Jihad

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.”