Jihad

“Charlie, they’re waiting,” said Chafetz.

“For what?”

“Aren’t you getting in?”

“Aren’t they landing?”

“Beach is too narrow and sloped,” said the runner.

Dean saw a crewman in the surf, trotting toward him.

“Sergeant Dean?”

“Nobody’s called me that in about a million years,” Dean said.

“I was told you were a marine, sir. Once a marine sergeant, always a marine sergeant. I should know,” added the man, who was wearing marine combat fatigues. Though it had taken off from a navy ship, the helicopter was actually a marine aircraft.

“Gunny, you’re just trying to butter me up so I won’t complain about having to climb up the rope, right?”

“I hope it worked,” cracked the marine. “Otherwise I’m going to have to throw you to the crew chief.”

CHAPTER 130

Lia pulled the covers around her neck, pushing onto her side and trying to find a comfortable position in the hotel bed. She’d jacked the AC to full, chilling the room so she could bundle up. Covers always made her feel drowsy, and helped her to sleep.

So did cuddling next to Charlie. She’d slept like a baby during the two weeks she’d spent with him in Pennsylvania.

She missed him badly. She felt — not that she’d betrayed him, exactly, with Pinchon, because she hadn’t, not at all. But she hadn’t given him the attention he deserved.

Or the explanation. Something of an explanation.

He was just a guy I fell in lust with, that’s all. Doesn’t mean anything, Charlie.

He wasn’t as big a jerk then, either.

Lia could almost see Dean squinting at her. Then he’d say, “Okay.” In a while, if she didn’t add any more, he’d drop it completely.

That was the way he was.

She, on the other hand, would brood and think and scheme, try and figure it out. Attack it.

Dean thought they were good together because they were alike in a lot of ways, but she knew they were different, different on this.

She curled the covers tighter, missing Dean more than she ever had before.

CHAPTER 131

Dr. Saed Ramil took a train from Baltimore to New York City’s Penn Station, then made his way to Grand Central, where he caught a commuter train north to a burp of a city named Beacon. There a limo met him and took him across the river to Newburgh, where he’d been booked into a small hotel not far from the airport. The driver gave him a brief history lesson on the area along the way, telling him how Newburgh had once been voted the best city to raise kids in the U.S. and was now among the worst.

“Because nobody believes in nothin’ no more,” railed the driver. “They got their rap, their MTV, video games. Don’t go to church. No morals. No beliefs.”

Ramil didn’t know what to say, but the man didn’t really want answers; he wanted to rant. Ramil gave him a tip, even though the Art Room had said he’d already been tipped, then ensconced himself in his room at the Holiday Inn.

This was an easy gig, merely standing by in case something happened. Inevitably, nothing did. Ramil could stay in his hotel room the entire time if he wanted. Or he could go and explore the local area, as long as he kept the Art Room aware of where he was.

The last time he heard the voice, it had told him he would have another chance. Was this what it had meant?

No. The voice was simply a result of stress and fear — a perfectly logical explanation.

Unless it had predicted the future.

Lying awake well past midnight, he thought of the limo driver’s rant. The problem with the world wasn’t that no one believed in anything anymore, but that they believed in the wrong things. And the line between wrong and right was more difficult to discern than one could ever imagine.

CHAPTER 132

The U.S. NAVY’s LHD-1 Wasp was an amphibious assault ship, designed to deliver roughly two thousand marines to a beach-head or an inland battle zone. To Dean, it looked like an aircraft carrier, albeit one with a straight landing deck. The ship sat high above the water, which made it easy for it to deploy its air-cushioned landing craft sitting at a sea-level “garage” below the flight deck.

This type of ship had not existed in Dean’s day, and under other circumstances he might have enjoyed an early-morning tour after his “rack time”—which was actually a decent snooze in an honest-to-God bed. But both Dean and the ship’s company had better things to do. The Wasp had been tasked to join a sea armada checking vessels approaching Galveston from the south. Her helicopters were assisting ships to the north and west. Dean, meanwhile, had been told by the Art Room to get up to Houston to check over the chemical plant that the terrorists might be targeting. First thing after breakfast, a UH-1N Huey — a Vietnam-era helicopter retained as a utility craft — was gassed up and readied for him.

“We are just going to make it fuel-wise,” the pilot warned Dean as he strapped himself into the copilot’s seat. “Ready?”

“Sure.” Dean adjusted the headset. “Sorry to put you out.”

“Hey, no way. I get to spend two days in Houston thanks to you. Got a whole bunch of friends there. We’ll be golfin’ and shootin’. I should be thanking you.”

The helicopter leaned forward and rose, skipping away from the deck of its mothership like a young bird anxious to leave the nest. The sun had just broken through the low-lying clouds at the horizon, coloring the distance a reddish pink.

“You want some joe?” asked the pilot, handing him a thermos.

“I’ll take some coffee, sure.”

“All I got is that one cup. Don’t worry. I don’t have AIDS.”

Dean poured about half a cup’s worth of coffee into the cup. It had far too much sugar in it for him, but he drank it anyway.

“Heard you were a marine,” said the pilot.

“Ancient history.”

“Once a marine always a marine.”

“True enough.”

“What were you?”

“I did a lot of things. I was sniper in Vietnam.”

“No kidding? You’re that old?”

“Older,” said Dean. He laughed. “I bet this chopper’s as old as I am.”

“Probably flew you around in Vietnam.” The pilot reached over and took the coffee from him. “You liked being a sniper?”