by Philip Dole
And it would sink with him barricaded in the engine room.
Chapter Thirty-one
In the engine room of the Infidel
Somewhere off the Mediterranean Coast of Morocco
Thursday, December 9, 2005
9:48 p.m.
Tyler sat on a workbench stool with his head in his hands. A long-necked oil can, three work gloves, and a small cardboard box that had once held nails or screws swirled around the shroud, floating at different speeds.
I’ve stopped the engine. So now I’ve got to stop the water. Duct tape. If I can find that tape I saw, maybe I can patch the hoses. He knew the chances were not good because he had hacked through the hoses and left jagged ends.
The engine room had peg boards full of small tools, several workbenches, each with a half dozen drawers, against three bulkheads, and more toolboxes sitting on shelves under the benches. He had been in such a hurry when he was rifling through them for a ratchet wrench, he hadn’t even tried to remember what was where. But he thought he’d seen some duct tape in a toolbox.
You don’t have the sense to come in out of the rain. He ripped into himself again, using his mother’s G-rated version of Arnold’s put-down. He lifted the first toolbox onto the bench top because the water was already higher than the storage shelves underneath. In the third toolbox he found a half roll of duct tape. He turned back to the engine. The water was increasingly cold now that the engine had stopped. He unrolled a foot of tape, ripped it off with his teeth, and let it hang in his mouth.
He bent down in the chilly water and found the cut hoses with his hands. He could only see dim outlines of the severed hoses under two feet of water. He ran his fingers over the ragged edges and tried to fit them back together. No way. He couldn’t rejoin them with duct tape.
I’ve got plenty of screwdrivers. Why not try to reattach the severed hose ends to the engine block with the hose clamps. The hoses will be shorter now, but it might work.
He reached into the dark water, feeling for the hose clamp. He ran his fingertips over the screw top to determine the type of screw. “Slotted.” He got two different sized slotted screwdrivers from their places on the pegboard and sloshed back to the shroud. He lifted half of the shroud with one hand as he propped it open. Holding the screwdriver in his teeth, he bent down in the cold water. He griped the clamp screw head with his thumb and forefinger and turned the screwdriver counter-clockwise to loosen the clamp.
The screw didn’t move. He twisted harder. Nothing. Using maximum effort, he tried again and the screwdriver slipped out, almost causing him to lose his balance. Shit, why can’t anything work? He inserted the screwdriver again and twisted. This time the screw turned.
He turned the screw three complete revolutions and tried to move the clamp. Nothing. He wiggled and pushed the clamp harder and harder until it loosened its grip on the hose. He slipped the clamp off the hose remnant still stuck on the stubby neck protruding from the engine. Then he had to get the remnant off. It was a struggle, but he did it.
His plan was to reattach the hoses to the engine’s stubby necks using the same hose clamps. Everything depended on the remaining length of hose reaching the neck. So with trepidation he stretched the first hose. It reached. Just barely. He twisted the hose onto the neck until it was as secure as the shorten length allowed. Then he slipped the clamp down and turned the screw, tightly fastening the hose to the neck. “Voila.”
As quickly as he could, he reattached the other in-flow hoses. The water was over the top of the workbenches, higher than his elbows, and he began worrying about maintaining his body heat. The water level continued to rise. Shouldn’t the water stop rising? He waded back to the engine and reluctantly dunked under the cold water. He thought the hoses might have popped off despite the clamps. He held his breath and reached for the hoses. He found them securely clamped.
Why is the seawater pouring right through the engine even though it isn’t running? His heart raced. He was out of ideas. And out of time.
Chapter Thirty-two
In the engine room of the Infidel
Somewhere off the Mediterranean coast of Morocco
Thursday, December 9, 2005
10:15 p.m.
The rising water knocked out the generator. The lights flickered and then went off for good, surrounding Tyler with ink-black darkness. The water crept up to his chin. He resented its oily stench. His teeth chattered and although he tried, he couldn’t stop. I’m going to drown. But the terrorists won’t get their missiles. So we won.
