Ψ
Jim Ward could just make out the dull, gray wake from Nabiin’s speedboat in the first glow of a new day. He was out almost to the horizon. With his own craft’s heavier load, it appeared that the two boats were close to evenly matched. He was not getting any closer, but Nabiin wasn’t getting away, either. The boat jumped and slammed into the waves as they raced through the dark seas. They were going to have a long, hard ride. And could only hope the fuel gauge was accurate, indicating almost a full tank.
Then a brilliant flash of light off to the northeast grabbed Ward’s attention. Too bright for a shooting star. The brilliant flare resolved into an arrow-straight and very bright line that arced up into the night sky before finally disappearing among the lingering stars.
Ward shook his head. He had a good idea of what they had just witnessed.
“I hope to hell that ain’t what I think it is,” Master Chief Johnston yelled to be heard over the wind and engine roar.
Ward merely nodded agreement then pointed toward Nabiin’s distant boat.
“Any way you can hit him with that sniper rifle you lug around?”
Johnston looked toward the fleeing terrorist and then out into the night sky. He thought for a bit and then, clearly disappointed, shook his head.
“He’s out better than a thousand yards. With this bass boat bucking around like a really pissed off bronco, it would have to be a really lucky shot.”
“About what I figured, but maybe we can make him keep his head down or do something silly to dodge. See what you can do.”
“I’ll give it a shot,” Johnston agreed, and chuckled at the poor pun as he reached down to unlimber his favorite Mk13 Mod 5 bolt-action sniper rifle. It was a weapon designed to reach out and touch someone. Reach way out. But generally, from a stable platform with known wind conditions and a relatively stationary target to aim at.
Johnston slid the bolt forward to chamber a Winchester 300 magnum round and propped the bipod on the boat’s deck, wet and slippery from dew and sea spray. Bracing himself as best he could against the bouncing and pitching, Johnston took a breath and sighted carefully. He waited and then fired in that brief pause while they were at the top of a wave.
The shot apparently missed. Nabiin’s boat still raced ahead.
Johnston chambered another round and again took careful aim. Once more, the bullet flew off into the night to no apparent effect.
Ward saw what could only be muzzle flashes from Nabiin’s boat. Then, almost instantly, he felt a couple of the rounds crash into his craft. How in hell was the guy able to be that accurate while steering the boat and bouncing over the wavetops.
Master Chief Johnston suddenly slumped over, groaning in pain. One of the terrorist’s shots had somehow found its mark.
Then several more slugs slammed into the engine compartment. Immediately, the SEALs’ speedboat slid to a halt, its engines smoking, dead.
Nabiin, the Prophet, raced off into the heavy mist of an impending new day.
36
The Khorramshar medium range ballistic missile arced up and away from the Iranian submarine, cutting a fiery path all the way until it was into near space. At an altitude of one hundred and fifty kilometers, the rocket’s first stage burned out and fell away, right on schedule. The warhead and guidance package continued to climb higher, perfectly following the predetermined ballistic trajectory.
As the warhead proceeded through its midcourse phase, Israeli early warning radars picked it up and dutifully began tracking it. Tracking and continually analyzing it.
Somewhere over central Saudi Arabia the warhead reached an apogee of nearly three hundred kilometers. It was at this point that two Israeli Arrow 4 ABM missiles roared away from their launchers, hidden deeply amid the rocks, scrub, and sand of the Negev Desert.
The two-stage rockets raced off into the night sky, flashing toward a computed intercept point at better than Mach nine. Ground-based telemetry guided the missiles toward that spot in the sky with gentle nudges and minor corrections until their installed infrared sensors detected the Iranian nuclear warhead for themselves.
The warhead was just entering its terminal phase, still one hundred kilometers high over the desolate eastern Jordanian desert, when the ABMs found their target and were satisfied this was what they were programmed to intercept. The nuclear warhead was obliterated in a sudden brilliant flash that for a brief instant lit up the night sky across most of the Eastern Mediterranean. Those who noticed it assumed it was an especially bright shooting star.
