Arabian Storm (The Hunter Killer Series Book 5)

by George Wallace

  No, they, in their narrow-minded political way of thinking, still viewed any violence in this part of the world as a war over oil. As tribal strife. As a wrist-wrestle among the Russians, Chinese, and Americans for influence among the rich oil sheiks and religious dictators. They would never suspect the holy war, the prophesied “Great Battle,” was about to be unleashed. Though they and their bombs and missiles could certainly not stop such a conflagration, it would still be better if they had no idea until the battle had begun in earnest.

  Fewer believers would die. And the solitary anointed leader could sooner ascend to unstoppable power over two billion followers now bound to do his bidding.

  Nabiin well knew that the Americans would be impossibly tenacious if they sensed even an inkling of what had already been set into motion. But still, despite all the risk, this final meeting in the mountain cave was necessary. His faithful acolytes needed to receive their orders—and their inspiration—directly from him. In person. It was the only way to make sure that they truly understood the historic proportions of their assigned tasks. The ramifications of even the slightest failure. After all, they were to be the instigators of the Al-Malhama Al-Kubra, the Great Battle.

  To Nabiin’s immediate left, Sheik al-Wasragi, the Somali terrorist leader, sat dressed in his routine white thobe and red checked smeagh. Today, though, he also wore a heavy camouflage jacket thrown over his shoulders as protection from the high-mountain chill. These Pakistani mountains and high altitudes were so very far and different from al-Wasragi’s African desert haunts.

  Next to Sheik al-Wasragi, Phillip Tong, the Sudanese banker, shivered and rubbed his red nose. He was equally uncomfortable in the chill air.

  General Farad Babak, the Iranian head of the Yemeni Houthi rebels, completed the small circle. The short, stout general seemed more at ease than his African compatriots. Nabiin’s faithful lieutenants, Farian Gurmani and Beren Sheedi, stood silently behind their master, one on either shoulder, poised and ready to instantly meet any need, follow any order that the master might wish.

  “My faithful friends,” Nabiin said, starting the meeting. “It is time to discuss how we move toward the Al-Malhama Al-Kubra. It is our fate and destiny to move the faithful toward the final days. General Babak, to you and your followers falls the honor of forcing our Chinese neighbors to protect their preposterous ‘One Belt, One Road’ overreach. My informants tell me that a re-supply ship is making its way to their Djibouti base with more troops and weapons. I am confident that they actually plan to extend their domination over East Africa from just the economic realm into something approaching colonialism. You will find a way to stop the ship. The more violent and bloody, the better, so as to effectively discourage such encroachment in the future.”

  General Babak nodded but offered no comment.

  Nabiin turned to his left. “Sheik al-Wasragi, I require that your best and most brave fighters take action on several fronts. The Americans must be pushed out of Djibouti, of course, and the success must be swift and complete. And the Red Sea must be sealed. It is time for your pirates to push out again. And use your influence with Boko Haram and their friends to push the Americans out of Africa.”

  Turning to the last man in the inner circle, Nabiin concluded his commands.

  “Mr. Tong will, of course, move the necessary resources to quietly but sufficiently fund all of these events.”

  The short Sudanese, dressed in his inevitable rumpled business suit, nodded thoughtfully. After a few seconds, he spoke quietly, in a voice so low that the other three had to lean in to hear him.

  “Master Nabiin, I can only imagine that discretion and secrecy is vital to the success of our plan. I fear that there is one item no longer required that should now be eliminated. Mr. Rothbert, our New York banker, knows far too much about us. In the face of the coming activities, he might suddenly grow a conscience.”

  Nabiin nodded to Farian Gurmani and Beren Sheedi. The two men immediately disappeared into the back recesses of the cave.

  Nabiin rose, motioned for the others to stand, and made it a point to hug each man. Then he looked into each man’s eyes before making his final declaration.

  “My loyal friends, the time is at hand. We must now go forward. The next time we meet will be in Paradise.”

