Arabian Storm (The Hunter Killer Series Book 5)

by George Wallace

  But the American? That would be of considerably more consequence. He might well be hailed as a hero for destroying both “threats” to his country’s warships in international waters. Or, just as likely, Yon would be shot for trying to start World War III.

  After much thought in the confines of his stateroom, Yon ultimately decided that discretion was the better course. He would report attacking the Kilo, but remain silent about the unintended attack. Allow the world to come to its own conclusions. By the time he returned home, and after the experts had done their own analysis of his tapes, the tragic loss of an American submarine with all hands would be old news.

  22

  The puzzle pieces were starting to fall into place. Admiral Tom Donnegan was now convinced that he was seeing the barest hints of a pattern beginning to form based on all the information being assembled. Making sense of seemingly unrelated datapoints was a knack that had paid off many times for the Navy’s top spook. And a good reason he was still doing the job long after most men his age had retired to a fishing spot or golf course.

  But, as Donnegan often reminded himself, there had been other times when that sixth sense had not been so acute. Times that cost men and women their lives and his nation its advantage. But he also knew that in this game, there was no opportunity to replay the fourth quarter. He could only learn from mistakes and keep the impact of the unknowns negligible. And no second-guessing himself or anyone else.

  Finally, after almost a week, NSA’s high-powered quantum computers had cracked Nabiin’s encrypted hard drive. That set a new Agency record for frustration. For a wild-eyed terrorist, this Prophet guy certainly had some sophisticated algorithms.

  The analysts were now busy trying to make sense of what appeared to mostly be rants and ravings. Mounds of screed about the “End Times.” Pages of fulminating on the subject of something called the “Al-Mulhama Al-Kubra,” the “great battle,” the culmination of a chain of events that the Prophet believed had already begun worldwide. And apparently this Nabiin character considered himself to be the “guide” for someone else. Someone called “Al Mahdi.” Or perhaps the lunatic believed himself to actually be this Al Mahdi character. None of this made much sense to analysts accustomed to a very different type of radical, mostly tribal militant more obsessed with blowing up infidels or slashing innocent tourists than the finer points of violent theology.

  Donnegan looked over the summary one more time, idly scratching his chin. He had a theory about such men. The more obscure and intense their beliefs, the more dangerous they were. Such obsession led to unpredictability. And unpredictability was far more dangerous than the usual wild-eyed doctrine.

  Most of the more recent ranting seemed to be about someone called Masin ad-Dajjal, a devil who had risen to become the leader of two bloodthirsty, evil tribes called the Ya’jooj and the Ma’jooj. These groups appeared to be Nabiin’s real enemies, the focus of his rage. And as nearly as the analysts could determine, the guy had decided that the Ya’jooj and the Ma’jooj were the United States and either Israel or China. Or possibly the US had been lumped into Ya’jooj along with Israel… In that case, China was more likely the other sworn enemy.

  None of this was clear. But it all scared the bejesus out of Admiral Tom Donnegan.

  This Nabiin guy was a certifiable nut case all right. He appeared to accept that it was his sacred duty to start a major war, an Armageddon, a vicious conflict that would involve both the East and the West. If he could piss them both off enough to ignite a global battle, the Al-Mulhama Al-Kubra would happen. In his twisted mind, such massive death and destruction would instigate the Yawm ad-Din, the Day of Judgment, and then the next step, the Yawm al-Qiyamah, the Day of Resurrection.

  Donnegan shook his head and yelled for his aide. Lieutenant Jimmy Wilson opened the office door and stuck his head in. Such a summons could involve something as innocent as replenishing the admiral’s coffee cup, or it could be setting into motion massive movements of troops and warships.

  “Jimmy, get me someone real good with the Quran and Islamic eschatology,” Donnegan shouted. “Maybe one of those guys over at Georgetown we’ve used before.”

  “‘Escha’ what?” the young aide stammered, confused. “Admiral, where did you come up with that one?”

  “Eschatology?” Donnegan responded, still reading the summary. “It means their view of their ultimate destiny, how mankind ends. I can use that internet thing just like you young squirts, okay?”

