Arabian Storm (The Hunter Killer Series Book 5)

by George Wallace

  Lt. Jimmy Wilson stuck his head in Donnegan’s door.

  “Admiral, NSA just called over. They’re having a hell of a tough time breaking the encryption on that hard drive. They say it’s going to take a while.”

  Donnegan made a frustrated growling sound.

  “Why does that not surprise me? I thought they had some new quantum something-or-other that worked a bazillion times faster than a super-computer. They can’t break a simple bit of encryption from a batch of backwater bomb tossers?”

  Wilson held up his hands and shrugged.

  “They say they are using their quantum computer, but they claim there are something like ten-to-the-thirty-second-power combinations they have to try. It could take a couple of days, at least. Unless they get lucky and hit on something early on.”

  “When does that ever happen? Promises, promises. I wonder about those wire-heads sometimes. Guess we have no choice but to sit on our hands and wait.”

  Wilson’s phone suddenly rang, its ringtone a peppy version of “Anchors Aweigh.” His face was noncommittal as he listened then touched the screen to end the call.

  “Ready for some good news, Admiral?”

  “What do you think?” Donnegan idly rubbed his breastbone with the palm of his hand.

  “They’ve gotten far enough to confirm it. It is definitely Nabiin’s computer. Or somebody very close to him. Looks like we got lucky.”

  A slight smile played at Tom Donnegan’s lips.

  “Maybe so. Maybe so.”

  20

  Jin Yun Ming stared at the star-filled night sky, a slight smile on his lips as he exhaled cigarette smoke into the wind. He always enjoyed the warm, arid breeze that blew in from the west, carrying the faint smell of desert, a pleasant contrast to the humid subtropical climate of his home port. It was a beautiful evening and one could almost be convinced he and his ship were the only ones on the surface of the ocean. The only things spoiling an otherwise empty sea were several ships off to the north, plying their way toward the Bab al-Mandab Strait, their lights shimmering and dim.

  Oh, and there was also his own escort, the Type 055 destroyer Nanching, dutifully trailing five kilometers astern.

  Early tomorrow morning he would be bringing his brand-new ship, the amphibious transport dock Mung Shan, into the harbor at Port de Doraleh, Djibouti. Then he could finally offload the eight hundred combat-ready marines and their equipment that he had ferried all the way from Hainan. Ming would certainly be glad to have the loud, smelly bunch off his ship. He smiled again as he contemplated what a strain the marines with their tons of equipment would be on the limited facilities at the tiny PLAN navy base.

  That, of course, was just the latest question Ming would have loved to have answered but dared not ask: why was he carrying so many combat marines halfway around the world, only to drop them off here in this sand-blown corner of nowhere? What could possibly be the purpose of this show of force? But Ming had not risen to command of the Mung Shan by voicing such questions out loud. No, he did as he was told.

  In the darkness, the captain could just make out a few marines on the main deck, five levels below where he stood. They were idly smoking, chatting, and staring at the far horizons, just as marines the world over had done for generations. The faint murmur of their conversations barely reached the bridge, high above them. Ming could imagine the discussions of liberty in a strange port that tomorrow would bring. The voyage had not, after all, been all that pleasant for these men either. And they likely had even less information than Ming did about where they were going or what they would be required to do when they got there.

  Then the peaceful quiet was shattered. Ripsaw bursts of thirty-millimeter cannon fire suddenly tore the peaceful night asunder. It came from the Nanching’s H/P J-11 CIWS seven-barrel Gatling guns. Then, just as suddenly, a bevy of HHQ-10 short range SAMs arrowed across the sky. Explosions wiped out the blanket of stars overhead.

  Ming’s jaw dropped and his eyes widened at the stunning, unexpected fireworks. But he hesitated for only an instant before diving into the wheelhouse and ordering his ship to battle-stations.

  Whatever the Nanching was blasting away at was most certainly a serious threat to his ship.