Missile and warhead debris rained down over a wide swath of territory mostly inhabited by scorpions and snakes.
Jerusalem was rendered safe even as prayers in three religions rang out for the new day.
Ψ
The sun had just appeared on the eastern horizon when Nabiin spotted the Darih al Mahit al Muqadas. The repurposed vessel was a beautiful sight, steaming directly toward him. Nabiin pointed the bow of his speedboat toward the ship. And he was, of course, recognized by the ship’s crew. He eased alongside and loosely tied up along the former research ship’s port side.
He reached for a remarkable reserve of strength as he climbed the steep Jacob’s ladder up to the main deck. From there, he ignored the bowing and pandering crewmembers as he hurried past them and ran directly to the bridge. He had seen at least one of the missiles airborne and was eager to get the news that the other three had been sent heavenward.
That Jerusalem was no more. That the war to bring on the End Times had begun.
Ψ
“Captain, Radio. Voice comms with the SEAL team. They report that they are DIW and need pick-up. They report posit one four dot three one north, zero four nine dot three zero east. Twenty-five miles south-southeast of Al Mukalla.”
Joe Glass acknowledged and checked the charts. The SEALs were only five miles away from Toledo. In the water. Odd.
“Tell our friends that the taxi will arrive in thirty mikes. Officer of the Deck, come to ahead full.”
Right on schedule, the Toledo broached up a few hundred yards from the SEALs’ stalled speedboat. Ten minutes later the SEALs were all safely aboard and the big submarine was back down in the depths, safe from prying eyes.
Master Chief Johnston was taken directly down to the wardroom for treatment by Doc Halliday.
But even the hot submarine coffee was not enough to make Jim Ward and his team feel any better. They had not accomplished their mission.
And that simply was not acceptable.
Ψ
Captain Yon Hun Glo swung the periscope around, looking for anything he might see on the surface. As expected, there appeared to be nothing.
He had ordered the Wushiwu up from running deep and was ready to start the punitive cruise missile launches that his leaders had ordered. Silly as such a thing might be. He almost smiled when he thought about how a few innocent goats would suffer for the sins committed by a bunch of terrorists.
But then, as he reached the end of the 360-degree sweep, there was something. Something surprisingly close. But obviously very quiet or his sonar crew would have detected it before the periscope went up.
It was an old tramp steamer that filled his periscope’s field of view. And it looked very familiar. In fact, it appeared to be very similar to the images of the ship that PLAN Intel suspected had been somehow responsible for the attack on their battle group.
Satellite imagery had shown the vessel to be hanging around just over the radar horizon when that attack was launched. And the intel message for the previous evening had said that the Americans suspected that this same ship was associated with the mining of the Suez Canal. Odd and condemning that this same ship seemed to be in the area anytime there was mischief about.
Yon Hun Glo slowly swung the Wushiwu around until he could see the tramp steamer’s name painted across its stern. Sure enough, there was the name the intel reports had told them to be aware of: Darih al Mahit al Muqadas.
That sealed the ship�
�s fate.
An electrically driven YU-9 torpedo whooshed out from one of Wushiwu’s forward torpedo tubes and headed straight for the Darih al Mahit al Muqadas. The warhead exploded when it was directly beneath the steamer. That positioning was deliberate. The ship immediately broke in half, her back broken.
Both halves disappeared surprisingly quickly, settling deep beneath the waves, almost certainly before anyone aboard had a chance to get off the ship.
Ψ
“Torpedo in the water!” Master Chief Zillich called out from his seat at the sonar panel. “Hold a Chinese YU-9 torpedo, bearing three-two-six, drawing left.”
Joe Glass was on the verge of launching a counterfire weapon when Zillich suddenly shouted, “Down doppler on the torpedo! It’s moving away. Best bearing three-one-eight, drawing left.”
“What the hell?” Glass whispered as he looked at the screen on the geo display. “They’re not shooting at us?”