He regretted his life was cut short, but he wasn’t depressed. He had always known something had been missing from his life. He’d never known what it was, where to find it, and how to get it. Now after six unimaginable days he’d resolved the conundrum. It was self-respect. He felt profound relief. He’d done what he needed to do despite the price. He was proud. Screw Arnold. He wasn’t eating anyone’s dirt. He was going out a winner. And he was satisfied. After all, how many people die with the taste of victory still strong in their mouths?
The water was rising. He now had to tilt his head back to breathe the increasingly oxygen-depleted air. The darkness left him one less sense of life. He heard faint noises coming from somewhere outside his black tomb and decided with satisfaction it was Abdul and his crew panicking about their equally helpless situation.
Serves you right, you bastards. He gasped for air. He couldn’t catch his breath. He heard muffled banging on the bulkhead hatch. He smiled. You’re going down, losers.
The sensation of not being able to catch his breath frightened him. He hadn’t passed out with hypothermia, and it didn’t seem likely to happen. But there was a buzzing sound in his ears. He was at the end of his rope.
Strangling for want of air scared him. So he figured it was best to take a breath while there still was any air, submerge himself, and when he couldn’t hold his breath longer, just swallow water. He took four shallow breaths followed by the deepest breath he could manage. He closed his eyes and pushed himself under the water.
He sensed feelings of comfort and contentment. He hallucinated in this dark abyss. The backs of his eyelids lit up with a kaleidoscopic display of colored luminescence that mesmerized him. It seemed to last a long time, and that pleased him because it was beautiful. Then the colors blanched, increasingly enveloped by a brilliant white light that seemed to come from behind them. Without distress or discomfort, his consciousness faded away with the colors. Only one color was left. Pure white.
Chapter Thirty-three
Aboard the Infidel
Twenty-five nautical miles
West/northwest of Al Hoceima, Morocco
Thursday, December 9, 2005
11:08 p.m.
“Wake up.” Tyler heard the words but didn’t comprehend. Numbing cold replaced the comfort of the brilliant white light. It made him angry.
I’m alive? But I died. He rejoiced silently as reality sunk in. He opened his eyes and tried to focus. Thank God. He’d never meant it more.
“I think he’s coming to,” said a strange face shadowed against a bright background. Tyler was still confused. Where had the water gone? He only knew he didn’t feel any water. He tried to move his arms and freaked out because he couldn’t move them. Sheer fright gripped him.
“Calm down, pilgrim,” said the strange face when Tyler’s eyes betrayed his fear. He lifted his head an inch and dropped it back down, exhausted by that minor exertion. “You’re going to be okay, trust me. But you’d better rest right now,” the face reassured him, and for some reason Tyler believed him. He relaxed and closed his eyes.
The last thing Tyler could remember was watching the beautiful light show, and how content he had felt as he died. What had happened and who was the face?
“Before you get too comfortable, pilgrim, I need to check you out. Do you hurt anywhere?”
When Tyler didn’t respond, the man behind the face pulled off the blanket that had been covering him. Tyler raised his right arm six inches to signal the man to leave the blanket on.
“Tell me when anything hurts,” ordered the man as he began moving his right arm to several positions. “No pain. That’s good. You’re one lucky hombre. You should have seen it. I wish I’d recorded it. You came shooting out of there, riding that tsunami like a pro body surfer. Then bang! Right into the bulkhead.” The man released Tyler’s right wrist, letting his arm drop, and shouted “Smacko,” as he slapped his hands together hard.
Tyler jerked, but the man still smiled as if his reaction was another positive sign. Then the man picked up Tyler’s left arm. Immediately pain shot through Tyler’s upper arm. “Ow!” Tyler croaked and knitted his eyebrows.
“Uh-oh. Looks like you did hurt something after all.” The man gently laid down Tyler’s left arm. “But it’s good to hear you.” The man smiled broadly and shook Tyler’s right hand. “I’m Lieutenant Commander Dobson, but call me ‘Duke.’ Everybody does. Nice to make your acquaintance, Mr.?” Duke paused, waiting for Tyler’s response. “This is where you tell me if you still remember your name.”
“Tyler.” His mouth was parched and his throat hurt. His voice sounded like a frog’s croak.
