Arabian Storm (The Hunter Killer Series Book 5)

by George Wallace

  Talbot rushed out of the control center before the technician could even hazard a guess. As he typically did, Samuel Talbot assayed a situation, came to a conclusion, and acted. Such lack of hesitation and avoidance of over-analyzation had stood him in good stead in his business dealings. And had proved even more of an advantage in his current activities.

  He knew he had to get resources down into the Gulf of Aden very quickly. Very quietly, too. If the satellite had heard the pinger, someone else might have detected it as well.

  And that someone might be a thousand miles closer than his assets were.

  Ψ

  “Conn, Sonar. New passive broadband contact on the towed array,” STS2 Joe Drussel reported over the 21MC of the submarine USS Toledo. “Designate Sierra Three-Three, best bearing three-zero-five, and Sierra Three-Four, best bearing three-five-five. No classification yet.”

  Pat Durand punched up the towed array passive broadband display on the BQQ-10 remote console on the conn. Sure enough, the barest hint of a trace was just starting to appear. But was it the Chinese battlegroup or just another tramp steamer making its way across this stretch of the Indian Ocean? Only one way to find out.

  Durand ordered the chief of the watch to station the section tracking party as he reached for the JA phone to call the captain. He had just hit the buzzer as he heard the 1MC announcement, “Station the Section Tracking Party.”

  Joe Glass answered on the first buzz. “What do you have, Mr. Durand? Same guy as yesterday?”

  “Don’t know yet, Skipper,” Durand answered. “Still getting a curve and classifying a new contact, passive broadband on the towed array. Best bearings three-zero-five and three-five-five. Same general direction as yesterday, so...”

  “Let’s see if we can hold him this time. At least through one maneuver. Okay?”

  But then the 4MC Emergency Announcing system blasted out a message. One that immediately stopped the conversation. And everything else aboard the submarine.

  “Fire! Fire in Machinery One! Fire in number one burner!”

  Pat Durand was just starting to tell the chief of the watch, Chief Johannson, to announce the fire, but the portly A-gang chief had already initiated the General Alarm. Just as the clanging alarm stopped, he announced over the 1MC, “Fire! Fire in Machinery One. Rig ship for fire! Fire in number one burner! All hands don EABs!”

  Easily one of the worst fears of any submariner, fire and smoke while submerged could be deadly. And on a submarine, there was no escape.

  Joe Glass ran into the control room, pulling on his emergency air breathing mask as he crossed the few feet to the periscope stand.

  Chief Johannson flicked up switches on the ballast control panel to line up the pressurized depth control tank to the trim system discharge header. That would put pressurized seawater at all the fire hose connections. Then the chief announced over the 1MC, “The fire main is pressurized.”

  All this had been practiced over and over again. For Toledo and her crew, this was the first time it was for real.

  As if to confirm it, wisps of gray smoke were already snaking up into the control room, quickly filling the confined space with a dense, dark cloud. Watch-standers grabbed EABs, cinching them tightly before drawing deeply on the clean air. Ventilation fans spun down and dampers clanged shut as the boat was rigged to prevent the fire and smoke from spreading. Or at least as much as possible. Emergency lighting blinked on, providing only a little help in penetrating the growing gloom.

  The 4MC blared, “This is the XO. I am in charge at the scene.”

  Billy Ray Jones’s voice was heavily muffled by his mask. He had to pause after every few words to breathe. “Fire hose team from torpedo room proceed to Machinery One.”

  “Mr. Durand,” Glass ordered, “Come to one-five-zero feet, clear baffles and make preparations to come to periscope depth.”

  If they could not quickly control the fire and smoke, they would have no choice but to surface. In any case, they would need to ventilate to clear the smoke overboard once the fire was out.

  Billy Ray Jones pulled the flame-resistant hood down over his EAB as he pushed back into the tiny laundry space to make room for the four-man fire hose team to get past him and into Machinery One. Thick black smoke made it impossible for him to even see his own hands. He struggled to blindly pull on his firefighting gloves.