Then the picture became quickly obvious. The Chinese submarine was shooting at Sierra Four-Seven. That was the merchant ship they had been tracking coming up the Gulf toward them. But why would he be shooting at some merch? That part remained far from clear.
“Let’s go up and take a look,” Glass said. “But everybody stay ready in case he’s still trigger happy. Officer of the Deck, come to periscope depth. I want to see if we can figure out just what the hell is going on.”
Walt Smith, standing the OOD watch, responded with, “Come to periscope depth, aye, sir.” He turned to the watch team and ordered, “Diving Officer, make your depth six-two feet. All ahead one-third. Number two scope coming up.”
There was a sudden resounding boom, sufficient to rock the Toledo a bit.
“Guess their aim was true,” Glass observed. “Their torpedo hit something.”
“Speed ten,” Chief Johannson, the chief of the watch, called out. The big black sub glided smoothly up from the depths. Walt Smith danced the “fat lady”—the periscope—around until the boat was safely up at periscope depth. They arrived there just in time to see the Darih al Mahit al Muqadas starting to sink.
But there was something else. A speedboat, zooming away from the rapidly sinking ship. And that speedboat was headed directly at them.
“Captain, you’d better see this,” Smith called out.
Glass took the scope in time to see Nabiin racing toward them. It was exactly the same speedboat that Jim Ward had described. Right down to the bullet-shattered windscreen.
“Diving Officer, standby to broach the ship,” Glass called out. He did some quick mental math and ordered, “All ahead full. And somebody get that SEAL team leader up here. He’ll want to see this.”
Chief Johannson called out, “Number two scope indicates up. Speed limit fifteen.”
“Acknowledged,” Glass answered as he felt the scope buck against the increased sea pressure.
“Speed fifteen,” the diving officer called out.
“Broach the ship,” Glass answered. “Ahead flank.”
“All rise on the stern planes, all rise on the bow planes, broach the ship, aye. Coming to ahead flank. Depth six-zero feet, five-five feet, five-zero feet, four-zero feet. Depth three-six feet and holding. The ship is broached.”
Just then, Jim Ward stepped into the control room. He was familiar with the territory, he wore silver dolphins from his summer cruise aboard a sub while at the Academy, and, of course, was the son of a submarine skipper.
Glass was barely paying attention to the orders and reports. Instead, he was watching the speedboat and its driver, unable to avoid the behemoth that sprang from the sea directly ahead of him. There was no time to react.
The boat crashed up and over the submarine’s suddenly surfacing main deck. It was hurtling ahead so fast that it did two complete revolutions bow-over-stern before it landed upside down in the water on Toledo’s starboard side.
Glass ordered, “All stop.” And then, “Radio, establish comms with that Chinese sub and tell him I want to talk.” Then he turned to Ward. “Lieutenant, I just saw something I’d bet your daddy never saw. We just ran over a son of a bitch in a speedboat. And I don’t think you or the United States Navy will mind the scratches on our hull one damn bit.”
Epilogue
“Conn, Radio. Have the Chinese sub on marine band, channel sixteen. Sub is the Wishiwu, as best I can make out. Her skipper is on the phone. Patching to the Conn.”
Glass grabbed the 21MC microphone and acknowledged, “Conn, aye.” Then he grabbed the red radio handset, depressed the push-to-talk key, and spoke. “Chinese submarine Wishiwu, this is American submarine Toledo. Commander Joe Glass commanding. Do you have someone who understands English? I need to speak with your captain. Over.”
As Glass was listening for the reply over the pop and crackle of the airwaves, Billy Ray Jones handed him the “Top Secret” message board, opened to a specific communication. Brian Edwards over on George Mason was reporting that he was bobbing on the surface and needed help.
Lot of that going around lately, Glass thought, glancing over at Jim Ward. The SEAL seemed to be enjoying his opportunity to observe the control room activity. Glass read the message a second time and said, “XO, plot his location on the chart and the quickest course to get us there.”