  The klaxon had only bellowed for a second before the first drone struck. It hit a Super Frelon helicopter that was secured on the transport ship’s helicopter platform. The bird had been fully fueled and readied for a first-light mission as they approached the port. But the explosion from the drone attack sent whirling bits of shrapnel spinning away and flaming jet fuel spreading across the deck.

  Then, as if coordinated by unseen pilots, two more drones dived out of the dark sky and exploded on Mung Shan’s foredeck. Another slammed into the main mast, which crashed over like a giant oak, slamming into the ship’s 76mm gun mount.

  Ming heard the chainsaw sound of his own AK-630 CIWS firing into the black night, hoping to hit whatever was attacking his vessel. Then, yet another drone smashed directly into the bridge and exploded.

  Ming was sent flying out the hatch and slammed into the bridge wing combing.

  Sudden pain, then his world was filled with infinite darkness.

  Ψ

  Joe Glass looked hard at the ECDIS electronic chart. According to the damn display, they should now be about ten thousand yards astern of the Chinese battle group. So where the hell were they? A battle group of that size and at that range should light up the BQQ-10 sonar screens like Times Square on New Year’s Eve. But nary a blip.

  “Sonar, Conn. Report all contacts,” Glass ordered into the 21MC mike.

  “Conn, Sonar. Currently hold four broadband contacts to the northeast, all classified merchants. Hold a noise source as well on bearing two-two-one, not yet classified.” Master Chief Zillich’s reply was quick and concise. But not an answer to the current quandary. They did not hold the battle group on sonar.

  Glass scratched his chin. It appeared that he had guessed wrong and they were way out of position. That—guessing wrong—did not happen very often to Joe Glass and he did not take it well.

  And to make things worse, he now had no idea which way to turn, how to proceed to get them back into position to find the big group they had somehow lost. Frowning, Glass turned to LCDR Billy Ray Jones.

  “What now, XO? Got any bright ideas on how to salvage this mess?”

  Jones stared off into space for just long enough for Glass to wonder if he was still with them. Then he answered.

  “Well, Skipper, sometimes when you’s out a’huntin and you get confused like, you all have to call in the dogs and reassess the strategy. I reckon we’d best come up and tell the boss we lost a ten-point white tail out there in the thicket. Maybe he and all his gadgets and gizmos can tell us what’s hap’nin’.”

  Glass nodded and allowed himself a slight grin. He turned to Pat Durand, the officer of the deck, and ordered him to proceed to periscope depth.

  Ten minutes later, with the Toledo hovering just below the surface and with fresh data aboard, Glass looked at the updated ENTR display. The Chinese battle group was fifty miles to the southwest and moving away at flank speed. Hauling ass.

  “XO, you got any idea what might’ve caused them to high tail it so fast? They certainly aren’t waiting around for their diesel boat to catch up to them.”

  Jones nodded as he pointed to the intel report on his notepad.

  “This just might explain it. Some terrorist group is on the move big time. We’ve got reports here of a major missile attack on the Chinese Navy Base at Djibouti. Most of the facility is destroyed with major casualties, and they also have an LPD on fire just off the coast. That must be what got their attention.”

  “Damn!” Glass said with a grunt. “Sure is heating up around here.”

  “That ain’t the half of it,” Jones went on. “Looks like they weren’t satisfied with just hitting the Chinese.” He looked up from the screen with a frown. “Our base at Camp Lemonnier got hit, too. More than a dozen
missiles.”

  Camp Lemonnier was headquarters for the Combined Joint Task Force – Horn of Africa of the US Africa Command.

  “Somebody is taking an exception to us being in the neighborhood,” Glass speculated.

  Jones flipped to the next screen. “Skipper, it looks like we’ve got ourselves some new orders. We are to make best tactical speed down to the Gulf of Aden and set up an operational box down there to see if we can figure out what’s going on. They must figure this is the beginning of something, not the end.”

  “Okay. Tell the boss it’s going to take us two days to get there. Meanwhile, let’s get back down where we belong and haul ass.”

