “Watchtower, Dauntless is a go. November Limas ready. Standing by.”

  “Watchtower copies. Bandits and patrol boats, execute in three, two, one, go.”

  The sterns of both skiffs dug in under the power of their outboard engines and picked up speed.

  “Helm, pursuit course.”

  “Aye!” Grassley slammed the throttles forward and the e-drive let out a shrill whine. The boat shuddered as the twin water jets accelerated the Dauntless and lifted the hull out of the choppy water and onto a smoother plane. “Twenty knots!”

  “Skiffs are holding at twenty-five knots,” said MacFarland from behind her digital binoculars.

  Williams nodded. “Hold twenty-five knot pursuit course at one-hundred meters.”

  “Aye.” Grassley tapped in the commands to hold speed and distance. “Twenty-five knots, one-hundred meters.”

  Williams looked over at the Mauler, which was shadowing the other skiff at the same speed. The skiffs were running parallel to the Argonaut, following the same piracy tactics that had so far been successful in these waters.

  “If they wanna mount that thing on freighters, they shouldn’t test it from so close to the water line.” Marathyachi looked at the height difference between their bow-mounted test weapon and the massive freighter. “Angle’s way off.”

  “This is just a test, remember?” The non-lethal emitter was using the same tracking mechanism as the Mark 38 machine gun, and the starboard skiff stayed centered in the Dauntless’s gun camera. The long barrel and surrounding concentric focusing rings made the NLE look quite intimidating. “Just gonna throw off their balance, make them all forget what they’re doing, and maybe put a few of ’em to sleep.”

  “Attention on the net. Attention on the net. Cleared to fire November Limas. Fire in ten. Nine. Eight.”

  “GM, start gun camera recording.”

  Marathyachi nodded and tapped his controls.

  “Four. Three.”

  “On their mark,” said Williams.

  “One. Fire.”

  Marathyachi pulled the trigger for the non-lethal emitter. Other than a red light mounted above the trigger, there was no detectable reaction to being fired. On the starboard skiff however, the men started dropping like flies. Marathyachi trained the NLE on the first pirate skiff until the outboard died, then swiveled it to the second.

  On the gun camera monitor, Williams and Marathyachi could see a few of the faces of the pirate actors go blank and then slump in whatever direction they were leaning. Williams looked out the window and saw what looked like a thin lightning bolt beginning to form from the NLE’s barrel and across the water to the skiff and then toward the Argonaut.

  “Is that supposed to be happening?” Grassley kept his course steady while he waited for an answer.

  The lightning bolt connected with the Argonaut and reflected back toward the Dauntless. The electric drive screamed and the boat slowed with a shudder. Every metallic surface of the Dauntless sizzled with a web of filament-thin green sparks.

  “The—uh—the—should—we—”

  Williams tried to grab the microphone, but his vision pinpointed to blackness. He heard something that sounded like a sack of potatoes falling to the ground and spilling out, but that didn’t make any sense.

  Chapter 2

  Tripoli Harbor

  As he always did before salat al-isha, Yusuf Karamanli walked along the seaside parapet of the ruddy castle. Thinking about the archers and gunmen who’d defended Tripolitania’s government seat from these same walls made the daily routine of managing it seem trivial and cleared his head for the evening prayer.

  He strolled along the walkway, listening to the waves slapping against the rocks below and the flapping of his region’s flag above. He looked at the rich green standard flying above the castle and thought that the three white crescent moons made of fine silk almost sparkled in the orange glow of dusk. Yusuf felt peace and tranquility washing over him, and he anticipated how much better he would feel when he recited his evening rak’at.

  But that feeling quickly ebbed when he heard yelling and cannon fire in the harbor.

  Not yet forty years old, he’d been Pasha—an Ottoman title of nobility—for nearly eight years. He’d grown comfortable handling the merchants from around the region, but the sight of the American clipper chasing one of his gunboats in the harbor was unsettling. In fact, because of the Americans, the last two years had been the most troubling yet of his reign as Pasha.