  “Fire has spread from the burner to hull insulation,” the fire hose team leader yelled. The smoke was far too thick for Jones to see who the man was.

  Someone else brushed against Jones and said, “XO, I’ve manned the phones with control and told them that the fire is spreading to hull insulation.”

  The heat and black smoke were stifling. This was the worst part of submarining. There was no safe place to go anywhere on the boat. They had to put the fire out and clear the smoke. There was no other option.

  Jones grabbed his phone talker to pull him close.

  “To the damage control team, send a fire hose team from the mess decks to Machinery One through the aft hatch. To Maneuvering, isolate electrical power to Machinery One.”

  Seconds later, he heard over the 1MC, “Fire hose team is entering Machinery One from aft. Machinery One is electrically isolated.”

  Well, at least any electrical fire had lost power and it was reasonably safe now to spray water. But a hull insulation fire was particularly horrid. The heavy plastic-like material—sometimes soaked with oil from nearby machinery—gave off a very nasty and potentially toxic black smoke. Once the immediate flames were extinguished, the insulation had to be pulled and scraped free from the hull, then dunked in buckets of water to keep it from bursting into flames again.

  Jesus, Jones thought. This will damn sure be a long, hard, hot morning!

  The two fire hose teams moved against the fire, spraying a mist of cooling, smothering water on the flames. The cramped space made movement particularly difficult. The rock-hard, pressurized fire hose was all but impossible to wrestle around to get better access to the fire. It was tough, demanding work in a very hot environment. Five or ten minutes was about all anyone could do before he became exhausted and had to be relieved.

  One by one, Jones sent in new people to spell the exhausted firefighters. At the same time, the XO counted the relieved men as they groped their way back out to collapse in the relative safety of the torpedo room. Keeping careful track of everyone entering and leaving was vitally important. It was far too easy for someone to get injured and then lost in the smoke and confusion.

  Finally, the fire hose team leader called out, “The fire is out. Stationing the reflash watch.”

  Almost immediately the order came over the 1MC: “Prepare to emergency ventilate the operations compartment with the low-pressure blower.”

  Jones grabbed his phone talker and moved into Machinery One. The fire might be out but there was important work to do, determining what was damaged and what could be fixed. And that work needed to start quickly, before the saltwater they used to fight the fire could leak into the delicate electronics.

  The boat’s gentle rocking motion told Jones that they were at periscope depth. The 1MC blasted, “Commence ventilating.” The low-pressure blower, a very large exhaust fan, quickly sucked out the smoke and discharged it overboard. Jones and his exhausted firefighters removed their EABs and sucked in the clean, fresh sea air.

  While the firefighting teams re-stowed their damage control equipment, Walt Smith, the Toledo’s engineer, arrived with a team of technicians to survey the blackened and fire-damaged equipment.

  Jones slumped down on a chair, more exhausted than he could ever recall. He looked up to see Joe Glass, his poopie suit sopping wet with sweat, smoky grit streaking his face.

  “Damn, Skipper, that was close,” the XO said wearily. “I hate fires. Unless they’re under some kind of barbecued pig.”

  Glass was still forming a reply when Walt Smith stepped up.

  “Skipper, XO, I have some bad news. Looks like both bur
ners are gone. Don’t know about the scrubbers yet. The diesel might have some damage, too. We won’t know until we can disassemble and inspect.”

  “Damn,” Glass responded with a grunt. “Any idea what caused the fire?”

  “Best we can tell is that number one burner had an electrical fault,” Smith answered. “Looks like that caught some rags on fire and then it spread from there. Now, I got to finish the inspections, de-water, and wipe everything down. Then it’s time to figure out how to fix all this.”

  “Thanks, Eng,” Glass replied. “I know you and your guys will do your best.” He turned to Jones. “XO, don’t we have a contact wandering around out there?”

  The exec looked puzzled for an instant.

  “Yeah, I guess we kind of got sidetracked.”

  “Suggest we get un-sidetracked.”

  Jones nodded and climbed tiredly to his feet.

