Jihad (43 page)

“Drop me on the deck above the bridge house,” Dean shouted.

“Drop you?”

“We’re not going to sink him with a rifle.”

“I can’t drop you on the ship.”

“Go in front of the bridge. I’ll dump a grenade into it. Then drop me on the deck,” said Dean, pushing into the back.

“Listen to me!”

“Do it,” said Dean. “Now.”

CHAPTER 139

KENAN WRAPPED His hand around the wire behind the speaker and yanked, ending the radio’s incessant drone.

“They’re firing at us!” said the helmsman at the wheel.

Kenan saw a black bird arc toward the water off the starboard bow. Only when it plunged below the ship’s waistline into the water did he realize it was a shell, undoubtedly fired by the cutter.

“God will protect us,” Kenan told the helmsman. “Stay on course.”

The yellow girders of their target loomed ahead. A helicopter peeled off the top—the last of the demons running for cover.

The Devil People were all cowards. That was why the mujahideen would triumph, even though they were outnumbered.

“The only god is God,” said Kenan loudly as he stepped to the auxiliary control board, waiting to detonate the bomb. He looked at the laptop, which had a global positioning indicator plugged into it; the program calculated that they were four and a half minutes from the detonation point.

The seconds were dragging, as if God had slowed time so He could savor their victory. A phalanx of angels must be hovering over the ship, waiting to lead the warriors to Paradise.

Razaq Khan burst onto the bridge, an AK-47 in his hand.

“Stay on course!” yelled Khan. “God is delivering our enemy to us.”

The helmsman yelled something, and Kenan looked up in time to see a helicopter swooping so close he was sure it was going to crash into them.

CHAPTER 140

THE HELICOPTER SWEPT across the port side of the
Aztec
Exact, slowing as it drew even with the white superstructure. Dean, poised against the side of the door, leaned his knee against the metal and steadied the rifle against his body.

“Closer!” he yelled, but the chopper bumped unsteadily away, its tail bucking back and forth so hard Dean was thrown against and then away from the door. As he scrambled back, the helo dipped again, this time no more than ten feet from the large glass windows at the front of the ship’s bridge. Dean pumped a grenade toward one of the panes near the center; the grenade shattered the glass but deflected onto the deck in front of the bridge.

Once more the Huey veered upwards.

“Get me down—get me down!” Dean yelled.

He pushed another grenade into the launcher. As the helicopter stuttered above the thick plume of smoke erupting beneath it, Dean put the fresh grenade into the bridge and then sprayed the remaining windows with bullets, running through the magazine. He dumped the box, but as he reached for a fresh mag, he saw the fence ringing the roof of the bridge before him. Dean pushed himself forward and leapt, curling the rifle under him as he rolled onto the metal deck. He tumbled against one of the radio masts, stopping with a hard smash to his ribs that took his breath away.

KENAN FOUND HIMSELF on the floor, choking. Smoke and glass whirled around the bridge.

Had the bomb already exploded?

Impossible—he would be in heaven.

He had to detonate the bomb. Kenan pushed to get to his feet.

“Stay down for a moment,” barked Khan in his Pakistani-accented English. Then he leapt up with his AK-47 and began to fire.

DEAN STARTED TO get up, then remembered that he hadn’t reloaded. He grabbed one of the magazines from his pocket, fumbling as he tried to slam it into the gun. A broken cloud of smoke drifted over him, knots of gray interspersed with light. He heard a loud pop and crack-crack-crack; instinctively he dropped flat, realizing he must be under fire though he couldn’t locate the gunman or the weapon.

Or, thankfully, the enemy’s bullets.

Finally he saw something moving to his right, near the large radar mast that dominated the roof area. Dean fired a burst toward the shadow, and the gunfire stopped.

He crawled forward a few feet; not drawing any fire, he scrambled for the railing on the side, hoping to climb over and down to the deck next to the bridge. But as he started over the rail, the roof near him seemed to explode, bullets smashing all around him. Dean pushed himself over the side headfirst, losing the gun but grabbing at one of the fence posts on the way down to break his fall. He twisted around enough to land on his feet, though the impact knocked him backwards. The M4 bounced once on the deck, then bounded off the side, clattering somewhere below.

