Jihad

CHAPTER 132

The U.S. NAVY’s LHD-1 Wasp was an amphibious assault ship, designed to deliver roughly two thousand marines to a beach-head or an inland battle zone. To Dean, it looked like an aircraft carrier, albeit one with a straight landing deck. The ship sat high above the water, which made it easy for it to deploy its air-cushioned landing craft sitting at a sea-level “garage” below the flight deck.

This type of ship had not existed in Dean’s day, and under other circumstances he might have enjoyed an early-morning tour after his “rack time”—which was actually a decent snooze in an honest-to-God bed. But both Dean and the ship’s company had better things to do. The Wasp had been tasked to join a sea armada checking vessels approaching Galveston from the south. Her helicopters were assisting ships to the north and west. Dean, meanwhile, had been told by the Art Room to get up to Houston to check over the chemical plant that the terrorists might be targeting. First thing after breakfast, a UH-1N Huey — a Vietnam-era helicopter retained as a utility craft — was gassed up and readied for him.

“We are just going to make it fuel-wise,” the pilot warned Dean as he strapped himself into the copilot’s seat. “Ready?”

“Sure.” Dean adjusted the headset. “Sorry to put you out.”

“Hey, no way. I get to spend two days in Houston thanks to you. Got a whole bunch of friends there. We’ll be golfin’ and shootin’. I should be thanking you.”

The helicopter leaned forward and rose, skipping away from the deck of its mothership like a young bird anxious to leave the nest. The sun had just broken through the low-lying clouds at the horizon, coloring the distance a reddish pink.

“You want some joe?” asked the pilot, handing him a thermos.

“I’ll take some coffee, sure.”

“All I got is that one cup. Don’t worry. I don’t have AIDS.”

Dean poured about half a cup’s worth of coffee into the cup. It had far too much sugar in it for him, but he drank it anyway.

“Heard you were a marine,” said the pilot.

“Ancient history.”

“Once a marine always a marine.”

“True enough.”

“What were you?”

“I did a lot of things. I was sniper in Vietnam.”

“No kidding? You’re that old?”

“Older,” said Dean. He laughed. “I bet this chopper’s as old as I am.”

“Probably flew you around in Vietnam.” The pilot reached over and took the coffee from him. “You liked being a sniper?”

“It was a job.”

The pilot had to answer a radio call. Dean tightened his arms around his chest. He had liked being a sniper. He liked the simplicity of it. Not like now.

“I have a sharpshooter’s badge myself,” said the pilot. “I’m pretty good. Every marine, a rifleman.”

“That’s right.” said Dean. But inside he was thinking that there was a world of difference between doing some shooting and being a sniper. Shooting was the least of it.

“We practice insertions, do a lot of work with some recon guys,” continued the pilot. “It’s good work.”

“Yeah?” said Dean, feigning interest, thinking about Kenan and how he hoped he was wrong that he’d met a ship.