When he looked up, their eyes locked—enemy faced mortal enemy; religious fervor confronted fierce determination.
“Where’s your burka?” Crocker asked.
Sneering, Zaman glanced at the AK-47 behind him, then back at Crocker. He had something clenched in his right fist.
I fucking dare you, Crocker’s eyes shouted.
The launch continued to drift away from the ship. Blood from the KA-BAR dripped down the American’s right arm.
“You’re mine now, Zaman.”
“No, I’m not.” The voice came back in clear British-accented English. Under the circumstances it was eerily assured.
Adrenaline racing through him, Crocker took a step closer, as Zaman reached for whatever he had in his right fist.
The American heard a distinctive metallic click and stopped. Zaman had pulled the pin to a grenade, which he held to his chest. He smiled like the devil, without doubt or fear.
“We meet the Messenger together. Allahu Akbar.”
Fuck that!
With no time to think, Crocker sprung over the side and hit the water just as the grenade went off. He felt a piece of hot metal rip into the skin near his ankle and heard a muffled roar as he sank into the Gulf.
Even in the bitter smoke and tumult, his heart rejoiced.
Chapter Twenty-One
Victory is reserved for those who are willing to pay its price.
—Sun Tzu
A PART of him wanted him to stop. It kept telling Crocker that he could relax now that Abu Rasul Zaman was dead. Other people would deal with the ship. His body had taken a beating since he’d arrived in Muscat. He’d basically had the shit kicked out of him—having been punched, shot at, burned, shot up with painkillers, deprived of sleep. He needed a break.
But he continued moving automatically—tying the shredded wreck of the launch to the side of the Syrena, slinging the MP5 over his shoulder as he climbed the ladder.
The SEAL team leader half expected to be greeted by Saudi troops or U.S. Rangers, but instead stood alone on the deck, the sun starting to heat up behind him, bursts of automatic-weapon fire coming from the bridge.
I guess we’ll have to stop this bad boy ourselves.
Why not? He and his men were once again at the pointy end of the spear. They’d been trained to do the undoable. But the challenge they faced this time seemed unreal, given the size of the vessel, the fact that it was loaded with kerosene and rigged with explosives. Fire burning on the third deck, sent a plume of black smoke into the early-morning sky. No one had arrived to help.
Hadn’t anyone else taken notice? Were he and his men the only ones who appreciated the danger the ship presented? What had happened to the Omani helicopter? Where were the Saudi patrols, the satellite cameras, the billions spent in the United States, Great Britain, France, on security?
Turning and looking behind him, he saw the Ras Tanura oil-loading platform past the ship’s bow, no more than half a mile away. If the ship did manage to reach the platform and explode, the entire industrialized world would feel the repercussions. Gasoline and heating-oil prices would skyrocket, affecting businesses and economies. Presidents, prime ministers, and generals would pay attention then.
But where were they now? Sleeping? Making pronouncements? Sitting in meetings discussing policy?
He heard a whisper from near the bottom of the cabin structure. “Boss. Boss, over here.”
And recognized the voice. “Davis, is that you?”
“Fifteen feet in front of you. Ten o’clock.”
Shielding his eyes from the glare of the morning sun, he spotted a figure seated in the shadows, his back against the dirty white metal wall. It was Davis, cradling his MP5 and trying to look like he was okay. But when Crocker stepped closer, he saw the intense anguish in Davis’s blue eyes. A bullet had torn through his forearm and fractured his ulna. Davis had used his shirt as a tourniquet, which he’d tied just below his shoulder. His white undershirt was dark with blood.
“We’ve got to get you out of here,” Crocker said, before remembering that they had deployed without the rescue or contingency plan they were accustomed to spelling out in meticulous detail. They hadn’t even carried a first-aid kit or blowout patch to put over a big wound like this.
Davis said grimly, “Looks like you’re going up alone.”
There was no time to try to stop the ship via the engine room.
“Guess so,” Crocker answered, hearing gunfire coming from the other side of the superstructure and hoping it was a sign that Ritchie and Mancini were making progress.
He admired the younger Davis’s warrior spirit, and hated leaving him.
Davis grimaced and asked, “Hey, boss, was that man we saw really AZ?”
“He’s dead now,” Crocker answered.