  But Wilson had already gone to do the admiral’s bidding.

  Ψ

  Jim Ward sat back and tried to find a resting position in which nothing hurt on his battered body. Even if that were possible, sleep would be fleeting, what with the din of the CV-22 at full throttle. The young SEAL team leader glanced around the cabin and saw that his men, despite their fatigue, were also struggling to get any shut-eye.

  A week of reconnoitering the boonies of lovely northern Somalia, trying to learn anything they could about who might have been responsible for the launch of the vicious missile attack on Camp Lemonnier, had left them sore and tired. And very frustrated. Seven long days of heat, bugs, nettles, scorpions, and snakes and nothing to show for it.

  Well, they had located a patch of burnt sand where the missiles had been fired. Had it not been for the dust storm in the area, the satellites could have seen that as easily as the SEALs had. Of course, whoever had catapulted the deadly weapons toward the US base were long gone by the time the dust cleared and the SEALs showed up. The thugs had been kind enough to not leave a trace of evidence, either. And Ward’s team had nothing to show for their hike but sore muscles, sunburn, and bug bites.

  That and a powerful craving for a long stack of flapjacks with real maple syrup. The guys had talked of little else since they were picked up, and now they had breakfast in their sights.

  Outside the CV-22 Osprey, the night was pitch black. Not even a star winked at them. The darkened landscape flashed by just a scant few feet below the aircraft. Not a light down there either. The pilot was flying down in the dirt, limiting the chances for prying eyes to spot them and share with the bad guys what they had seen.

  Ward’s headset, plugged into the aircraft communication system, crackled to life just as he was on the verge of falling asleep.

  “Lieutenant, we’re diverting. Home base is under attack again. Missiles coming in from the south, not far from where we are right now.”

  “Any idea what’s close by? A town?”

  “Yeah, the surveillance weenies pinpointed some goat ranch named Weeraar. Check your Fodors. Looks like a real Somalian garden spot. We’re to set you and your intrepid team of world beaters down about five miles out and then back off and stand by while you meander in.”

  Ward tapped his throat mike again.

  “You got coordinates on this place?”

  “Sure. Take a look at ten dot thirty-seven north, forty-three dot forty-three east.”

  Ward punched the lat-long into his mission laptop. The satellite pictures showed desolate landscape, dirt and rocks. A veritable moonscape.

  “Hey, Flyboy, that’s some really rugged terrain. We’re on the backside of the Karkaar Mountains. A five-mile hike over that scrub land is gonna take a while. By the time we get to this Weeraar place, any bad guys will be long gone.”

  “That’s how JSOTF orders read,” the co-pilot shot back. “You got a better idea?”

  The Joint Special Operations Task Force controlled all the missions in the northeastern part of the African continent. Any mission changes had to be approved by them. Only problem was, the people who could do that were in Camp Lemonnier. Most likely, at the moment, they were ducking incoming missiles.

  Ward zoomed the tablet’s photo resolution in close and scanned the topography. He immediately saw something that he liked. It reminded him of a training mission he had conducted with his mentor, Jim Beaman, one dark night in the Mojave Desert somewhere northwest of Las Vegas.

  “Yeah, as a
matter of fact, I do. There’s a wadi about a mile out from your garden spot. Hidden behind a pretty elevated ridgeline. You could fly in real low and nobody will be likely to see you dropping us off. We’ll double-time up to the ridgetop and take a gander at what’s going on.”

  “Long as you take the blame if we put a dent in this ninety-million-dollar jalopy.”

  “Reckon you could conjure up some air cover for us?”

  “They’ve already scrambled some F-15s to try to get to the missile launchers, but ETA is likely a half hour or so.”

  “Cool. You stay out of their way, okay?”

  “We’ll try our damndest.”

  “And don’t forget to come on back for your good friends, the SEALs.”

  Master Chief Johnston sidled over to where young Ward sat, still studying the laptop display.

  “Something going on, boss? You been doing a lot of jawing just to be planning an Air Force–Navy beach volleyball game.”

  “Yeah, Master Chief,” Ward answered. “Get the guys up and ready. We’re going to take ourselves a little late evening stroll through the desert.”

