Cobra tsf-4

by David E. Meadows

  “No way, Bashir,” Duncan replied sharply. “Your Colonel Yosef may have been Mossad or whatever, but no way a chief petty officer in the United States Navy could have been. I have even put Chief Judiah in for the Navy Cross.”

  “Has he gotten it?”

  “Not yet,” Duncan said. “But, Bashir, these things take time.”

  “Then let’s disagree on this for the time being, Captain. If he gets an award from your Navy, then obviously the British are lying.” Bashir pursed his lips and bobbed his head a couple of times before shaking his finger at Duncan. “Of course, I have known the British to lie when it comes to furthering their own interests. And the French, the Italians, the Spanish, and even— be prepared — the Americans.”

  “Bashir, enough small talk. Where are the hostages?”

  “First, my friend, the message from President Alneuf. I need your agreement before we go further. President Alneuf would like for America to occupy Algiers for two more weeks.”

  “Bashir, I can’t promise that. The current position is that once we have recovered the hostages, we are going to leave. My government wants us out of here as soon as possible. We have other commitments elsewhere in the world. If you haven’t noticed, we have a small war going in Korea.

  If Alneuf wants us to delay our departure, he needs to go through our State Department.”

  “He understands, Captain, and he assures me he is working the diplomatic end, but he has confidence in you. He needs the Americans to remain in Algiers for two more weeks. Only two more weeks, and then you can go. That cannot be too hard, my friend.

  Even if you recovered the hostages today, it would still be a week before you could pull out. All he is asking … all I am asking is that you delay your departure for two more weeks, until the end of August. If you cannot agree with me on that, then I cannot tell you where the hostages are. I will have to delay passing this information to you for a week.”

  Duncan placed both hands on the back of the chair and pushed himself back. “Why, Bashir, does he need American forces to occupy Algiers for another two weeks?”

  “Because, Captain, President Alneuf is returning to Algiers. If he can return with his loyal forces to Algiers peacefully, then it gives him time to take control of the city without having to fight the rebels building by building for that control. He considers Algiers the center of gravity for the rebels. The force who holds the capital controls Algeria.”

  Duncan bit his lower lip. The safety of the hostages was number-one priority. Most likely, it was going to take two weeks, anyway, for the Marines to pull out. The USS Kearsarge and her escorts, steaming in circles west of the city for a couple of weeks, were heading west out of the Mediterranean. Two weeks from now, the Marine Amphibious Group on board Kearsarge would be off the Korean peninsula. The Marines in Algiers would embark the next week aboard the Nassau Amphibious Group, and he would not be surprised to hear they were being diverted to Korea.

  The rotation between the two Marine Expeditionary Units, to commence in two days, was dead in its tracks. Any promise to Bashir could be a lie.

  He raised his head and looked at the Bedouin across from him. For the first time, the mask disappeared from the man’s face. Bashir needed him to agree. Even smugglers can have a tint of patriotism. The future of Algeria could rest on America delaying its exit for two weeks. One week was easy. Two weeks? He would be cutting it close. What is Algeria to us, anyway? Duncan asked himself. Any agreement he made had little validity and no substance. The American government marched much to its own drum and a piddle-ass captain in the Navy lacked authority to tie its hands. Besides, this was a State Department problem, not his. But lives were at stake, and unless he made the decision here and now, more could be lost.

  Duncan wondered briefly if Bashir would really delay revealing the location of the hostages for another week if he failed to agree to Alneuf’s terms. Lies were cheap, but they never remained hidden long and once revealed, they ruined credibility. You lose your credibility, you never regain it.

  “Bashir,” Duncan said softly, nodding his head. “One week is easy. Most likely, it will take about ten days for the Marines to pull out once the order is given. Even if we rescue the hostages today, which we want to do, it would take at least another twenty-four hours before a withdrawal could begin.” Duncan shook his head. “Bashir, I can’t lie to you. I don’t have the authority or power to agree to U.S. forces remaining in Algiers for an additional two weeks. You have to understand that what I am giving you is a best-guess estimate for how long we will be in Algiers once we have freed our American citizens. It’s just an estimate, an estimate I believe is accurate. I don’t see us being able to extricate ourselves earlier than next week. That gives you ten days. Is there some way President Alneuf can expedite his return before then?”

