Arabian Storm (The Hunter Killer Series Book 5)

by George Wallace

  “And what is that, Colonel?” Dirbaz finally asked. “We have no load on today’s shipyard lift schedule.”

  The RGN officer snorted as he stepped closer to the engineer.

  “You are no longer cleared to know the answer to that question.” Then the colonel glanced pointedly at Vassily Godonov. “And even if you were so cleared, we certainly would not discuss such matters in the presence of this foreigner. Who is, I must remind you, an infidel.”

  Dirbaz, becoming red-faced, started to protest, to remind this usurper that his Russian mentor was a friend and ally, that he had been of immense help in making the new submarine such a powerful warship, as well as assisting in overseeing its astoundingly rapid repair. But the colonel raised his hand to cut him off.

  “And he must leave the shipyard immediately. Transportation out of Iran awaits him at the airport.”

  Dirbaz was clearly on the verge of telling the Revolutionary Guard officer what he could do with his orders, but Vassily held up his hand.

  “It is all right, my friend. I understand what the colonel is saying. I will leave immediately, of course.”

  Dirbaz stared at his old friend for a moment. Then he put his arms around his Russian mentor, embracing him in a huge bear hug.

  “Go in peace, my old friend. Find a safe place. For me, I am nothing if not a good Muslim and a loyal Iranian. I will do as I am told.”

  Vassily smiled and offered a handshake, then turned and walked off the submarine. Then without so much as a glance back, he headed down the long pier as Dirbaz watched him go.

  The Revolutionary Guard colonel was no longer paying them any mind. Instead, he was busy on his cell phone.

  “Inform the most holy Nabiin that all is proceeding precisely as he ordered. We now have absolute control of the Boz-Manand. The missiles are being loaded and the targets are already inserted into their navigation systems. We will depart in the morning at the appointed time and we will be in place to follow his orders.”

  Ψ

  Jimmy Wilson stuck his head in Admiral Tom Donnegan’s office door. “Admiral, Captain Ward is here to see you, sir.”

  Donnegan looked up from the stack of papers he was studying.

  “Good. Tell him to come on in.”

  Donnegan slowly rose from behind his battered old oak desk and made his way across the office to greet his visitor. Jon Ward was not only the father of Navy SEAL Team leader Jim Ward, but he also had a long history with Admiral Donnegan. The admiral had been close friends with Jon Ward’s submariner dad, and when Jon was born, he was chosen to be the new baby’s godfather. When Jon’s father was killed on a mission that was still highly classified, Donnegan had stepped in to be a father-figure for Jon. He was still “Papa Tom” to the Ward family.

  After long-time service to his country, also in submarines, Captain Ward had been kicked upstairs to a desk job. But it was a vital one, overseeing submarine operations in a broad swath of the planet’s oceans. Even so, the elder Ward made no secret of the fact that he missed being on the boats.

  As Jon Ward stepped into the room, he grinned broadly and stuck out his hand in greeting to his old friend, but Donnegan offered none in return. Instead, the admiral stood there with a pronounced scowl on his face and hands on both hips.

  “Dammit, Jon!” Donnegan snapped. “I thought I taught you better. First, you only come around to see me when I issue an order to show up. And look at you! When is it considered appropriate to meet with a senior officer when you are out of uniform?”

  Jon Ward’s eyes grew large. He looked down at his dress blues. Proper attire for a captain in the US Navy. Completely proper.

  “Admiral, I don’t know what...”

  Donnegan could not maintain the ruse any longer. His face broke into a big smile and he finally extended his hand.

  “The flag selection board just reported out. I got an advanced copy. You are absolutely out of uniform...Admiral!” He grabbed Ward in a big bear hug. “I’m really proud of you, son! You know your dad would be, too.”

  Ward was stunned. The unexpected news and his godfather’s subterfuge had caught him totally off-guard. And that was a sin for a submarine skipper. But he returned the old admiral’s embrace.

  Donnegan finally released Ward and waved him over to a chair. Ward had to lift and remove a towering stack of binders in order to sit.

