Jihad

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.”