  Ψ

  Norman Rothbert sighed wearily. A hell of a day. A long day. Even longer and more hellish than normal. From his Lower Manhattan penthouse corner office, he could see the sea of lights across the Hudson, in Jersey City. Over the other shoulder, Brooklyn. Someone in his lofty position, someone with his name on the door and the corner office, should not have to work such long hours.

  Nadine would be asleep, but she would wake up long enough to let him know her displeasure with his lateness.

  Tell it to the furrier and the jeweler and the plastic surgeon, he thought, each of whom she showered with the money he brought home in exchange for laboring into the night.

  He angrily snapped shut his briefcase, hoisted it, and headed for the door. A couple of young associates still slaved away in the Starling-Rothbert bullpen, doubtless monitoring some market where it was already tomorrow. Both made certain to loudly tell Rothbert good night, clearly to make certain the boss took note of their diligence and dedication to the firm.

  He did not give them the pleasure of that acknowledgement. The banker had other things on his mind.

  It had now been weeks since he had received any transaction orders from Shaikh Khalid. Or, as he now insisted on being called, the Prophet. So disappointingly long now that it had been noticed by Rothbert’s partner. So long the effect of the non-activity had been reflected on the firm’s bottom line. Their best customer had suddenly and mysteriously gone stagnant.

  I will attempt to contact him tomorrow, Rothbert thought as he waited for the elevator to glide up to the 50th floor. Whether the son of a bitch wants to hear from me or not. Total lack of courtesy and a violation of business ethics. If there is a problem...

  With a ding, the elevator arrived, and its doors swooshed open. There was someone in the car, in the back corner, but Rothbert was so deep in his thoughts of the Prophet and his unsettling visit to the man’s mountain lair in Pakistan and the back-breaking amount of work he had done for the freakish guy since that trip—work that could have led to God-knows-what troubles if there had been even the tiniest of slipups—that he hardly noticed his fellow lift passenger. Or wondered why he would ride up to the top floor of the building and then back down again.

  Rothbert did not even bother to nod to the man as he stepped into the elevator and the door closed.

  “The Prophet is grateful for your work on behalf of his network,” the passenger said as Rothbert hit the “1” button.

  “Excuse me?”

  In one move, the man touched the button for the 10th floor, lifted his other hand, and inserted a hypodermic needle into Norman Rothbert’s jugular.

  The door opened as requested at the 10th floor. The man stepped out into an empty hallway lined with identical doors in both directions.

  Rothbert stood there, stunned, a questioning look on his face. Then the banker slumped heavily to the floor as the mysterious man walked away and the elevator door closed.

  The medical examiner would later determine the cause of death to be an embolism, likely caused from overwork and stress.

  Others would consider the demise of Norman Rothbert to be a loose end now properly tied up.

  17

  Bill Beaman was one frustrated dude! He and Abdul, his Pashtun guide, had already spent weeks traipsing all over the Hindu Kush looking for any possible clues or signs to point them toward the elusive, phantom-like Nabiin, the shadowy figure who called himself the Prophet. Beaman had joined the Navy and put in for SEAL training to go after bad guys. And he had come out of blissful retirement at the request of Tom Donnegan to hunt down an especially despicable one of the species. So far, though, all the training required to perform this mission had been gained while marching around the quad on drill days back in college ROTC. One foot in front of the other. Don’t march into something solid. Or into the middle of a flag football game over near the bell tower.

  The retired SEAL was about to conclude the Prophet was hiding out with the Yeti and the Abominable Snowman. Maybe they had met up with Santa Claus and were playing high-stakes poker up at the North Pole.

  But Beaman understood that there were instances in which an experienced, alert, inquisitive human being on the ground could learn far more than high-resolution eyes from outer space could see. Or that big ears monitoring the radio-frequency spectrum could possibly hear. He and Abdul had eventually worked their way south into the Sulaiman Mountains in what had so far been a futile search. The central Pakistan government had long ago given up hope of exercising their will over this trackless frontier. They simply labeled it as “Tribal Lands” and let whatever strongman who could manage to do so grab power at the point of a gun.