  Ψ

  High up in the desert and so very far away from any elements of civilization, the stars glittered especially brightly across an obsidian sky. After the baking-hot afternoon, the desert night had turned bone-chilling frigid.

  Humidity in the single digits caused such an uncomfortable swing, TJ Dillon thought as he shivered and huddled beneath his camouflage blanket. Hard for a dude to know how to pack for such a vacation. But at least he was all but invisible and beginning to feel a bit more comfortable there beneath the thorny acacia bush.

  It had taken hours for the former SEAL to slowly, silently slip down near the roadway, plant the sensor package he had lugged all the way out here to this garden spot, and then find the perfect hiding place for his own tired body. But now he was far enough up the rocky slope that chance of discovery was very slight, yet he was still near enough that he could observe any traffic on the road as well as be able to pick up the weak signal from the sensor. By the time Dillon had everything in place, it was well past midnight.

  He checked his watch. If his intel was anywhere near good, he should be seeing traffic in another hour or so. It could not come too soon for him. He stretched his cramped, aching muscles and lamented once again on why and how someone his age was out sneaking around the high Iranian desert in the middle of the night.

  Money was part of it. But not the greatest reason. TJ Dillon loved his country and had long ago vowed he would do anything he could to preserve it and all it stood for. His dad had been the same way, but he had paid the ultimate price. That was why TJ had also become career military, and in a branch of the service where he thought he could make the biggest individual difference. This second career, at the CIA’s behest, had come along when TJ had assumed his fighting days were over. That he would be home with his wife and their son, TJ Junior.

  Home soaking up the Florida sunshine, looking for rock lobster and oysters in the inlets around Tampa Bay with his boy, sleeping late, watching football, drinking beer, telling tall tales with the guys at the American Legion post. No, he figured the job required that he would mostly be consulting friendly warriors—and, sometimes, some not-so-friendly ones who just happened to share enemies with the USA—and conducting benign training missions. Not lying among the scorpions and sand waiting for deadly cargo to pass within a few yards.

  The small convoy arrived just as expected. The four trucks came down Pakistan Route N10 from Gwadar, barreling through Tamp Kuh, the tiny village that served as the Pakistani side of the border crossing, without ever touching the brakes. The trucks hardly slowed, either, as they were waved through the remote border crossing between Pakistan and Iran.

  Ten minutes later, they had disappeared down the Bahukalat Road, which led to Chabahar.

  After their dust had settled, Dillon carefully checked the readings from the tiny remote sensors. His source had been right. The shadowy figure had told him precisely what he could expect to see. Each truck carried at least one nuclear weapon of some kind. Dillon did not pretend to understand the science employed by those little guys to determine the nature of the terrifying cargo that had rolled past him and his acacia bush. He only knew the sensors’ report had been undeniable.

  Bad stuff on its way to do some horrible things at the command of some evil people.

  Now the fun part. He had to police his hiding spot in the unlikely event somebody stumbled upon it and made the correct deduction. And then slip out unnoticed. He would have to be up in the mountains by dawn. That was five miles of tough desert hiking. And there was no choice but to be on time.

  The CIA operative shrugged. All in a night’s work.

  11

  The mystery of the Ocean Mystery�
��s vanishing only deepened. It had already passed the grim fascination the world had with the disappearance of Malaysia Airlines flight MH370 back in 2014. And with the boon to ratings, clicks, and newspaper sales, the media was only too willing to keep stoking the interest.

  Despite over a hundred aircraft, a fleet of ships, and all the resources the United Nations could bring to bear, no one had so far found even a trace of the missing research ship. Even the very sophisticated American Keyhole-12 Advanced KEENAN spy satellites continued to come up with nothing at all.