  Ψ

  Shaikh Babar Khalid—better known as Nabiin, the Prophet—never really felt comfortable when he ventured away from his mountain hideaway. Up there, where he could control any information that came in or went out, he knew that the chances of anyone finding or targeting him were very small. Down here, away from the mountain lair, amongst the people, even his faithful followers, it was so much more dangerous. Still, he knew that he really had no other choice. Not if he was to live out his destiny.

  Allah willed that Nabiin take command and lead the faithful through the fitnah, the End Times, and into the awm al-Qiyamah, the Day of Resurrection. He had certainly seen the abundance of corruption and evil all around him. The pestilence that the hadith promised would be the unmistakable signs of the coming fitnah. Now, comfortable or not, in danger or no, Nabiin would be required to complete what he had been commanded to begin.

  The helicopter ride down from his secure cave headquarters to the military base outside Karachi had been uneventful. He had passed much of the time in prayer. The nightly shuttles of cars, buses, and trucks along the rest of the journey had been tiring but peaceful until they finally arrived in Chabahar. Iran was very different from Pakistan. Chabahar was far more cosmopolitan than the high mountain villages that had been Nabiin’s life for the last decade or more. Much noisier and more disturbing. He found the constant hustle and bustle made prayer impossible. And the danger was very much greater.

  From Chabahar, an Iranian Republican Guard officer took charge of moving the Prophet clandestinely across to Al Ghaydah on the Yemen coast. His squad hustled Nabiin’s group aboard a nondescript motorized dhow for the overwater leg of the journey. This stretch concerned Nabiin more than any other for here he was at the mercy of the American Navy. One wrong move, one chance encounter, and the years of planning would be at an end.

  The dhow departed Chabahar as the sun was slipping below the western horizon. Within minutes the tiny ship with its secretive passengers became just one among the hundreds of fishing craft moving out into the Arabian Sea. Nabiin and his personal guards slipped below decks to find a comfortable place to sleep.

  Dawn found the craft a couple of miles off Jalan Bani Buhassan, on the Omani coast. The gray-brown, wind-buffeted coast contrasted sharply with the crystal-blue water. The sky could not seem to decide whether to match the dun land or the blue water. It settled on a startling blue overhead but changed slowly to a muddy tan on the horizon. The only other ships anywhere in sight were vessels similar to this one, either fishing or carrying cargo up and down the coast just as they had for the last thousand years.

  Nabiin said his morning prayers and then settled back to patiently wait for the day to unfold.

  By mid-afternoon, as they were abreast of Masirah Island, the sun was beating down without mercy on the dhow’s open deck. The Prophet was still below decks seeking shelter from the sun when the vessel’s master called down, urging him to come topside. He was pointing excitedly toward the coast. A gray ship—obviously a gunboat—was just emerging from behind Masirah Island and heading directly for an intersecting point. The approaching vessel threw up a large white wake as it picked up speed. The Royal Omani Navy ensign snapped sharply in the breeze.

  There was no hope of running to escape. The gunboat was far too fast for that. And the menacing 76mm cannon on the approaching vessel’s deck meant there was little chance of fighting their way out of this predicament.

  Nabiin turned to the dhow’s master.

  “Stop and do not resist. Allah will protect us from our enemies.”

  The gunboat pulled alongside the much smaller dhow and matched its slower pace. A boarding party of six men, dressed in combat fatigues and heavily armed, leaped from the gunboat, their weapons pointed directly at the master and Nabiin. The boarding team’s leader addressed the master.

  “We have information that an important Shia terrorist is attempting to escape from Pakistan. Our orders are to search any suspicious vessel and find this man whose name is Shaikh Babar Khalid. He calls himself Nabiin, the Prophet.”

  The master shook his head vigorously, his hands spread in denial. “We have seen no one. We are only poor fishermen out to feed our families. Search our ship if you must, but you will find nothing. Our nets have remained empty so far this trip and we continue to look for something—anything—with which to return home to Chabahar.”

  The team leader shook his head as he looked about the pitiful vessel with disdain.

  “There is no reason to bother you. No Shia leader would humble himself to travel on this scow. If you see anything as you search for fish, you must call us immediately. This man has caused much death already and the Americans are offering a large reward. Enough to feed your miserable family for the rest of their lives.”

