SEALs and Marines and associated Navy men left the ghost town and headed out-country in the last two hours of light, at an air speed of 150 knots. As the deck vibrated under them, the seven dead terrorists were restless in their body bags. Restless as they had been in life. Good men and women sought calm, peace, time for reflection. Evil people were eternally restive, intractable, always eager for more thrills, which were the same few thrills endlessly repeated, because the evil were unimaginative, acting on feelings rather than reason. Forever agitated, they were unaware that the cause of their fury was the confining narrowness of the worldview they crafted for themselves, its emptiness. There would never be an end to them—and always a need for men and women willing to resist them at whatever cost. Just before sunset, without incident en route, they touched down on the aircraft carrier, much to Paxton’s relief. There would be a debriefing, after which he expected to call Bibi in California, where it was morning.
