Arabian Storm (The Hunter Killer Series Book 5)

by George Wallace

  Talk about a needle in a haystack!

  Ψ

  The two unmanned underwater vehicles uneventfully completed their ten-hour swim into the shallow waters at the mouth of Chabahar Bay. Retrieving the covertly laid sensors was a pretty simple evolution for these sophisticated fish and would only take a couple of hours once they were in the vicinity of their quarry. When the UUV’s navigations system said that it was near a sensor’s location, the device pinged a special low-amplitude acoustic pulse. The hidden sensor responded with a similar low-amplitude pulse. Within a few minutes, the UUV was hovering over the sensor. A robotic arm retrieved the sensor, carefully stowed it, and then the UUV moved off to its next rendezvous. During the entire operation, the only trace that it was even happening was a fleeting track on one of the Iranian side-scan sonars. And the engineers who designed the small submarine-like device were certain that any such detection would quickly be analyzed and determined to be nothing more than an acoustic anomaly.

  Ψ

  The brand-new Iranian minesweeper Naranjee Sayyad had been on station off the Chabahar Bay for over a week now. The small ship still smelled of fresh paint. The crew were in the process of learning just how the complex systems on their vessel really worked. Homeported in Bandar Abbas, the sprawling Iranian naval base that guarded the Strait of Hormuz, they had just successfully finished an arduous week of sea trials when their new orders suddenly arrived. They were to immediately take Naranjee Sayyad and join all her sisters heading to Chabahar. The crew, mostly conscripts, had been looking forward to a few weeks tied up in Bandar Abbas, taking care of all the chores associated with a new ship, but also enjoying the port city’s nightlife. Rumors soon spread that the night life in Chabahar was even better, and able to be enjoyed every evening.

  It was not long before those rumors were proved fanciful. Once at their assigned position, the Russian “technicians” came onboard with stacks of gear and bulky instrumentation. Given the small minesweeper’s size, a half-dozen extra crewmembers and all their equipment made for a very cramped space. And the Russians insisted on claiming the best quarters, leaving most of the crew to sleep on deck.

  The Iranians could see the lights of Chabahar just on the horizon, so tantalizingly close yet so impossibly far away. And their mission was unbelievably tedious. Naranjee Sayyad did nothing but steam back and forth, day after endless day, her Russian-made sonar sensors trailing along behind, dragging only a few meters off the sandy, rock-strewn bottom. The minesweeper’s sister ships were a few hundred yards off in all directions, steaming in the same loose formation as they searched the cluttered bottom for no one knew exactly what. Each mine sweeper also trailed a sophisticated new side-scan sonar—a recent gift from Moscow—searching the sea bottom for anything that could help determine who had dared to try to destroy their new submarine.

  Something. Anything. Any evidence that might be part of the mines that had damaged the Boz-Manand so their suspected source could be confirmed to the satisfaction of a wary world.

  Hours, days, weeks of fruitless searching had long since worn the edge off the sailors’ nerves. At first, every bottom contact had been exciting. The ship would whoosh to a frothy halt. The divers jumped in their high-speed Zodiac boat, sped out to the spot, and then dove to the bottom, only to find a rusted refrigerator dumped off some fishing boat fifty years before or a rusty oil drum of unknown source or vintage.

  By now the Russian sonar watch standers hardly looked at their phosphorescent screens. The divers mostly lay sprawled on the minesweeper’s after deck, smoking their harsh Farvardin cigarettes, telling tales of previous adventures and conquests as they waited for the occasional alarm. But mostly waiting for time to pass and this fruitless search to finally be halted.

  Then a blob abruptly appeared on the screen. One even the sleepy sonar watch could not ignore, in an area of the gulf they had scanned at least a dozen times already. It looked bright and new, though, and it had the general sleek shape of a bomb or torpedo. Evil-looking. Dangerous.

  Deadly.

  The watch stander gasped, looked again to confirm what he had seen, and then reached up and rang the alarm.

  Out on the sun-drenched after deck, the divers frowned, groused, then languidly grabbed their gear and reluctantly plopped into the Zodiac yet again. So, one more dive into the warm, shallow waters to pull up yet another hunk of jettisoned trash.