  The huge Bedouin bit his lower lip. When a couple of seconds passed and no answer came, Duncan continued.

  “He needs to approach our government through official channels, Bashir.”

  “Bien sur, my Captain,” Bashir said, a faint smile crossing his face. “I will pass your agreement to President Hawaii Alneuf. I am sure he will be glad of the extra time. We knew two weeks was too much to ask. Ten days should be okay.” Bashir’s eyebrows arched. He pointed at Duncan.

  “You may even get an Algerian medal for your chest for this moment,” he said enthusiastically, his pudgy finger jabbing at Duncan’s chest. “The best Algerian medals are made of gold. If you get one and you don’t like it, let me know. I can get a good price for you.” The Bedouin raised his hands above his head, his fists clasped tightly and shouted, “Praise be to Allah, Captain Duncan James. You are a hero of—” He stopped in midsentence and brought his hands down.

  He unfolded the fist with the transmitter in it. A tangle of broken plastic, wires, and a small triple-A battery lay in it. He glanced at Duncan, smiling like a young boy sharing a humorous secret. “Guess I squeezed too tight?” He held it up to his eyes. “Just as I thought, Captain. Made in China. But, then, why am I not surprised?”

  “Sit down, Bashir, and tell me where the hostages are.”

  “Well, Captain Duncan James, I don’t know specifically where the hostages are, but I know where the rebels enter and leave the passage that leads to them.” “You said you knew the location of the hostages.”

  Bashir waved his hands. “Of course, of course, I know the location of the hostages. I just don’t know their exact location, but I know the path that will take you to them.” “You said you knew where they were.”

  Bashir shrugged his shoulders. “Most likely, it was a language difference between my English and your American. Wasn’t it the great English statesman Winston Churchill who said that America and Great Britain were two great countries separated by a common language?”

  “Bashir, the hostages?”

  “We don’t even have a common language, or a common—”

  “Bashir!”

  “Okay, okay. I can show you where the rebels sneak in and out of where they are holding the hostages.” He laughed. “I know how you and your SEALs perform. It will be a simple matter to go through the sewers in the catacombs and recover the Americans. Who knows, Captain, you may even get a medal from your own government as well as from Algeria.”

  “Sewers? Catacombs?”

  Bashir nodded, blowing his nose again on the tail of his garment before wiping away the sweat that seemed to continuously flow from his forehead and drip down the sides of his face. “Yes, but they are big pipes. You see, my friend, Algeria is honeycombed underground with catacombs that rival those of Paris and Rome. If a big earthquake ever happens in Algiers, the entire city will disappear into the earth. Yes, they are massive, these catacombs. Many have gone in and—”

  “Bashir, if these catacombs are so big, how do we know we won’t get lost trying to navigate this passage?”

  Bashir shrugged his shoulders. “Ah, you know,” he said, stroking one of his chins. “It has never occu
rred to me that you Americans cannot do this. Maybe President Alneuf should ask the French? They would do it.”

  “Bashir, I wouldn’t ask the French to wipe my ass. They’ve been nothing but a pain lately. They have a carrier battle group two hundred miles north of ours and have yet to offer help. And the British haven’t been much help, either, letting the French jerk them around as part of their battle group.”

  Bashir stuck a fat finger up his nose, twisted it a couple of times, and then wiped it on his thobe. “That is the French for you, Captain. They are more than willing to come and help Hawaii Alneuf once you depart.

  The French have never forgiven themselves for losing their African empire. They are impressed with the empire they never had and the world power they never were. I sometimes think—” “Bashir,” Duncan interrupted. “Let’s go. You’re going to take us to this pipe that leads to the Americans?” He glanced at the glazed window high along the wall. Daylight was fading, and time was running out.

  “Of course, but I must contact the president first and tell him of our agreement.”

