The Sixth Fleet by David E. Meadows

Author:David E. Meadows
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Berkley Publishing Group
Published: 2001-10-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER EIGHT

Colonel Yosef dozed under the shadow of the bridge, out of the hot morning sun. He drifted within that gray area of fatigued consciousness so familiar to veteran soldiers awaiting the next battle. The shout brought him fully alert, his weapon coming up.

“Colonel, aircraft approaching!” Sergeant Boutrous pointed north out to sea.

Yosef pulled himself off the deck of the fishing trawler and climbed to the bridge. The fisherman was still at the helm. A night without sleep mixed with a day-old beard and sweat-matted hair accented by red-rimmed eyes gave the fisherman the look of a wild man. Yosef knew he looked as bad. He shoved his shirttail into his pants and ran his hand over his inch-long desert brown hair, blinking his eyes several times to clear them.

“No sleep?” Yosef asked. He rubbed his nose where the day’s heat had burned it while he slept. “No, sir. But I am fine. I can continue,” the fisherman responded, unconvincingly.

“See, I told you I was the helmsman.”

Yosef pushed the fisherman aside gently to look at the compass. They were still heading east. Good, after last night’s disappointment of discovering that the combined knowledge of maritime navigation between him, his men, and the fisherman hovered between being able to read a compass and being able to spell it. Two kilometers to the south, a morning haze clouded the coastline of Algeria.

They were following it to keep from getting lost.

The fisherman had not lied about manning the helm.

Unfortunately, he failed to mention that it was always under the close eye of the boat’s captain.

“I see it. Sergeant.” Yosef grabbed a pair of binoculars from a nearby shelf and scanned the air until he focused on the aircraft.

“Mig-29,” he said as he lowered the binoculars.

“Tell everyone to go below and keep out of sight until we know what he is doing.”

“Corporal Omar, get the men below,” Sergeant Boutrous relayed.

Corporal Omar slid down the railings on the narrow ladder to the main deck. He roused the morning sleepers and with shouts and foot shoves hurried them down the ladder.

About half were through the hatch when the Mig-29 roared past directly overhead. The gigantic engines of the warplane shook the small vessel as it passed low overhead, the heat from the afterburners taking the breath away from those topside. The deadly fighter turned upward, gaining altitude.

“Damn!” Yosef shouted.

“Seems they have found us, or it could be one of our loyal pilots from the west,” President Aineuf said from behind. “Mr. President, what are you doing up here? You must stay below, sir. The pilot may be Air Force, but even Air Force officers can recognize that men in suits are not normally crew members of a fishing trawler.”

Aineuf smiled.

“I am sorry, mon colonel. It is just that neither do fishing crews wear desert utility uniforms like you and your men.”

Yosef nodded in agreement.

“You are correct. President Aineuf, but it is you who will stand out. Please go below until the aircraft leaves.”

The Mig-29 turned left as the pilot circled for another pass.

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