  But the divers—even at depth—looked at each other in disbelief as they approached the object. It was something decidedly hard and certainly metallic. And, as they swam near, there was no doubt it was a weapon of some kind. A weapon with a propeller and an ugly, gun-looking snout.

  And something else came clear as they carefully towed the object to the surface.

  An unmistakable American flag painted right there on the weapon’s nameplate.

  Ψ

  The insistent buzzing tore Ben Tahib from his sleep. It was his first night in more nights than he could remember in his own bed. His wife Sheila’s comforting warm form had nuzzled up next to him. Who would be so very uncivilized to call him in the middle of the night?

  The reporter groped for the offending device, resisting the tempting urge to fling it against the wall. “Tahib,” he mumbled into the mouthpiece.

  “The Pulitzer that you seek will be posthumous.” The voice was gruff and menacing. “You ask too many questions. People who cross Mr. Talbot have a way of disappearing. And their family. Enjoy your last night with your wife.”

  Before he could form an answer, Tahib realized he was holding a dead receiver. Not just disconnected, but dead. No dial tone, nothing. A cold chill went down his back. Working the Middle East beat, he was no stranger to death threats, but this one sounded very real and very close to home.

  Tahib hung up the phone and reached into the nightstand for the 9mm Glock that he always kept there.

  Sheila stirred and rolled over. “What is it?” she asked. “Come back to bed.” Then she saw the gun he held and was instantly wide awake.

  He punched the panic alarm button on the security system controller. Anyone living in Qatar in his position would be a fool not to maintain the very latest in security systems, and Tahib’s was top of the line. The alarm sent an immediate message to the local police station and slid armored steel panels over the bedroom doors and windows, creating an impregnable safe room.

  That’s when he heard the gas whistling in.

  15

  Tom Donnegan sat at his desk rubbing his breastbone. Damned stomach acid! Seemed to have gotten worse lately. Could be that new chef in the flag mess and his fondness for conjuring up that spicy Tex-Mex. Or the fact that Donnegan had to constantly lean over nowadays to try to see the tangle of pixels on the six digital displays that claimed all the real estate atop his rugged old oak desk, a hunk of furniture that pre-dated most computer technology. Or maybe it was just that the admiral was getting old and his digestive system was finally succumbing to the constant daily stress.

  Massaging his breastbone and leaning back in the squeaky old chair seemed to help. The pain started to subside just a bit. Even so, Donnegan reached into his desk drawer and grabbed a bottle of aspirin and another vial that contained some mixture of thick liquid antacid. A couple of pills and a slug of the chalky medicine, chased down with hot coffee, should help.

  He was about to buzz his aide and ask where the hell that fresh pot of coffee was when the door opened. Lt. Jimmy Wilson stuck his head in.

  “Coffee’s almost percolated, Admiral. But I got some guy on the secure phone asking for you. Figured it had to be important for him to have your number, but...”

  “Jimmy, just tell me who the hell it is.”

  “Said his name was Dillon. TJ Dillon. No rank. Civilian, I guess, but he would have to have connections. Shall I tell him you’re in a conference?”

  “Dillon? Well, I’ll be a son of a...yeah, put the call through. And coffee. Stat!”

  Tom Donnegan rubbed his chin. Another yea
r or so, when things calmed down, they were going to move back to Hawaii, he and the wife. Retire at their place high up in Aiea Heights, where he could stand on his lanai and watch his beloved submarines far below in Pearl Harbor.

  The thought of it brought a smile to the old warrior, but only for a second. TJ Dillon. Now where was that crazy CIA bastard this time? And what sort of mischief was he in the middle of? Last time anyone had actually seen the former Navy SEAL for sure, he was madly paddling a canoe down some jungle river in Venezuela in hot pursuit of an escaping double agent named Josh Kirkland, all after a little jaunt across Cuba. That had been a couple of years before. Thankfully, the shadowy agent’s name and whereabouts had not been of any concern for Donnegan since.