  The scrub brush flashed by on either side as the CV-22 followed the serpentine wadi, down so low that the huge prop-rotors threw up a thick cloud of dust behind them. The steep walls of the ravine towered high on either side above the fast-moving aircraft, offering the best cover they could hope for out here. With one final hard jink to the left, the Osprey transitioned into a hover, then gently landed on the stony, sandy ground at the wadi’s floor. Ward’s team barely had time to bail out into the dust cloud before the bird lifted off, rotated, and headed back up the valley.

  “Guess they’re in a hurry to get back to their nice warm bunkies,” Tony Martinelli whispered as he watched their ride disappear in the dust and the dark.

  “Martinelli, why don’t you pick up that Barrett and be headin’ up that ridge over there,” Master Chief Johnston told him, pointing to a narrow goat trail that wound up the steep slope to the west.

  The rest of the team, as instructed, started off at a quick pace, following him. Their night-vision goggles made trekking through the pitch blackness relatively easy. It was a good thing. The terrain was big-time rugged.

  Jason Hall took the point while Skip Cantrell, Doug Broughton, Joe Dumkowski, and Martinelli spread out about ten yards apart. Johnston walked beside Ward for a few paces.

  “Skipper, what’s the play here? I don’t like not having a chance to plan a mission a little better than just jumping off a perfectly good plane and running up a hill. That sounds more like Marine planning to me.”

  “Master Chief, sometimes Marine planning is all you have time for,” Ward answered with a grin. “Home base is under attack again. JSOTF says the missiles are coming from just over that ridge. Our good luck we were in the neighborhood. We need to get there in time to put a stop to this shit.”

  It took the SEALs ten minutes to climb to the ridgetop. On their bellies, peeking through the scrub brush, Ward and his men had a clear view across the flat plateau to where a few rude huts sat, dark against the horizon. He estimated they were about a mile away.

  Just then, a brilliant streak of light flashed up from near the huts, briefly illuminating the scene. The flash had come from the back of a pickup truck and then arced off to the north, burning a line across the night sky.

  Ward could also see a half dozen more trucks, also with launchers in their beds. Some had birds ready to fly. Men were hustling to reload a couple more.

  “Martinelli, get that Barrett in action right now,” Ward ordered. “Take out as many of those launchers as you can. Every bird they get off is another shot they gotta dodge back at home base.” He slid over near another member of the SEAL team. “Hall, get on the horn and check on our air support. See if those F-15s are anywhere close by yet.”

  Ward had barely finished when the fifty-caliber sniper rifle roared out its first shot. Two seconds later, one of the trucks disappeared in a roaring, rolling explosion that lit up the plateau like daylight and echoed down the wadi behind the SEAL team. Martinelli shifted his aim point ever so slightly and fired again. Another two-second pause and then a second rumbling blast.

  While Martinelli was busy picking off missiles, Master Chief Johnston moved Broughton, Cantrell, and Dumkowski into a defensive cordon.

  The Barrett fifty caliber roared again. And another missile with its launcher disappeared in a brilliant explosion.

  “Skipper,” Hall called out, “Eagle two is rolling in hot. He holds us on his geo screen. Five seconds out.”

  “Our pizzas are here, guys,” Ward reported.

  Suddenly, the entire hilltop where the trucks had been hurling missiles disappeared in a blinding blast of light and thunder. Only then did the SEALs see the F-15 fly directly overhead at two thousand feet, doing a victory roll, and then head with a roar toward the horizon.

  “Eagle two’s clear,” Hall reported. “He’s heading home. Eagle four is standing by at angels twenty-five.”

  The second F-15 was hanging around far above their position, just in case they needed more help.

  Ward watched the hilltop burn for a few moments. No sign of life over there anymore. Now it would be their task to go over and look around what was left, to see if there was anything to mop up.

  “Martinelli, you and Hall stay here and cover us. Master Chief, let’s head over there and see if we can find some Easter eggs.”