  “We don’t have an agreement, Bashir. Don’t mislead President Alneuf by telling him the Americans have agreed to remain here. Tell him the truth. There is no agreement. There is probably another week or ten days for him to replace us, and make sure he knows that’s just an estimate.”

  “Of course, Captain. Of course. What did you think I was going to tell him?”

  “You can give Colonel Stewart the telephone number, and his communicators will patch you through to Hawaii Alneuf,” Duncan said, irritation in his voice.

  “Oh, I don’t need them for this, Captain. I will call him here.”

  “Call him?”

  “Of course! How do you think we have been talking?”

  “I figured by radio … ” Duncan’s voice trailed off.

  Basmr grinned. “No, my friend, by cellular satellite telephone. He picks up the telephone at the Cumberland Hotel in London, dials my number, and my telephone rings. I pick it up and — bravo — there he is. When I want to talk with him, I do the same. It is amazing what new technology permits even in a rebellion where landlines are cut or being monitored. But, of course, you know we never really had telephone lines here. Before the advent of cellular telephones, it took eight years to get a telephone installed, and you had to know the right person. I remember—” “Okay, okay, okay,” Duncan said, waving his hands. “I give up. I’ll get Colonel Stewart, and we’ll take you to your telephone. Then we want you to take us immediately to wherever this pipe is located.”

  “There is no need to take me anywhere, Captain Duncan James.”

  Bashir hiked up his yellow white thobe, revealing two huge, hairy thighs the size of Duncan’s waist. A black strap encompassed an immense right thigh, holding a tiny cellular telephone inside a small holster. He pulled the telephone out and unfolded it before straightening his thobe.

  He saw the surprised look on Duncan’s face. “You know how Americans are, Captain Duncan James. They would never search between a man’s legs … especially a man of my size with a propensity for sweating. You should have seen the face of the young Marine when he was searching me. I asked him if he wanted to run his hands up between my legs to see what weapon I had there. His face turned so red. It was really quite funny.” Booming laughter filled the small room, the sound easily audible to the Marines next door who were working furiously to restore the intercept audio.

  Colonel Bulldog Stewart stood over them, the veins in his neck visible as his whispered, angry commands drove the Marines.

  * * *

  Duncan, Beau, HJ, and Bud Helliwell lay in the sand on the opposite bank, peering over the ridge. A huge pipe protruded from the other side several yards. A sparse maze of wild scrub and vines surrounded the rusting sewer pipe.

  They were close enough to see anyone coming or going. The five-foot-high, ragged mouth of the rusting pipe jutted out over a small stream that flowed north toward the sea. A steady trickle of water and sewage ran out, making small splashes in the shallow, dirty water below it. The smell of fetid sewage occasionally reached their nostrils as the evening air blew in from the sea.

  Duncan, Beau, and HJ crawled down from the top of the bank to the dirt road below them. Bashir, Colonel Bulldog Stewart, and several urban-armed Marines waited.

  “During the day, they do not use it, my friend,” Bashir said. “At night is when they come and go.” Bashir looked at the sky. “Which will be here soon. The smell keeps the Americans away, who would never consider anyone using a sewage pipe as a means for access. The rebels are far from dumb. Don’t you agree? But so unhygienic, I think.” He blew his nose on his thobe tail and wiped his face.

  Duncan noticed Bulldog Stewart’s upper lip curl in disgust.

  “Bashir, how do we know this leads to where the hostages are being kept?”

  “My nephews — fine men every one of them; you have met and shared food with them, Captain — have trailed the rebels and recognized one of those responsible for kidnapping the Americans. His name is Mohammed. He nearly captured President Hawaii Alneuf at the piers the first night when the rebels overran Algiers. He is a religious man but not one inclined to kill the hostages without good reasons, unlike his comrade Kafid, who Colonel Yosef — the Israeli spy — killed during their escape from Algiers.”

  “Israeli spy?” Beau asked, cutting his eyes toward Duncan.

  “Bashir. The hostages, please.” Duncan said. He found it hard to believe that Daoud Yosef was an Israeli spy, much less Chief Judiah. He saw the pier, the smoke, the explosion. Neither of the two, who had volunteered to stay behind and blow the pier so the rest of them could escape, could have survived.