  Beaman grunted and slowly stood, stretching his tired legs and scratching his dirty beard. He could only take consolation in knowing that there being no hint of the Prophet’s presence here had some value to those who needed to know. Some minimal value.

  At least we know where he ain’t, Beaman thought.

  His resting place was high up on the side of a peak named Takht-e-Sulaiman, the famous “Throne of Solomon.” Legend had it that King Solomon himself had climbed this mountain and looked down on what was now India. All was darkness so Solomon turned his back on the region. Well, it was getting dark now and nearly time for Bill Beaman to resume his wild goose chase.

  The rude campsite was barely more than a couple of square yards of relatively flat ground on a trail that was precipitously strung along near-vertical rock walls. Abdul had hiked away a couple of hours ago in search of food and, if possible, information. No matter where they ventured, Abdul seemed to have an uncanny knack for finding some shepherd or traveler with supplies to share. And, sometimes, a tiny bit of gossip. But this time it would be a challenge to locate either. The pair had hiked since well before sunrise and had seen no signs of human habitation or activity along the way. The area—though contained in the region they had been told to cover, based on strong intelligence—was truly desolate. The tiny village of Darazinda was the closest thing to civilization anywhere around, and it was several kilometers on the other side of the mountain and a few thousand meters lower down the slope.

  Beaman was just about to begin exploring a little farther up the trail when he heard a faint, far-off mechanical noise. No freeway or airfield up here. But the noise increased in intensity as it drew nearer. Then it resolved itself into the steady beat of a heavy military helicopter that seemed to be approaching from somewhere below him and beyond a bend in the path.

  Beaman ducked behind a boulder but peered carefully up and over it. There was no reason for a chopper to be way up here.

  Then he saw it rise above the lip of the cliff and proceed almost straight ahead, as if the pilot knew exactly where he was going. It was a mud-brown, camouflage-decorated AW-139 transport helicopter bearing the distinctive green and white roundel of the Pakistani Air Force. The craft flashed past Beaman, much closer than he would have preferred. He ducked until it was by him. It was flying low, hugging the mountainside.

  Beaman again raised his head just enough to watch but tried to stay in the deep shadows cast
by the setting sun. Damn, it was curious! A PAF helicopter, flying a covert, nap-of-the-earth flight profile, way up here at this altitude and distance from anything worth protecting or hiding from. No, way up here, their biggest threat was crashing into some rocky outcrop or being buffeted by a sudden wind gust. Not having to maneuver to avoid anti-aircraft fire.

  Beaman grabbed his binoculars and watched as the big helicopter banked steeply around a very narrow ridgeline. Then it flared out to hover over a slight shelf on a bluff across the valley from him. A shelf too slim for the chopper to set down.

  But then, Beaman could see a dozen men—all clearly armed—dressed in native garb. They broke from cover and rushed toward the hovering bird, almost as if they were being chased. As four members of the group were lifted and pulled up into the transport, the others fanned out and took defensive positions, looking and waving their rifle barrels in all directions. Then the helicopter quickly banked away and retraced its flight path directly over where Bill Beaman tried to make himself invisible. Finally, it roared its way back down the valley and out of sight.

  The armed men, crouched low to avoid the bird’s prop wash, were already sprinting back into the shadows to promptly become lost from sight among the rocks.

  Beaman shook his head. What in hell had he just seen?

  He quickly took a bearing on the clandestine rendezvous point and locked it into his GPS. Something like what he had just witnessed, happening in this forgotten part of the world, was certainly worth closer investigation. And required sharing with his bosses. Soonest.

  He packed up what few meager supplies they had left and slid back deeper into the darkness and cover of the boulders to wait for Abdul. They needed to get moving. The pair would not be camping here tonight. Once it was fully dark, they would begin a long, hard hike to get across the valley. To get closer to where he had just seen the helicopter pick up some warriors while others hurried to hide themselves from whatever birds might be passing overhead.