  It took the SEALs almost half an hour to cross the mile of scrub brush. They still had to be vigilant, aware of any possible ambush or booby traps. Once they were at the edge of the burned-out piles of debris, they still watched and waited for another thirty minutes, partly to make sure nobody else might have been attracted to all the fireworks and partly to let the flames die back enough so they could get close. By the time the eastern sky was glimmering pink and gold, Ward was comfortable that no one else was around to give them a rude welcome. He alerted Martinelli and Hall that they would be moving to the destruction zone.

  The team spent the next couple of hours searching the wreckage for anything of intelligence value. Nothing. Just charred metal, bloody body parts, and bits of what had most recently been several goatherder shacks.

  Then Doug Broughton found the body off in the brush. The only body intact enough to tell it had once been human.

  “Skipper, got something,” he tersely reported.

  Ward started his way. “What you got?”

  “A body. Looks like he dragged himself off into the brush before he bought it.”

  “Don’t touch him. Never know.”

  The two SEALs examined the body closely but saw no evidence of a booby trap.

  “Hey, boss, I think he’s still alive,” Broughton called out. “Got a pulse, but not much of one. Help me get a tourniquet on this leg before he bleeds out totally.”

  The two SEALs worked to apply emergency aid to the critically injured terrorist. They finally got the bleeding under control and could not find any immediate signs of other injuries.

  “He’s got a notebook and a bunch of papers,” Ward noted. “I don’t read Arabic but maybe the intel guys can get something out of it. Maybe they can identify him, too.”

  Just then, Master Chief Johnston strolled over.

  “Skipper, our ride home is five minutes out. Don’t know about you, but I’m pretty hungry. I’d go for a hot breakfast.”

  “I’m with you, Chief. Good job, guys. Let’s get this guy and his stuff onboard. Now, where’s the nearest IHOP?”

  23

  Arman Dirbaz climbed the vertical ladder out of the Boz-Manand’s interior. The brilliant sunshine almost blinded the engineer as he stuck his head out of the hatch. Vassily Godonov extended a hand to help him climb the rest of the way up to the rounded, black main deck.

  “Thank you, Vassily,” Dirbaz responded breathlessly. “Either they are making these ladders steeper, or I am getting older.”

  “That ladder has not changed, and you
mention only one alternative,” the Russian said with a chuckle. “Therefore, by your own analysis...”

  “I know. I know. And I intend to get as old as possible.” The Iranian naval engineer shook his head. “I thank you for that astute analysis. And by inference, then you are actually and truly an historic treasure yourself, my friend.”

  Their banter was interrupted by a very officious man wearing the drab green uniform of the Revolutionary Guard. As the officer came closer, Dirbaz noted that he wore the insignia of the Navy Corp and the collar tabs of a colonel.

  “I am looking for Mohandes Doktor Dirbaz,” the man stated. “Please point him out to me.” Despite the “please,” the request was very much an order.

  “I am Arman Dirbaz, sir,” the engineer responded. “What can I do for you?”

  “Mohandes Doktor Dirbaz, I congratulate you on completing repairs to the Boz-Manand in such a short period,” the colonel said. “I must inform you that the submarine is now an asset of the Revolutionary Guard Navy and I am the new commanding officer. You are hereby ordered to complete all efforts to make Boz-Manand ready for sea. We will depart at first light tomorrow. And you will assume the duties of the ship’s chief engineer for this voyage.”

  Dirbaz was taken aback by the colonel’s statement. The sudden and unannounced transfer of the vessel from the Iranian Navy to the IRGN was not a good omen. The IRGN had a well-deserved reputation for reckless and dangerous attacks. But their penchant for ruthless pursuit of their goals—regardless of who or what might be damaged in the process—was equally recognized. Only those with a death wish stood in their way.

  The discussion was interrupted by the roaring grumble of a heavily loaded diesel engine. A large transport lumbered down the pier, stopping alongside the Boz-Manand. Three vehicles accompanying the transport disgorged two dozen heavily armed men who promptly assumed a circle around the big truck and its load. Three more transporters waited at the head of the pier. As the three men on the submarine’s deck watched, a pier crane swung around to lift a large and obviously heavy cylinder from the transport, then swung it back over until it stopped directly above an open missile tube hatch.