The sea crashed violently against the concrete walls of Casablanca's port, echoing the tension rising across the city. Ever since the explosion at the Casbah, French patrols had doubled, checkpoints multiplied, and the scent of revolt lingered like smoke.
Yassin stood at the edge of the harbor, eyes fixed on the horizon, where grey warships floated like predators. He couldn't shake the words Samira had spoken days earlier: "We changed the game."
Now, De Lassalle was playing his move.
Storm Signals
Back in the new safehouse—a decrepit tannery thick with the stench of leather and damp salt—Khalid gathered the resistance's inner circle. Maps were spread across crates, lit by flickering oil lamps. Abbas, pale but upright on a cane, leaned over them with Samira.
"The French navy's not just posturing anymore," she said. "They've begun a full blockade. No arms shipments in or out. And they've declared Derb Sultan and the harbor Red Zones. Anyone seen crossing without permit will be arrested or shot."
Yassin tapped the edge of the map. "What about the supply vessel coming from Rabat? The one bringing explosives and medical aid?"
Khalid's jaw clenched. "De Lassalle knows about it. They'll seize it the moment it enters the harbor."
"Then we get to it first," Yassin said.
Abbas chuckled grimly. "What are we, fishermen with rifles?"
"No," Yassin replied. "We're ghosts with fire."
Samira smirked. "And this time, we control the storm."
The Plan
Yassin proposed an audacious scheme: They would use the harbor's abandoned drydock tunnels to infiltrate the customs station, disable the naval communication grid, and misdirect the patrol ships long enough for the resistance boat to land.
He'd need to build a signal disruptor—something far more sophisticated than the one from the convoy ambush. It would need to jam naval frequencies and redirect them with convincing decoy messages. The group had two days to gather materials.
Khalid and Samira worked contacts in the industrial quarter for parts. Hakim smuggled in a stolen generator. Yassin cannibalized an old radio transmitter, rewired coils, and soldered circuits with trembling fingers.
The process took thirty hours, broken only by sips of bitter mint tea and whispered prayers to keep the power flowing. They worked deep into the night, the hum of the soldering iron like a mechanical chant.
When it was done, the device looked like a tangle of copper veins around a heart of steel.
"We call it al-Kharba—the Disruptor," he said.
Samira whistled. "Let's hope it breaks more than radios."
Abbas, watching from his cane, added, "Let's hope it doesn't break us."
The Infiltration
Night fell heavy. Under the veil of darkness, Yassin, Khalid, Samira, and two young saboteurs—Nour and Idris—entered the drydock tunnels through a submerged storm grate. Water lapped at their boots, the smell of rust and fish overwhelming.
They crept through the black, guided only by a red-marked thread Yassin had strung during a daytime recon. The walls were slick with algae. Above them, the muffled thud of boots echoed, as if the weight of colonial order itself threatened to crush them.
Yassin whispered, "Remember, timing is everything."
At the customs station, Nour placed charges at the rear wall. The explosion would be the distraction. Yassin and Samira would enter through the blast hole and plant al-Kharba.
Khalid and Idris readied the boat signal from a rooftop overlooking the port, where the wind threatened to tear their cloaks away.
"Three minutes," Nour whispered.
Yassin counted the seconds, every heartbeat an earthquake.
Boom.
The tunnel roared. Water surged. Dust fell. Screams echoed above.
They moved.
The Fire
The blast rocked the station. Alarms wailed. Lights swung wildly. French troops scattered toward the flames Nour had set with molotovs.
Yassin and Samira darted inside, up a narrow stairwell slick with salt and soot. They reached the communications room, where two officers were barking into headsets.
Samira shot one. Yassin tackled the other, slamming his head against the console. Blood pooled, silent and red.
He plugged al-Kharba into the central receiver, heart racing. The lights flickered.
"Come on, come on," he whispered, sweat dripping.
The device whirred, buzzed—and locked on.
Across the bay, French patrol ships began receiving false orders.
"Navire suspect repéré au sud-ouest. Tous les bâtiments converger immédiatement."
The warships turned—away from the blockade line.
In the chaos, a small fishing boat slipped past.
It was more than a boat—it was the hope of the movement.
Sacrifice
As they retreated, gunfire erupted outside. Idris was hit. Nour dragged him into cover, blood staining the cobblestones. A grenade landed near the doorway—they had seconds.
Khalid returned fire from the roof. A spotlight caught him in its beam. He didn't flinch.
He turned his rifle on the light, shattered it with one clean shot.
"Go!" he shouted. "Get the supplies out!"
Yassin hesitated—but Samira pulled him. "We have to go. Now!"
They slipped back into the tunnel as reinforcements swarmed the docks. The echoes of battle followed them, then faded.
From the boat, they saw Khalid's silhouette vanish into smoke. No body. No farewell.
Only fire.
Aftermath
At dawn, the resistance boat reached the shoreline beneath El Hank Lighthouse. The sun painted the waves in shades of fire and blood. Inside the boat: crates of dynamite, bandages, rifles. A lifeline.
Samira opened a crate and touched the contents reverently.
"He did it."
Abbas, waiting on the shore, fell to his knees in silent gratitude. Nearby, mothers in the old medina would soon receive the medicine their children needed. Fighters in the Atlas Mountains would reload.
Yassin sat beside her, the pocket watch ticking softly.
For the first time, it glowed.
She looked at him. "What's next?"
He looked to the horizon, where the sea and sky blurred.
"We light the fire he started. And we burn down everything that keeps us in chains."
To be continued in Chapter 7: Ashes and Echoes