Jihad db-5

by Stephen Coonts

No, thought Kenan. No. Allah had brought them close enough to succeed.

  They were expecting a response. Should he continue to protest? What would a “normal” ship do?

  They would comply — there really was no choice, was there? — then the captain would contact his shipping company for directions, or perhaps make other arrangements to offload his crude.

  “Roger, we copy,” said Kenan. “Aztec Exact is changing course and will await further instructions.”

  He debated whether to use the radio distress call that was planned as a distraction. Perhaps he should save it until later.

  No. Best to follow the plan as closely as possible. He pressed the button, jamming the radio frequencies with the bogus calls of a pleasure boat sinking miles away.

  Twelve minutes. All he had to do was press the ignition button as the ship drew close to the platform. The explosion would rupture the pipeline and destroy the platform in one swoop.

  “Helicopter,” said the helmsman.

  Kenan looked toward the control platform. A helicopter had just taken off.

  “They’re evacuating,” Kenan told him. “Just hold our course.”

  Then he heard the sound of a rotor nearby and realized the helmsman had been talking about different craft completely.

  CHAPTER 138

  Dean could see two people on the bridge. He swept his binoculars around, trying to find someone else.

  “I see only two people,” he told Rockman. “How many would it take it to run the ship?”

  “More than that. Are they answering your hails?”

  “They were just talking to LOOP control. There’s a distress call blocking the channels.”

  “We’re working on that,” said Rockman. “We haven’t been able to locate the boat that’s sending it.”

  There hadn’t been time to send a plane overhead to provide video from the scene. The Art Room was tracking vessels by compiling data from the coast guard cutter and navy ships well offshore, along with satellite images a few minutes old. But there was no way to easily pinpoint the locations of all the small vessels in the area.

  “He’s not changing course or stopping,” said Dean, studying the Aztec Exact.

  “Tell them to leave the area.”

  “Stand by.”

  Dean leaned over to the radio to make sure he had the proper channel.

  “Fuel’s getting low,” said the pilot. “We only have a couple of minutes.”

  “Let’s talk to this ship and see what they’re up to. Then we can go over to the platform and gas up.”

  Dean broadcast on the channel LOOP had used earlier, warning the Aztec Exact to stop. It didn’t acknowledge. He broadcast again, this time using the emergency bands; still no answer.

  “The radio works, right?” he asked the pilot, picking up his binoculars.

  “Yeah, it works,” said the pilot testily.

  Something moved near the superstructure, something white.

  A man with a white shirt.

  “Somebody else on deck. Two people,” said Dean. He pulled the binoculars back up and focused — right on the barrel of an AK-47.

  “Duck!” Dean yelled as bullets began cracking against the side of the Huey.

  * * *

  “Dean is under fire!” said Rockman.

  “Ms. Telach, please tell the coast guard the Aztec Exact is to be stopped,” said Rubens.

  “They’re more than three miles away. They won’t get there in time,” said Rockman.

  “Have them target it with their deck gun and sink it,” Rubens said.

  * * *

  “Coast Guard’s positioning to open fire,” the pilot told Dean. “They’re going to try to sink it before it gets to the platform — they’re too far away to cut them off in time.”

  “Let’s get out of the way.”

  “I gotta land on the platform,” said the pilot. “We’re too far from shore.”

  He was already a few hundred yards from it.

  “They’re wasting their time from that distance,” added the pilot.

  “Why?” said Dean.

  “Their deckgun is a twenty-five-millimeter Bushmaster. It can fire about three and three-quarter miles, but its effective range is less than half that.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I help with target spotting, remember? That’s all I do for weeks on end.”

  “Rockman, are there weapons on that platform?” Dean asked.

  “Uh, I’m not sure. There’s one guy standing by to help you refuel. He has to come out with you.”

  “Find out about the weapons,” said Dean. “Go!”

  * * *

  “Dean wants to know if there are weapons on the platform,” Rockman told Rubens. “I think he’s going to try and shoot the people on the bridge of the tanker.”

  Rubens rubbed his eyes. It was already clear that the coast guard patrol craft wasn’t going to be able to stop the tanker. Two marine Harriers from the Wasp were about five minutes away, also too far.

  “If there are weapons, tell him where they are. Tell him to make sure he’s off that platform before the ship gets there.”

  * * *

  Small-arms lockers had been posted around the platform. Aimed at assisting the crewmen in the case of a terrorist boarding, each waterproof locker had two M4 carbines with grenade launcher attachments, along with two dozen magazine boxes of ammunition and twelve grenades.

  “There’s a locker back by the railing there,” yelled the crewman who met them on the helipad to refuel the chopper. “Guns and grenades.”

  Dean ran to the locker, bolted to the side of the catwalk twenty yards from the helipad. He grabbed one of the M4 automatic rifles and a Beretta pistol, then stuffed four grenades into his pants pockets. Pulling his shirt out of his pants, he piled seven or eight magazines into it, using it as a crude basket to carry the ammo back to the helo.

  “How close?” yelled the pilot, who’d opened the rear side door while waiting for Dean.

  “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.”