  “The hostages are somewhere at the end of that pipe. Unfortunately, the pipe could lead anywhere in the city. But you are Navy SEALs, and if anyone can find them, you can.”

  “Flattery will get you nowhere, Bashir.” “Can you trust this man, Duncan?” Bulldog asked, pointing at Bashir.

  “How do you know he isn’t leading you to certain death?”

  Bashir glanced between the two men. The Marine Corps colonel scared him.

  More so, since Duncan warned him he needed to be scared. He had read where even the Germans feared them and dubbed them Devil Dogs for how they fought. The rebels on one side with instant death and the fear of the Marines on this side convinced Bashir that it was time for him to go. He would see Duncan and the SEALs on their way before leaving the hospitality of the Marines.

  Beau and HJ appeared behind the three men.

  “Boss,” Beau said. “We have the stuff the Marines promised.” He held up two camouflage packs.

  Duncan nodded, biting his lower lip. His misgivings about going underground caused him to think of delaying the rescue. Thoughts of what the rebels might be doing to the hostages overrode customary caution. He recalled the war in Afghanistan, when his team had stumbled upon three prisoners who had been skinned alive, down to the bones of their skull, while leaving their eyes intact. He doubted they could have lived long after the torture had started, but it was a scene that had haunted him ever since. It was another reason he had forced an immediate attack against the rebel position where HJ had been captured last month.

  Al-Qaida still existed, and as much as they had done to wipe it out, it still thrived in the maladroit twists of fanatical minds.

  “Got no choice, Beau,” Duncan said, a slight sigh escaping. “You know how to organize the team. Looks like single file to me.”

  “Duncan, you ever seen the movie Aliens!”

  HJ handed a satchel to Duncan. “Here, Captain. Inside you will find a couple of flares, flashlight, ball of string, and several florescent crayons for marking our way. In addition, a couple of spare D cell batteries when the ones in the flashlight give out. Gibbons has the rope. I told him to leave his radio with the Marines.”

  “Duncan, I still would like to send some of my Marines with you,” Bulldog offered.

 
; “Thanks, Bulldog, but we’ve worked together as a team and know how each other operates. I’d hate to try to incorporate your Marines and my SEALs without us doing some combined training first. Right now, I don’t think we have time.”

  Initially, Bulldog had argued the rescue to be a responsibility of the Marines, and Duncan was more than willing to allow that. The SEALs had had little sleep in the past twenty-four hours. Here they were, twenty-four hours after arriving on the USS Stennis, preparing to go into the Swiss cheese-like catacombs of Algiers. Catacombs for which no one had an accurate map. Moreover, this was the month he was supposed to retire. Instead, the Navy extended him on active duty for “the duration,” whatever that meant.

  When the rescue plans were forwarded to General Lewis on the Stennis and the newly arrived one-star Marine Corps general on board the Nassau, the decision had been to use the SEALs. Duncan had superior training in hostage rescue, having taught the subject and refined the tactics used by the SEALs, the Marines, and the Army today.

  Beau saluted — something he didn’t do much. Showing off for the colonel, thought Duncan.

  HJ held out a ball of string, two florescent chalk markers, and four extra batteries to Duncan. He took them, slipping the string, one of the markers, and the batteries back into the satchel before strapping the light-green pack to his belt. He took one of the markers and put it in his desert cammie shirt pocket.

  “Colonel, I guess we had better be going while we have some light left.

  We have our bricks,” he said, touching the small portable radio on his belt. “And I have this contraption your urban commandos loaned us,” Duncan added, touching the keyboard on his wrist and swing-down eyepiece connected to his helmet. “As soon as we locate the hostages, we will call you.”

  Bulldog stuck his hand out. “Duncan, be careful and good luck. I have a quick-reaction force, ready to come when you call. All we need is for you to tell us where. We can be anywhere in Algiers within fifteen minutes.” “Thanks, Bulldog,” he said, shaking the Marine’s hand.