  Tripoli was the heart of trade and commerce for the North African region of Tripolitania, but that trade was secured only by force. Since the region produced little more than figs and silk, his father and grandfather before him had been successful in demanding tribute from those doing trade in the southern Mediterranean. The American Navy was growing more bold, and as a whole, the fledgling nation had grown more resistant to the Pasha’s price for safe passage and trade.

  When a nation refused to pay the requested tribute, its ships would be harassed by mercenaries dispatched by the Pasha. If the harassment didn’t work, the Pasha would order the gunboats to attack and disable the ship, capture and hold the crew for ransom, and sell the cargo. It didn’t take long for nations conducting trade in the region to consider tribute to the Pasha of Tripolitania as simply the cost of doing business.

  Recently though, American warships began escorting her trading vessels to protect their valuable cargo. Over the last few years, his corsair attacks on American vessels had become less successful, and this was a challenge that neither the Pasha’s father nor grandfather had ever faced. Or at least they never taught him how to deal with challenges like this.

  Two years ago, Pasha Yusuf had reached the limit of his tolerance for being ignored. Yusuf had demanded a huge annual tribute to protect American vessels from piracy. When President Jefferson’s Consulate in Tripoli refused the Pasha’s demand for $225,000—one-fortieth of the young nation’s entire treasury—Yusuf responded once again by dispatching hired thugs to do his bidding. But this time, his hired band of twenty marauders marched to the American Consulate building and chopped down the flagpole. With this act, Yusuf declared war on the United States, and President Jefferson responded with the naval blockade that had been troubling the Pasha ever since. Not only had the American Navy secured the waters off the coast of Tripolitania, but they had repeatedly entered Tripoli Harbor to pursue any vessel that might only look like it was capable of piracy.

  The American clipper now in his harbor, it appeared, was heading northeast toward the Mediterranean. However, Pasha Yusuf noticed that the sails were luffing and the ship di
dn’t seem to be making much headway, if it was moving at all.

  Yusuf heard footsteps crunching on the sandy walkway behind him. He turned to see Nasser Mukhtar, one of several experienced captains who the Pasha regularly called upon to enforce his version of maritime law. The Americans referred to Nasser simply as a pirate, but to Yusuf, Nasser was a loyal admiral in Tripolitania’s navy. Tall, with a thick graying beard, black jacket over a flowing white thawb, and capped by a voluminous turban decorated with a black ostrich feather, Nasser looked almost regal.

  “Masa el-khair, saydee.” Even though Nasser was old enough to be Yusuf’s father, he still called the Pasha sir. Nasser extended his arms and hugged him like an old friend.

  “And good evening to you, Nasser.” Yusuf bestowed upon Nasser a greeting of three kisses, alternating on each cheek. “I know why you are here.” The Pasha looked over the parapet at the American ship.

  “Indeed, sir.” Nasser joined Yusuf in looking out to the harbor. “The fool just ran aground on the reef. I have come here to ask for your permission to attack and capture this vessel.”

  Yusuf stepped back from the parapet and looked at Nasser.

  “In your name, of course, Pasha.”

  Yusuf nodded. “Of course.” He returned to the parapet and looked at the ship and the blood-red sky above. “Allah has delivered this gift to us. You will be victorious.”

  “Thank you, saydee.”

  “And Nasser.”

  “Yes, Pasha?”

  Yusuf pulled his crisp white coat straight and smoothed it over his generous waistline. “You will be rewarded for every prisoner.” He continued his walk without waiting for Nasser to respond.

  ———————

  The tide was going out from under the American frigate, so Nasser walked confidently through the jumble of seaside buildings and tents that lined the loose rock seawall of Tripoli’s harbor. Without the Pasha’s approval, none of the other corsairs would even think of trying to steal his prize.

  He passed many seamen along the way, and responded to each of their humble greetings with little regard.