Battleground

2

Seaman Greg Goldman stood in the bow lineup beside Radioman First Class Chuck Inman. Goldman scowled as he looked around. Lots of the men lived through the attack, but where were the wounded? He whispered the query to Inman, who shook his head.

"No wounded. I heard shots when we came past some compartments. Now it's just us and the KIAs."

"Bastards!" Goldman whispered. "They'll get theirs."

"Silence," a Kenyan sergeant bellowed. He walked along the line, but evidently couldn't figure out who had been talking.

Colonel Maleceia paced in front of the American sailors. He said something to an officer and left the ship.

The English-speaking sergeant screeched for attention. "Time to move to your new quarters. No talking, no lagging, or you'll end up in the bay. Move out now a line at a time to the buses on the dock."

Goldman looked down at the shorter man. He shook his head. Nothing they could do now. Maybe later. Maybe.

A hundred yards away, Navy chiefs lay in the wreck of an abandoned building just in back of Pier 12 and watched their shipmates marched off the Roy Turner and into the buses. They had had a little drinking party at a dockside bar, and had been almost back to the ship when they'd heard the firing on board. All wore civilian clothes since the Kenyan authorities had requested no U.S. uniforms be worn on Kenyan soil.

"Gonna be hell to pay," Gunner's Mate First Class Pete Vuylsteke growled. "Didn't think them fuckers would try to take over the whole damned ship."

Electrician's Mate Second Class Olie Tretter, a black man who sprawled beside the gunny, swore softly. "Them damned bastards shot up the old Turner pretty fucking good. You hear a lot of shotguns?"

The third sailor, Hospital Corpsman Second Class Rafe Perez, shot a stream of tobacco juice into the rubble. "Hell, yes, scatterguns, AK-47's, and something else. Always tell the Forty-seven by the high-pitched snarl." Perez shook his head. "What the hell we do now?"

"I sure as hell ain't gonna volunteer to get on them buses," Tretter said. "Most likely heading for that prison we heard about in town."

Vuylsteke, the ranking man of the trio, looked at Tretter. "You think you can find somebody to help us hide? Know damned well Uncle Sam ain't gonna let his ship be hijacked for long. Be a task force steaming in here in two or three days to blast this place apart and take back the old Roy Turner."

Tretter laughed. "Hell, you think 'cause I'm black I got kin here in town or something? Yeah, I talked with some of the natives tonight. Especially that one lady with the big tits who went topless. But I ain't no diplomat."

"Weapons," Vuylsteke said. "Perez, you still carry that piddling little Thirty-two strapped to your ankle?"

"Never without it."

"So, we've got a start. We stay in deep shit here until the assholes out there hustle all our men off the ship. Then we slide out of here and find somewhere that we can eat and sleep for a couple of days. Two days, maybe three tops. By then Uncle will have about a thousand Marines in here to take back our ship."

Perez shook his head. "How the hell us two white guys gonna hide in this black country?"

"Didn't say it would be easy," Vuylsteke said. "Our man Tretter here is going to make it happen. What do we do first, Tretter?"

Tretter grinned. It wasn't often these two top hands asked him anything. Then he sobered. "From what I heard, some hairy-assed colonel staged a coup and took over the police and the radio, TV stations and the airports. He already had the army in his back pocket. So looks like this colonel is running the whole damn country."

"He figured the Turner would be a threat to him?" Vuylsteke asked.

"Who the hell knows," Tretter said. "I heard some guys talking who said this colonel is a huge guy, six feet five and two hundred pounds. Not a man to be pushed around."

"You understand this Swahili shit?" Perez asked.

"Not a word. But half the country can speak English. It's one of two official languages, so that'll help. What we have to do is find some friendlies who will cover for us."

"How?" Perez asked.

Tretter watched the last of the American sailors board a bus, and all five buses pulled out. They could see green-clad Kenyan troops on their ship. All had automatic rifles or shotguns.

"Must be leaving a squad or two to occupy the old tub," Vuylsteke said. He looked at Tretter. "So how do you find us some friendlies?"

"First I go back to that little bar — no, a different one. I can pass here, man. I buy somebody a drink and get him talking. Maybe I can find someone not happy with the colonel."

"We all should go," Perez said.

"No. I had to explain why I was with two white guys before. The ship. They knew about the Turner. Now they'll know she's been captured, so you white American sailors should have been captured too. I got to go by myself."

Perez bent down to his ankle, and a minute later came up with the.32 revolver with its tie-down holster. "This might come in handy. I don't have any more rounds. Didn't think the hell that I would need any."

Vuylsteke came back from the front of the abandoned building. "Looks like all of the army has gone except for the guys on board. Too many for us to take with our peashooter. Time for us to haul ass. Where to, Tretter?"

Tretter shook his head. "Right now I don't have the slightest idea."