  The master bobbed his head and replied, “In sha Allah, his mercy would be great for such a gift.”

  The boarding team had already lowered their weapons. Now they jumped back aboard the gunboat. With a dismissing wave from the boarding team leader, the boat roared away, back toward land.

  Nabiin watched as the threat became little more than a dot on the horizon.

  “It is as I have said. Allah is truly powerful and shielded us from his enemies. He will blind them to the truth and continue to weaken them for our ultimate victory.”

  Still, Nabiin had a sour look on his bearded face. How did the Americans—or anyone else—know that he was on the move? And why would they care?

  Late the next day, the dhow pulled beside the little-used fishing pier at Al Ghaydah and off-loaded Nabiin and his men without any further problems. Then more buses, trucks, and cars took him down to the tiny port of Sayhut.

  Nabiin emerged from the last bus in the caravan and stepped out onto the rickety pier. Above him, the clear night sky was littered with a patchwork of desert stars. Behind him, a few lights flickered through the narrow windows of the mud and stone buildings, the only structures in this poor, remote outpost.

  The Prophet stepped gingerly from the pier and onto the high-speed gunboat that bobbed gently in the rising tide. A short, stout man dressed in khakis and wearing two silver stars on his collar reached up to steady Nabiin as he stepped across.

  “General Babak, how nice of you to personally come down to meet me,” Nabiin told him. “Surely you have far more impending tasks to give attention to tonight. Much more important than attending me.”

  The leader of the Houthi rebels made a slight bow.

  “My master, what could be more important than seeing that you arrive safely at your new command center. The ride will be no more than a couple of hours. And I am pleased to be able to report to you that all is going according to your plans. Even al-Wasragi’s attacks on the Chinese and American bases were more successful than we could ever have hoped.”

  “In sha Allah,” Nabiin replied with the slightest nod of approval.

  The gunboat backed away from the pier, spun around in its own length, and then shot, arrow straight, out into the Gulf of Aden. Nabiin hung on tightly to the handholds as the boat bounced from wavetop to wavetop.

  It was still an hour before sunrise when radar on the boat picked up a lone target steaming slowly to the northeast.

  Then, as both Nabiin and General Babak gazed through their binoculars at the horizon, a dirty, dark gray ship s
lowly became visible. Squat and ugly, the unprepossessing vessel did not seem worthy of even a second glance. And certainly not the joy its approach brought to the faces of both men.

  “So this is the Ocean Mystery,” Nabiin said admiringly. “She looks so very different.” An expression of pride captured the terrorist’s face. “She will serve very nicely for my new command ship. From this ark, we shall soon change the course of history. You have done well, General Babak. You have done well.”

  21

  Captain Yon Hun Glo was beside himself with embarrassment and anger. He had just driven the best submarine in the People’s Liberation Army Navy—his boat, the Changcheng Wushiwu—all the way across the Arabian Sea to add its immense and stealthy power to the PLAN battlegroup, steaming on their way to avenge the unwarranted attacks on defenseless Chinese ships. Operations only became more intense and crucial with the vicious, deadly attack on China’s base at Djibouti by what were certainly Iranian-supported terrorists. It had been a grueling three-day journey of more than fifteen hundred kilometers, running the diesel almost the entire time. Anyone in the entire ocean with the most basic ASW sonar would surely know exactly where, what, and who he was.

  All of that wasted time and effort, the sacrifice of stealth, only to be told when he finally arrived that he was to stand by and wait. Twiddle his thumbs while the battlegroup ran off to do some important mission, the exact nature of which he was not deemed important enough to know. To be treated like a youngster wanting to play with the big kids.

  So it was that he was now left here, a couple of hundred kilometers off the coast of Oman, while the battlegroup raced at flank speed down to Djibouti, almost certainly to protect the base there. Maybe to punish the terrorists who dared attack this outpost of the Chinese government. Yon’s only orders were to wait for the real fighting ships to return and then protect them from anyone who might pursue them.