“Well Mr. Tyler. I assume that’s your first name, but it works for me. So until you’re a bit more shipshape, it’s Mr. Tyler.”
“Water,” Tyler croaked again. “Please.”
“No standing on formalities, Mr. Tyler. Here you go.” Duke raised Tyler’s head a bit and held a plastic bottle to his lips. Duke poured the water until Tyler choked. When he choked, his stomach contracted, and he belched up much more than he had drunk. It tasted salty and oily. It brought back unpleasant memories of his watery tomb, and momentarily fear gripped him again.
“I thought that might happen.”
Tyler gave him a cross look. Duke noticed and explained, “Hey, it’s not my fault. You swallowed a lot of sea water. When I was thumping on you, I thought you’d never stop spitting it out. But that’s good, pilgrim. Don’t you know salt water belongs in the sea? You’re not supposed to drink it.” Duke laughed, and even Tyler smiled. “Yeah, I knew it. You’ve got a sense of humor.”
“More water.” Tyler was still nauseated, but he also had a wicked thirst.
“Go for it, pilgrim. Don’t worry if you throw it up. You won’t be able to keep anything down until you get that bilge water up anyway. I can still smell it.” Duke shuddered and made a face. “Nasty stuff.” Then he put a water bottle in Tyler’s right hand, keeping his hold until Tyler gripped it.
“Give me a hand here,” Duke shouted over his shoulder. In a few seconds another person loomed over Tyler. “Let’s sit him up. Watch out for his left arm.”
“That’s an ugly laceration on his head. He didn’t get it when we blew the hatch, did he?” asked the second person.
“No, it’s old. He just busted it open a skoosh. He might have injured his left arm or shoulder. I’ll check it out topside if we have time.”
Before leaving, the two men lifted Tyler to a semi-reclining position, jamming something lumpy behind his back. Even though his left shoulder was killing him, he wanted water more than anything. He recalled how he had thrown up his first water, and so he took only a little sip. When it stayed down, he took a big gulp and paid for it by spitting it back up almost immediately. But there wasn’t much, and it didn’t taste as bad as before. The stomach contractions shot pain from his bruised ribs and left shoulder. So he went back to taking small sips to ensure the water would stay down.
He looked around his surroundings. He could tell he was in a boat’s cabin. He assumed it was the Infidel and wondered what had happened to Abdul and the missiles. The next thing he noticed was that she was definitely riding down at the stern, confirming he was aboard Abdul’s yacht. He focused his senses a moment and concluded she was not underway. He smiled and closed his eyes for a brief rest because everything seemed to be under control. Duke and the other man weren’t Somali terrorists. But where was Abdul and his men?
“Sorry, pilgrim.” Duke shook his right shoulder gently to wake him. Tyler opened his eyes drowsily. “I want to look at your arm more closely.” He had a professional touch as he felt from Tyler’s left wrist up his arm and onto his shoulder, watching for reactions. When he got close to the shoulder, Tyler cringed. So Duke started at Tyler’s breastbone and ran his hand out his collarbone to his left shoulder. Tyler’s face contorted with pain, confirming he had injured his left shoulder and broken his collarbone.
“Let’s wrap it up so it doesn’t move around. That ought to make you more comfortable,” Duke commented as he fished out a roll of wide tape from a gunnysack. He slowly bent Tyler’s left arm at the elbow, laying his left hand on his right shoulder. The last few inches hurt as Duke stretched his left arm across his chest, but once it was there, the sharp pains subsided. Duke taped the hand in place and quickly reinforced it with vertical stripes across his chest. Then he anchored a new strip of tape on one of the vertical strips and unwound the roll horizontally. He helped Tyler sit forward and wrapped the tape around Tyler’s back and across his chest. In a minute and two rolls of tape Tyler’s left arm was as immobile as if he was in a body cast.
“That’ll do it,” said Duke as cheerily as usual. “Do you think you can stand and walk? See if you can stand, and I’ll give you the blankets back.”