Dean pulled the pistol from his belt as he rolled upright. The door to the bridge was a few feet away.

Dean didn’t even bother trying the handle. He put a slug through the knob; the sudden release of the lock sent the door bounding toward him. Surprised, Dean grabbed the edge and threw it open, leveling the pistol at the thick haze inside.

Something moved at the right of the cloud. Dean fired twice; only as the body fell was he sure it was a man. Before he could step inside, the far side of the bridge sparked with gunfire. He threw himself inside as the fat bullets of an AK- 47 pummeled the nearby glass and metal.

KENAN WATCHED As Khan started past him, his rifle shaking as bullets spewed from the barrel. He disappeared for a moment in the smoke, and then Kenan saw him again, his head thrown back, covered by a black hand—blood. blood pouring from two holes above his eyes.

Kenan got up to go to him, but as he reached his feet something slammed against him and threw him back to the deck. He rolled on his back, freeing himself, only to find the eyes of Wasim, the helmsman, staring at him. Wasim blinked, then gulped at the air. In the next second he bent his head to the deck, eyes gaping, his life gone.

Why was God allowing this to happen now? Where was His hand when it was needed?

DEAN AIMED THE Beretta at the muzzle flash on the other side of the bridge and fired twice. The shots roared in his head, the sound more like a freight train than a gun. The smoke stung his eyes. Choking, he propelled himself forward with his left hand, getting to his feet only to trip over a body on the floor. As he fell, he saw someone entering the bridge through the door on the far side; Dean fired and the man ducked away.

“Charlie? Are you on the bridge?” said Rockman.

Dean ignored the runner. The barrel of an AK-47 appeared in the doorway. Dean raised his pistol and fired. The rifle disappeared, though he couldn’t tell whether he’d hit it or not. As he crawled toward the door, he saw a man edging around the side of the opening. Dean waited until he had a good aim, then put a bullet through the man’s forehead.

“Steer the ship away from the connecting pipeline,” said Rockman. “Get it out of there.”

KENAN WAS OVERCOME by a sense of shame and failure, then revulsion. He had become his old self, the useless and faithless drone he had been for his first eighteen years, before the voice of God had touched his ears and led him from the wilderness.

Should he die like this, a failure, a coward, with Paradise so close?

God had not abandoned him. He had only set a final test.

They were surely close enough to detonate the bomb. He must do so now.

Tears streamed from his eyes, blurring his vision. With a roar that came from the depths of his soul, Kenan leapt to his feet and threw himself at the control panel.

DEAN TURNED BACK to the bridge, heart racing. Some of the smoke had cleared, but a gray haze hung over the space, as if it belonged to the outer precincts of hell rather than earth.

One of the men he’d tripped over earlier rose from the deck. For a second, Dean thought he was running from the bridge and decided to let him go, concentrating instead on finding the wheel and getting the ship away from the platform. But as he grabbed the spoke and pushed downward, he realized that the man had remained, working over a control panel at the side of the bridge.

“Get away from that!” yelled Dean. “Away!”

The man’s hand reached toward the panel.

Dean raised his gun.

“No!” he yelled.

Even as the word left his lips, Dean fired. His bullet shattered the man’s head and threw him against the side of the bridge.

Dean turned his attention back to the wheel. Only when he was sure that the ship had responded did he glance back over, confirming that he’d just killed Kenan Conkel.

CHAPTER 141

RUBENS SAW THE ship in the long-range video camera of the Harrier jump jet; it had turned away from the platform and the nearby pipeline.

“Marine helicopter is three minutes away,” Rockman said. “Coast guard cutter has stopped firing. I think we’re going to be okay.”

“Yes,” Rubens said softly. “On this one.”

CHAPTER 142

BY THE TIME the marine assault team fast-roped down from their helicopter, the ship was nearly two miles from the LOOP platforms. The men swept into the bridge, then continued down the superstructure toward the engine compartment and the crew spaces to make sure there were no more terrorists aboard. A total of four men had been found dead and two more severely wounded on the bridge and the deck; Dean had shot all of them.

