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.