  The admiral hardly noticed the uptick in acid in his belly or the return of dull pain in his chest as he tried to recall all the details of his previous dealings with Dillon.

  There was a quiet chime at his left elbow. Donnegan grabbed the phone handset, first noting that the green secure light was on.

  “TJ, where the hell you at? You don’t write. You don’t call. Last we heard you were chasing that turncoat bastard Kirkland across Africa. You ever catch him?”

  There was a chuckle on the crisp-sounding phone line. Donnegan was legendary throughout the Navy for dispensing with any superfluous pleasantries. Direct and straight to the point. That was his style. And just another reason men like TJ Dillon liked and respected him so much.

  “And a pleasant good morning to you too, Admiral. I’m afraid I’m not allowed to answer either one of your questions. Or they would hang me. I’m sure you understand. But I do have some information that you might find interesting. Something that might tie into something you are working on that I’m not supposed to know about.”

  It was Donnegan’s turn to chuckle.

  “Always the Agency man, huh? Everything’s a secret. Except, apparently, mine. But go ahead with your news bulletin, Dillon. What the hell is so interesting?”

  “I was participating in... well... let’s call it a cash-enhanced discussion with a not-very-nice piece of human trash in a very out-of-the-way part of the world. He was so motivated by money and my other techniques of persuasion that he shared some very interesting views on that research ship, the Ocean Mystery, that went missing. And about a dude you may know, a Samuel Talbot. My talkative friend is convinced that all is not as it appears there. And I have excellent reasons to believe him. The good ship was doing far more than climate research. She was also using some very sophisticated UUVs. And I strongly suggest you might want to look into a Mossad link.”

  Donnegan rubbed his chest hard, thinking before he replied. The admiral did not really know enough about TJ Dillon to completely trust him. But several people the Navy spy chief did know and trust seemed convinced Dillon was straight up. And a valuable asset if he didn’t get his ass killed out there.

  “Well, that is not really surprising. Talbot’s always looked to be somewhere south of shady. The way he lurks back in the shadows. But not so far that he was invisible.”

  Donnegan took a long swig of the antacid. Where the hell was that coffee?

  “Exactly,” Dillon agreed. “He could pretend to be an international man of mystery, doing good works, saving humanity from global warming, while modestly maintaining a low profile. Nobody would expect any ulterior motives. Certainly no intelligence connections. Perfect Mossad cover.”

  “Does your source have any idea what Talbot might be using those UUVs for?” The pain in Donnegan’s chest was now bad enough to force a low groan.

  “Admiral, you okay? You don’t sound so good.”

  “Just a case of heartburn,” Donnegan answered, gritting his teeth. “Damn lunch not agreeing with me. Now, you haven’t answered my question.”

  “The boys at Glilat Ma’arav don’t exactly confide in me. But from their perspective, the Iranians are the only threat with a serious sea-going capability. And a UUV is a great way to sneak up real close and personal without being seen.”

  The Mossad headquarters on the Glilat Ma’arav Interchange, just outside Tel Aviv, was famous for maintaining very tight security. Some said that Einstein’s famous black holes gave off more light than ever came out of those massive gray buildings.

  Donnegan tossed down a handful of the aspirins. Some of the puzzle pieces were falling into place. An Iranian ballistic missile submarine would be an existential threat for Israel. They would do everything within their power to detect it any time it went to sea. And stop it if it became anything near a threat. That line of thought could very well answer the question of who placed the mines that damaged the submarine, but it still left the question of what happened to the research ship and where it might be.

  “And Admiral, that’s all I have to report for now,” Dillon said. “I’m in a good place to pick up some more. And I will. Hopefully before this tinderbox gets lit up and we have to douse it.”

  The fire in Tom Donnegan’s chest flared mightily.

  “Yes,” he said. “Hopefully.”

  Ψ

  “Conn, Sonar, new contact on the towed array broadband, designate Sierra Two-Seven and Sierra Two-Eight. Best bearing zero-one-two or two-eight-eight.” The report was short and concise. This was ST2 SS Joe Drussel’s first qualified watch onboard the USS Toledo. He wanted to get everything precisely correct. After years of listening to tall tales about the legendary sonarman Master Chief Randy Zillich, Drussel was now part of the man’s sonar gang. The young sailor desperately wanted to be worthy of the duty.

