Jihad

CHAPTER 129

The big helicopter shook the shoreline as it approached, but the night had turned overcast, and Dean couldn’t even make out its running lights.

“They want you to fire a flare, Charlie,” Chafetz told him. “To make sure they’re in the right place.”

Dean didn’t have any flares. This was just like the navy: always asking a marine to do the impossible.

And being a marine, though a retired one, he came up with a way to do it.

“Turn on your lights,” Dean yelled to the Mexican police chief a few yards away. “The helicopter needs something to guide it.”

The chief reached into his Volkswagen and red and blue beacons split the darkness.

“All right. They got you,” said Chafetz.

A spotlight searched the beach as the helo, a large CH-53E Super Stallion from the USS Wasp, settled over the beach in a hover, descending to about eight feet above the ground, whipping grit and a fine spray of water in every direction.

“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.”