He turned over the wheel to one of the marines and went down with them to the main deck, giving them advice based on Rockman’s reading of the ship’s blueprint. But when the troops got ready to go into the space below, the gunnery sergeant in charge put up his hand and told Dean he should stay above; they were going to use tear gas and didn’t have a mask for him.

“No offense, old-timer,” said the sergeant, before disappearing through the hatchway.

Dean was too tired to take offense. Then as he walked back up the ladder toward the bridge, he started to laugh at the absurdity of the sergeant’s remark. Age wasn’t just in your head—his throbbing ribs and aching back attested to that—but it wasn’t a handicap either. The only way to pile up the experience other people called instincts was over time.

When he came into the bridge, the navy corpsman who’d accompanied the team onto the boat was just getting up from Kenan’s body. He shook his head, but Dean already knew the boy was dead.

“This guy was going to blow himself and the ship up?” asked the corpsman.

“Yeah,” said Dean.

“Why? Why the hell would he do that?”

Dean glanced at the deck, splattered with Kenan’s blood. “You really think an answer would make a difference?” he said, more to himself than the sailor.

“Maybe.”

“Yeah,” said Dean, knowing nothing he could say really would. “Too bad there isn’t one.”

CHAPTER 143

SOMEONE HAD GOTTEN Rubens a sandwich while he waited for the president to come to the phone. Without thinking—and famished—he took a bite, and so his mouth was full of bacon and tomato when Marcke’s voice boomed into his ear.

“Billy, what’s the situation?”

“We’ve diverted the ship,” Rubens told him, swallowing his food. “LOOP is safe. Marines are searching the vessel now.”

“LOOP?” said Bing.

“The deep-water port south of New Orleans,” said Rubens.

“I know what you’re talking about,” said the national security advisor.

“Have you arrested Dabir?” asked Marcke.

“He should be arriving at Cleveland airport any moment now,” said Rubens. “I’d like to change the mission, given the circumstances.”

CHAPTER 144

“OH YEAH, OH yeah,” said Rockman. “It’s Dabir. Coming through the front door like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Alone.”

Lia checked her watch, then went to the counter of the Great American Bagel to order a coffee. The flight was in an hour. So far, neither she, nor the FBI agents working with her, nor Rockman, monitoring the video bugs from the Art Room, had seen anyone who might be backing up Dabir. They must be somewhere, though; she doubted he’d be traveling alone.

“Comin’ at you, Lia,” said Rockman. “We have a positive match. That is our man.”

She dug into her jeans to find the right change for the coffee, then dawdled to give Dabir time to pass her.

“He’s passing C-11,” said Rockman, referring to the gate just beyond the bagel place. Lia took her coffee and walked down the hall, heading toward the cluster of gates at the far end of the concourse, a beehive where passengers waited for their aircraft to board. Lia drifted toward the Burger King, turning back in the direction she’d come as she tried to spot anyone who might be trailing Dabir to see if he was being followed.

A middle-aged man in a worn leather jacket, the kind its owner thinks screams “I’m cool,” smiled at her. Lia frowned back.

Jerk.

“How we doing?” asked Rockman.

“Fine,” said Lia into her coffee cup. “See anyone?”

“Negative. Keep looking.”

She found a seat near the fast food restaurant where she could see Dabir and sat down. Dabir was standing in front of Gate 20 near the comer of the terminal—a problem, Lia thought, since his flight was to take off at Gate 27.

If he didn’t take the plane here—if he was simply meeting someone—the FBI agents in the terminal would nab him as he left; more than two dozen men were waiting in case something went wrong. More complicated was the contingency if he took another plane; the aircraft would be ordered back to the gate, with the pilot feigning a mechanical problem necessitating a plane change. Dabir would then be arrested as he came off.

The problem with either scenario was that there’d be people around, and while he didn’t have a weapon—he’d already passed through one detection system—Lia worried that he might figure out what was going on and try something desperate. Small kids were all over the place; he might try and grab one as a hostage.

She’d kick his head off his shoulders if he tried it.

“They’re about to announce boarding,” said Rockman.