  The only thing the world knew for certain was that a sanctified vessel, an anointed ship doing wonderful work to try to save the planet from evil polluters and capitalists, was gone without a trace. And everyone was clamoring for information, demanding an explanation for the disappearance. Reporters had nothing new to write about so, with editors demanding copy, they actually began to dig deeper into the story. One intrepid Reuters hack, putting together the Ocean Mystery’s history, found that although the research vessel flew the United Nations flag, it was actually owned by Samuel Talbot. He was valid click-bait for a thirsty public anxious for any new angle on the story. Talbot was a reclusive multi-billionaire with a rather murky past and unclear citizenship. He was known to fund myriad far-out causes, some of which seemed to be on opposite sides, but research could find none even remotely concerned with the environment or manmade climate change.

  Then an independent reporter, working as a stringer for the Associated Press, found that many of the ship’s crew had ties to Israel. Just to add spice to his story, the reporter alluded to evidence of possible Mossad connections. That revelation set off a whole new round of speculation and recrimination.

  The Iranian government immediately announced that Ocean Mystery was certainly an Israeli—and thus, by association, a CIA—spy ship. They demanded that Israel be condemned by the General Assembly for “conducting war-like espionage operations” against Iran in their coastal waters of the Arabian Sea. The Iranian ambassador was red-faced as he pounded on the podium with both fists to emphasize his demands and to threaten swift, violent retaliation.

  The Israeli ambassador had, even before the Iranian claims, already denied any connection with the Ocean Mystery. He accused the Iranians and their allies, and perhaps even the Russians, of attacking and destroying an innocent, unarmed research ship to deflect attention from all the other hot spots in the region. Pandemonium broke out in the august body as the US ambassador backed the Israelis and joined in condemning the Iranians.

  And the press, with no real news to report, breathlessly covered all the blaming and bluster. The story had shifted from a humanitarian search-and-rescue operation to one of high political drama and international intrigue, further nurtured by crazies from all directions with their wild theories.

  Ben Tahib, once again contemplating his Pulitzer, book contract, and movie deal, decided to do a little sleuthing of his own. With over thirty years’ experience reporting on the cauldron of Middle Eastern politics, the Al Jazeera reporter had more than a few friends in key positions and hard-earned chits that he could call in from most of the governments directly involved. A few phone calls and the Mossad connection fell apart. However, the Samuel Talbot angle appeared to have legs but was infinitely more difficult to track down. The man was famously reclusive and clearly had the money and resources to remain so. Even if a reporter could track him down, Talbot had never been known to grant an interview.

  But Tahib did pick up hints and whiffs of tenuous Talbot connections with various intelligence operations around the world, particularly those in the Middle East. It was time to go to the deepest recesses of his contacts list, to make some calls to some very dangerous people.

  His first call was to a connection within the Saudi Secret Service, a mid-level agent who Tahib had once helped out of a nasty situation. The man was apologetic but not very helpful.

  Next on the list was an ISI general, an important man with a fondness for Riviera casinos where he usually managed to lose large amounts of money in an evening. Somehow, though, even on a military salary, paying his gambling debts never seemed to be a problem for the general. But if the Pakistani government ever found out that bribes from French arms manufacturers and German military vehicle companies paid for the man’s baccarat habit, prison might well be the best fate for which the general might hope.

  At first, the Pakistani general refused to talk. He instead offered Tahib a stake at the dice tables in Monte Carlo, free lodging for a few days on the yacht of an acquaintance, cooperative companionship included. But the reporter reminded the general of the story he had written years before, an exposé that remained safely on his hard drive in a secret location along with all the evidence that was needed to back it up.

  There had been fear-tinged silence for a bit on the other end of the telephone line. Then the Pakistani military man uttered only one word:

  “Nabiin.”

  And the line went dead.

  Ψ

  Commander Brian Edwards stood in the middle of the George Mason’s control room, watching his crew as they operated the Virginia-class submarine’s sophisticated sensor system. Edwards told himself once again just how fortunate he was to be able to command the most capable warship on the planet. This technological marvel could even give the Starship Enterprise a run for its money if Captain Kirk’s vessel happened to make an appearance on twenty-first-century Earth.

