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
“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.