“American submarine Toledo, this is People’s Liberation Army Navy submarine Changcheng Wushiwu,” buzzed a voice on the radio. “This is Captain Yon Hun Glo. And, as you may note, I speak perfect English. Now, what do you need, Commander Glass. Over.”
“Captain, the leader of the terrorist plot that attacked your ships is clinging to a small capsized boat a hundred yards off my port bow. We have an urgent mission to help another one of our boats. Request you provide assistance in recovering the terrorist. His name is Nabiin. Over.”
Jones looked quizzically at Glass through the entire transmission. What was his captain planning this time? Glass noticed the curiosity on his XO’s face and held up his hand, signaling Jones that he would explain in a moment.
Glass also noticed the long wait before a response from the Chinese sub skipper. He could imagine the questions running through the man’s brain. The same ones Glass would be considering were the situation reversed. And likely top among them was considering whether or not this was some kind of trap being laid for him by the American vessel.
“Toledo, this is Wushiwu. Understand. We will recover Nabiin and take him into custody.”
“Captain, thank you for your assistance. We will be departing the area. Fair winds and following seas to you. Toledo out.” The Chinese captain clicked his microphone button twice to acknowledge receipt.
“XO, draft a message to Fifth Fleet. Copy Admiral Tom Donnegan in Naval Intelligence,” Glass continued. “Tell them that the Chinese submarine recovered Nabiin before we were able to capture him. We are departing the area to assist George Mason. ETA thirteen hundred zulu tomorrow. Request mod to opord giving us the water to run there submerged.”
“Got it, Captain,” Jones replied, now understanding what had just happened.
“And XO, think of how much paperwork I just saved you,” Glass said with the slightest of grins. “That Nabiin guy is going to disappear into a really dark hole somewhere in the Chinese legal system. No ACLU. No Congressional inquiries. No analysis by the talking heads on CNN. Clean and simple.”
“And I suspect we have just cut the head off one very nasty snake,” Jones said.
“Roger that.” Glass turned and looked at the charts on the little table behind him. “Now, let’s see what we can do to help the George Mason. Looks as if AAA doesn’t venture out quite this far.”
Ψ
“Admiral, you aren’t going to believe this!” Jimmy Wilson shouted excitedly as he ran into the office.
Jon Ward looked up from the pile of papers stacked on the conference table that he had been perusing. He still could not bring himself to sit at the old oak desk over in front of the big window. That piece of classic office furniture still be
longed to Papa Tom as far as he—or anyone else, including the US Navy—was concerned. But by now, he knew for sure that Admiral Tom Donnegan would never again direct his complex intelligence network from behind the desk. It was finally time for him to spend his days instead raising his orchids. And he would do so from the house up in Aiea Heights on Oahu. From there he would be able to gaze out at the submarines going in and out of Pearl Harbor.
“What has you in such a lather, Jimmy?” Ward asked. “I haven’t seen you this excited since the Redskins beat the Cowboys. And that was a long time ago.”
“George Mason is reporting that the Iranian sub popped to the surface. They report that it is badly damaged, and it is not going anywhere. Some guy named Dirbaz—an Iranian civilian and an engineer on the boat, they said—was the one who surfaced her and is apparently in charge.” The young lieutenant stopped to take a breath. Ward waited for him to go on. This all was an interesting turn of events. “And he has surrendered his ship to the George Mason and requested asylum!”
Ward whistled. “Wow! That is something. When is the last time that we captured a warship? The Civil War? Now what? Do we put a prize crew on her?”
“Don’t know, sir,” Wilson answered, puzzled. “I’ll have to look it up and get back to you.”
Ward laughed and shook his head.
“Jimmy, those are rhetorical questions. And we’ve seized ships plenty of times, some still classified, some not. What to do with her and her crew? Those are Fifth Fleet problems, thank goodness, but it’ll all be very interesting to watch.”
The two men were quiet for a moment. Then Jon Ward said out loud what they both were thinking.
“Just wish like hell Papa Tom were here to see it play out.”
“I know.”
Arabian Storm (The Hunter Killer Series Book 5) Page 29