  “I called Ellen with the news a few minutes ago,” Donnegan told him. Ellen was Ward’s wife, Jim’s mother. “She’s out buying you a new hat with a double row of scrambled eggs. I suggest you get some roses when you get back to Norfolk and take your lovely wife out to dinner tonight to celebrate the promotion.”

  Ward could only nod as he struggled to take it all in.

  “Okay, I’ll do that. But I sure wish you could break free and come down to join us. We could make it a real family event.”

  Donnegan settled down across the cluttered desk from Jon Ward. Then he leaned forward, folded his hands, and got that look on his face that Ward knew only too well. Happy talk was completed. Now it was business.

  “Jon, much as I enjoyed being the first to congratulate you on the promotion, the real reason I called you up here today is a little more serious. I need your help. This whole thing out in Fifth Fleet with that Nabiin character, the missile attacks, and the missing research ship is really heating up and it’s about to boil over in a major way.”

  “I know. We’ve got two boats out there now,” Ward responded. “Joe Glass and Brian Edwards. I know they’re on top of everything going on.”

  “They are doing a great job,” Donnegan agreed with a nod. “And young Jim’s intel haul when he took out those missile launchers is going to really help us figure out what the hell is going on out there.” The admiral paused, looking even more serious. “But what I really need is you. I need you here. Right here.”

  Ward looked questioningly at Tom Donnegan.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “What I am going to tell you doesn’t leave this room,” Donnegan started. Now it was Jon Ward leaning forward. He thought he knew every one of the admiral’s expressions. But this was a new one. “Most of all, it doesn’t get discussed with the wives, Jon. That’s an order. I need someone here who has all the keys to the puzzle. Someone I trust implicitly. Someone who can step in for me if I’m not around and we won’t miss a beat.”

  Ward started to interject, to ask the one question that had just popped into his head, but Donnegan held up his hand to stop him.

  “Look, it’s hard for a salty sailor to admit, but I’m getting older. We all think we are indestructible, but sometimes, for the good of the cause, we have to face facts. Jon, I’m worried about my health. I’ve been blaming it on the flag mess food, but now I think I may have a heart problem. Before I go see the quacks over at Bethesda, I want to know that I have continuity here. Hell, you know how they are. One skip in your heartbeat and they put you out to pasture. Bring in some guy who knows how to politic and brown-nose, maybe, but would screw up a one-car funeral procession. We can’t afford that. Especially now, with what’s going on over there.” Donnegan looked hard at Jon Ward. “But I got a plan. You, now that you are a brand-new shave-tail one star...well, it’s perfect is what it is. I just name you my deputy, and presto! Problem solved.”

  Ward was about to respond when Jimmy Wilson stuck his head through the door yet again.

  “Excuse me, Admiral. I know you said you didn’t want to be disturbed, but that TJ Dillon guy is on the red phone again. He says that it’s really important.”

  Donnegan took a deep breath and hesitated, but then grabbed the secure phone.

  “Okay, Dillon,” he growled. “This had better be really and truly important.”

  “And a hearty good morning to you, too, Admiral,” the CIA agent replied. “I just finally caught up with our friend Samuel Talbot. As you know, he is a very hard man to find. And even harder to have a conversation with.”

  “And what did Mr. Talbot
have to say?” Donnegan asked, suddenly very interested. He looked at Ward and pointed to the telephone, then gave a thumbs-up.

  “Well, that is what’s interesting,” Dillon replied. “He actually came to me.”

  “He called the meeting? Jesus.”

  “Exactly. I was wary. It’s not like he seeks out folks like us. But it seems he actually wants our help. Reluctantly, of course. But I’m convinced he is telling the truth. And with your connections in certain places...well, you can probably confirm it. Talbot finally ‘fessed up to running the Ocean Mystery as a Mossad op. He and the Israelis.”

  “That I can find out about,” Donnegan jumped in. “It’ll take me ten minutes, tops. Mossad owes me enough favors. But tell me what else he said.”