  The banks of computer screens flickered away, showing every ship and noise in the ocean within a hundred miles of the George Mason. None of them were of any particular concern to Edwards or his crew. The nearest ship was a large tanker over to the northeast. She might possibly come within a couple of miles if neither ship changed course in the next hour. Other than that, Edwards’s boat pretty much had this bit of the Indian Ocean all to herself.

  Life had been especially quiet for the submarine lately. Probably too quiet. Especially since they rounded the Cape of Good Hope and steamed up to their current position almost five-hundred miles due south of the Indian subcontinent. The only bit of interesting activity had been a Chinese surface action group exiting the Straits of Malacca. Naval Intelligence thought the SAG might be headed up into the Arabian Sea. Edwards and the George Mason had been vectored over to intercept and keep tabs on them as they steamed in Middle Eastern waters.

  But the Chinese ships pulled into Colombo, Sri Lanka, for an unexpected port visit. That left the American submarine steaming around an empty ocean while the Chinese sailors enjoyed a tropical liberty port.

  “Officer of the Deck,” Edwards called out. “We need to copy the broadcast and ventilate the ship. Make preparations to come to periscope depth. Call me when you’re ready. I’ll be in my stateroom.”

  As Edwards strode out of the control room, Lieutenant (junior grade) Bill Wilson, the George Mason’s electrical officer and her most recently qualified OOD, answered, “Make preparations to come to periscope depth, aye, sir. Sonar, fire control, clearing baffles to the left. Pilot, right full rudder. Steady course south.”

  “Clearing baffles” was the submarine term for making sure that no undetected ships were coming up behind them. Coming up shallow, to periscope depth, would be a very hazardous operation if an undetected ship suddenly appeared close aboard. On older submarines the best sonar sensors were up in the bow, designed to look forward and out to the sides. Any ships that might be behind them would be hidden by the submarine’s mass and the noise from the engine room and screw. They would be “hidden in the baffles.” The only way to detect them was to turn the ship around and have a look. The George Mason’s large-aperture flank arrays and mile-long TB-29A towed array made it very unlikely that anyone could sneak up behind her without being detected, but submariners were a cautious lot.

  The pilot, Chief Arnold Schmidt, chuckled.

  “Mr. Wilson, if you want to clear baffles to the left, suggest left full rudder.”

  “Uh, yeah, that’s… that’s… what I mea
nt,” the flustered young officer stammered. “Left full ridder…uh, I mean rudder. Steady course south.”

  Chief Schmidt shook his head and grinned as he confirmed the OOD’s command. “Left full rudder, steady course south, aye.” He reached up and punched a couple of buttons on his touch-screen display. The rudder angle indicator display shifted smoothly until it was fully to the left. The digital compass display started to count down rapidly. “My rudder is left full. Coming to course south.”

  Unlike older submarines, the George Mason’s sonar was operated from the control room. So were all the boat’s other sensor systems except for communications and electromagnetic sensors. This arrangement made for rapid and easy coordination within the watch team. The sonar operators and fire control operator worked together to carefully search the surrounding ocean.

  As they searched, they found nothing except the one tanker, still out at better than thirty thousand yards.

  “Steady course south,” Chief Schmidt called out as the rudder automatically swept around to stop the sub’s turn at precisely one-eight-zero.

  The sonar operator scanned his displays for a few seconds, then reported, “Completed careful search of previously baffled area. No new contacts. Only contact is Sierra Two-Four-Seven, bearing zero-three-three. Range tracking at three-seven thousand yards. Drawing to the left, best estimate of course is two-nine-five. Past CPA and opening.”

  As the sonar operator completed his report, Brian Edwards strolled back into the control room, sipping on a fresh cup of hot coffee.

  Bill Wilson repeated the contact situation for his skipper and added, “Request permission to come to periscope depth to copy the broadcast, ventilate the ship for fifteen minutes, and shoot three loads of trash.”

  Edwards took a quick scan of the sonar displays and nodded. “Officer of the Deck, proceed to periscope depth, copy the broadcast, and conduct housekeeping.”