Tyler rolled onto his right elbow and swung his legs off the berth. The sudden movement shot pain through his body and sent his head spinning for a moment. “Wow, dizzy.” Duke put a hand on his shoulder to steady him as Tyler stood on the slanting deck. The body wrap worked well, and he didn’t have any more shooting pains. Instead he had a constant, throbbing, painful ache.
Duke escorted Tyler as he shuffled on wobbly legs out of the cabin to go topside. “My blankets,” Tyler stopped and demanded in his croaking voice. Duke laughed and wrapped several dry ones around him.
“Send Master Chief Crowe on the double.” Duke spoke into a small communicator attached to his jumpsuit as he helped Tyler. As Duke and Master Chief Crowe discussed what to do with him, Tyler checked them out. He realized they were American naval officers. But what the U.S. Navy was doing in Moroccan waters on a Somali terrorist’s yacht. Apparently a lot had happened since he left Lei and Little Bo. And where were his friends? How in the world could the Navy have rescued him?
“Are you ready, Mr. Tyler?”
He merely nodded because his tortured throat still made it hard for him to talk. But he couldn’t wait longer to ask. “Did you find the missiles?”
“Missiles? What missiles?”
Chapter Thirty-four
Aboard the Infidel
Twenty-five miles west-northwest of Al Hoceima, Morocco
Friday, December 10, 2005
00:53 p.m.
You don’t know about the missiles? Tyler was stunned, unable to fit all the pieces into a puzzle that made any sense. Had they failed after all? It was all about the missiles. That’s why he let Wu escape. Now no missiles. He didn’t have the strength to figure it out. His teeth began chattering. And his headache came back with a vengeance. Shit. We failed.
“I saw big crates. I swear it. They had to be in those crates,” Tyler stammered through chattering teeth.
Duke slapped Tyler on the back, sending a sharp pain radiating from his left shoulder. “Oh, you must be talking about those Chinese shoulder-fired missiles. Oh yeah. We got ‘em. Hey, you’re a gen-u-ine hero, pilgrim.” Duke laughed and slapped him a second time every bit as hard as the first time. But this time it hurt less knowing they had succeeded.
“I don’t think it’s funny. We almost got killed, mister.”
“Lighten up, pilgrim. It’s over. We got ‘em. And if you pardon me for saying it, Mr. Tyler, y
ou’re the darnedest-looking hero I’ve ever seen.” The other sailor chuckled at that. “Naked a jaybird, shaved head and all. And whoosh! What a sight. Out you came.”
Tyler was recovering his senses and had a lot of questions. “How’d you get in? I blocked the hatch handle.”
“We blew the hatch off its hinges. Can’t beat Semtex. You’re lucky those ragheads left their ‘funny putty’ at home.”
Tyler looked around him as he stepped into the upper deck passageway, and the scene evidenced a gun battle that he hadn’t even heard. Bullets had smashed into the passageway wooden paneling, splintering the thin plywood. Shotguns fired point-blank left gaping holes. He saw a corpse in the middle of the salon deck. The smell of blood made him vomit the last of the bilge water. Good. Maybe I’m on the mend.
“Yeah, looks like you’re just about purged, my boy. Here drink all of this,” Duke commanded, holding out a full bottle of water, and as Tyler drank, Duke introduced the other members of his SEAL team. “They call me ‘Duke’ because they say I think I’m John Wayne. I don’t see it, but you might as well call me that. too.
“She won’t be afloat much longer. Raise the helo, Master Chief, and get an ETA. Meanwhile, let’s gather every scrap of paper we can find so those intel weenies have something to justify their existence. Hop to it.”
Tyler decided to search for some warm clothes. Walking cautiously on the sloping deck, he started looking right where he was, heading for several cabins off the passageway to the aft salon. A cabin door hung by one hinge. Blood was splattered and smeared everywhere. Another cabin door had a hole as big as a basketball. In another he found a large duffle bag on the top bunk and one small suitcase stuffed under the lower berth. He dumped out the duffle and picked through the contents. He took a sweatshirt. He had to struggle to get it on with one arm taped. He put on matching sweatpants. The legs only went down to the bottoms of his calves. He also put on a wool stocking cap he’d found.