  “Well, it seems that they were using the climate change research as a cover to operate the ship to launch their UUVs. The Israeli government has become very concerned about the Iranian Navy, particularly a new ballistic missile sub they’re putting into commission. At least according to Talbot.”

  “We know about it, yes,” Donnegan verified.

  “Figured you did. But them being Israeli, they decided to preemptively put something in place, just in case, and, of course, not share their plans with anybody else. Turns out, though, that something is busy mining all of Iran’s harbors with command-activated mines. The UUVs were launched from the Ocean Mystery a thousand miles from Iran. They were programmed to swim in, drop the mines, then go out and gather some data for cover before heading home. Near perfect cover op. Some Iranian warship that they don’t like puts to sea or the bastards pick on the wrong vessel out there, all they need to do is push a button. That Iranian ship suddenly has holes in it.”

  Donnegan slapped the desk hard with the palm of his hand.

  “And they painted an American flag on their mines so that we take the fall for their operation!” the admiral exploded. “And now Talbot has the gall to ask for help!”

  “Calm down, Admiral,” Dillon answered. “Remember your blood pressure.”

  Jon Ward was also using both hands to urge Donnegan to cool down. The admiral took another deep intake of air and tried to control his breathing.

  “Admiral, he claims there were no markings on the UUVs or mines,” Dillon told him. “Not an American flag for certain. He says someone else did that little paint job. Maybe the Russians, maybe the Iranians.”

  “Okay, okay. What the hell does Talbot want from us, then?” Donnegan choked. “Ought to let him twist in the wind. And his Mossad buddies with him. But I suppose he wants us to pull his chestnuts out of this latest fire, right?”

  “He wants to meet. He’s not much for email or Facebook, I don’t think. From what I gather, he has a pretty good idea where his ship is and who took it. He needs us to help him get it back. And, of course, get it done without anything getting out about Mossad’s involvement. Or his either.”

  Donnegan looked across the desk at Jon Ward and shook his head.

  “Well, all my instincts say to tell Talbot to go pound sand. He got in the middle of this mess on his own. The Joint Chiefs or the White House get wind of this...” Donnegan snorted and pointed a finger at Jon Ward. “Okay, TJ. Sounds like a perfect job for my new deputy. Tell your new best friend Talbot that Rear Admiral Jon Ward will be delighted to meet him for a cup of Jewish coffee in Tel Aviv.”

  Ψ

  LCDR Jackson Biddle intently watched the Command Display Screen. He stood in the middle of the submarine George Mason’s command center, keeping one eye on the control room team and watching the shipping traffic into Chabahar with the other. So far, the I and W mission had been precisely what he expected: hours of sheer boredom, looking at nothing but sea and sand. And that was exactly the way he hoped it would remain.

  Biddle did not even look up when someone else hurriedly entered the compartment.

  “XO, we need to talk.” It was Master Chief David Oshley, striding purposefully into the control room. “You know that new guy, Seaman Worst. He needs to talk to you about a personal problem.”

  The only part of being the executive officer on a submarine that Jackson Biddle did not relish was dealing with the crewmembers’ personal problems. He did not see himself as one of those touchy-feely types. He would much rather be driving the boat off some hostile coast, just as he was doing at the moment. But, unfortunately, such chores were part of the job.

  “Okay, COB,” Biddle replied. “What’s his problem?”

  “He got an email from home this morning,” the grizzled quartermaster answered with a frown. “Hell, our job was a damn sight easier before we had emails out here. Anyway, it’s got him upset. He wants to get some advice from you.”

  “Sure, send him around. I’ll advise him to stop reading his email.”

  “He’s mess cranking right now,” Oshley said. The troubled sailor was working in the ship’s galley, preparing the next meal. “He can probably break free. Is now a good time?”

  “Yeah, no time like the present.”

  Biddle continued to watch the display until he heard the young seaman’s muffled footsteps approaching.