  Pat Durand, Toledo’s current officer of the deck, grabbed the 21MC microphone and answered, “Conn, aye. Classification on the contact?”

  Drussel frowned.

  “Conn, Sonar, working classification. Best I can tell so far is it sounds like a heavy. Recommend maneuver to determine bearing ambiguity.” The inexperienced sonarman hoped his voice would not crack.

  Because the towed array was a single long line of hydrophones, it detected contacts in a cone around the array. This resulted in any initial contact being on one of two possible ambiguous bearings, the opposite sides of the cone. The only way to determine the correct bearing was to turn the sub. The bearing in which the contact reappeared would be the correct one.

  “Let’s get a leg first,” Durand replied.

  Drussel smacked his forehead. That made perfect sense. Lt. Durand wanted to stay on this course long enough to get a good, smooth bearing and gather information on the rate of bearing change, then they would maneuver.

  Durand stepped to the after part of the control room and checked the ECDIS navigational display. The bearing for Sierra Two-Seven would put the contact well to the north, probably up near the Iranian coast. The bearing to Sierra Two-Eight was off to the west, deep in the Arabian Sea, where intel said they should expect the Chinese task group. The OOD reached behind himself and grabbed the JA handset.

  “Captain.” Joe Glass answered on the first buzz, but his voice was heavy with sleep.

  “Captain, Officer of the Deck. On course three-three-zero, depth five hundred feet, speed ahead standard. New sonar contact, towed array broadband, Sierra Two-Seven or Sierra Two-Eight. Two-Seven is on bearing zero-one-two. Sierra Two-Eight on bearing two-eight-eight. Only classification is it’s a heavy. I’m getting a first leg now. I plan to stay on this leg until I have a classification and then maneuver to two-four-zero to determine ambiguity while closing Sierra Two-Eight.”

  Glass answered immediately, with absolutely no hint of drowsiness. The skipper had a knack for coming instantly and fully awake.

  “Station the section tracking party. Get a leg, then maneuver. We can classify as we close. We need to determine ambiguity so we know where to hunt if we lose contact.”

  Durand nodded, although the only person who could see him was the quartermaster.

  “Station the section tracking party, get a leg, then determine ambiguity, aye.” But he realized he was speaking to a dead phone.

  �
�Captain in Control!”

  The chief of the watch’s announcement was half a second slow. Joe Glass was standing—fully awake—beside Pat Durand before the junior officer could even replace the JA phone handset into its holder.

  “So, you think he’s off to the west, huh?” Glass grunted as he looked down at the ECDIS display.

  Pat Durand was accustomed to his captain’s ability to suddenly appear in Control, assay the situation, and start asking questions. Good questions.

  “Fifty-fifty chance, sir, but if he is to the west, then there is a good possibility that he is our contact of interest. If he is really to the northeast, then he is probably somebody else.”

  “Good thinking,” Glass responded with an approving nod. “Maybe that head of yours is good for something besides growing hair.” Pat Durand’s head was bald as a billiard ball.

  The two submariners carried on their analysis of the situation as a half dozen more people crowded into the small control room. They quietly manned various monitor positions, bringing the fire control system to full capability. LTjg Bob Ronson rushed in, still rubbing sleep from his eyes, and took his place at the Number 2 ECDIS table, shifting it from navigation mode to tactical mode. Distinct lines showing the bearing from Toledo out in the direction of Sierra Two-Seven and Two-Eight started to appear as the ECDIS began receiving a data feed from the fire control system.

  After a couple of minutes analyzing his information, Ronson called out, “Officer of the Deck, we have a curve. Recommend a maneuver to resolve ambiguity.”

  Durand glanced over at Joe Glass, who nodded. Durand grabbed the 21MC microphone and announced, “Conn, Sonar, coming left to two-four-zero.” His words were quickly followed by, “Helm, left full rudder, steady course two-four-zero.”