  “Seaman Sam Worst, reporting as ordered.” The tall, pimply-faced kid stood at attention. The apron he wore over his poopie suit was splattered with whatever Cookie had him mixing up for lunch. Meatloaf. Maybe it was meatloaf, Biddle’s favorite.

  “Stand easy, Worst,” Biddle ordered, looking around to be certain nobody else was within earshot. “COB says you want to talk to me about a personal problem. Something about an email you got this morning.”

  “Yessir,” the nervous seaman replied, also glancing around. “It was from my brother. He says he saw my fiancée out at a club the other night...”

  “XO, you better come see this!” Bill Wilson, the officer of the deck, suddenly called out from across the room. “Looks like we got company coming out to play.”

  Biddle held up his hand, stopping Worst mid-issue. The XO jumped over to look at the large-screen display.

  The Boz-Manand was just clearing the harbor mouth and was heading out into the open sea.

  24

  Ben Tahib had hardly ventured forth from his apartment since the attack on his family. The entire ordeal had shaken him to his very core. Playing big-time reporter, investigating the strange disappearance of the Ocean Mystery and the vessel’s unfortunate crew was no longer worth the risk. A possible Pulitzer would never be a substitute for his wife, Shelia, or for their unborn son. Sure, the Qatari police still had a detail assigned to guard his apartment, but that did not provide Tahib with a very comforting feeling of assurance. Twice he had caught the guard at the door asleep. The one in the automobile parked down the alleyway spent his time playing video games on his iPad.

  The jangling phone in Tahib’s bathrobe pocket caused the reporter to jump. He had become far too skittish after the close call. His nerves were gone. Lately he had been thinking that it was probably time to accept that offer to cover financial news out of the London Stock Exchange. Not much chance of some derby-wearing broker trying to shoot him with his umbrella.

  He almost did not answer the offending phone. The caller ID was plainly bogus. But, as usual, his natural curiosity got the best of him. Some of his best scoops came to him this way, on an unsolicited call with a spoofed caller ID.

  “Tahib,” he grunted, ready to hang up with a curse if the caller tried to pitch him a credit card or a free home security system.

  The cultivated voice on the other end spoke in English with a faintly continental accent. A familiar one. And he offered nothing for sale.

  “Mr. Tahib, it is time for you to end your self-imposed holiday. Nabiin is on the move. I would encourage you to press your Iranian contacts for information. What they tell you may be of immeasurable value.”

  Tahib could not be entirely sure, but he was almost positive that the voice belonged to Samuel Talbot. He had only heard the reclusive billionaire speak once or twice, but the unusual accent had stuck with the journali
st. The kind of observational detail that had stood him in such good stead over the years.

  “Your family is being watched and is fully protected. Far safer than they would be with only those three State Security guards lurking outside your building. And do not bother tracing this call or having the government look at your phone records. My people are far better than that.”

  With the final boast, the line went dead. Ben Tahib stared at the phone as if it might suddenly hiss and strike at him like a pit viper.

  Why would Samuel Talbot, the man who caused him to be attacked in the first place, suddenly direct him to chase down this strange Nabiin guy. And do so in Iran, which would be about the most unlikely place on the planet to find the mysterious man. Nabiin was a Sunni, descended from a long line of Sunni imams, claiming lineage all the way back to the first caliph. The Ayatollahs were Shia. They would be deadly enemies. Nabiin could have no allies in Iran.

  But Tahib had a sudden realization. He knew that he would do as he had been told. He would go. He would contact his many long-standing sources. He would look for answers to questions he had not even yet asked himself.

  There was a story there. He was, after all, a journalist.

  Ψ

  “Fifteen-two, fifteen-four, pair for six, and another pair for eight,” Brian Edwards announced as he proudly laid his cards down. Then he moved the brass pegs down the teak cribbage board and smiled broadly. His lead over Jackson Biddle was decisive. One more hand should do it.

  The XO counted out his four points and reached for the deck of cards.

  “At least I win something on this hand,” Biddle said drily. “My deal. I know that I’m supposed to let the boss win, but I do have my pride, you know.”