The resulting massive explosion ripped a giant hole straight into the hapless destroyer’s forward engine room and broke the ship’s back, causing a widening crack from the keel to the main deck. Only the reinforced steel deck and a good bit of sheer luck kept the Nunn from breaking in half and sinking right there.
Superheated explosive gases vented into the space, immediately followed by a wall of floodwater. Both of the destroyer’s starboard LM-2500 propulsion gas turbines were ripped off their mounts while fragments of red-hot metal sprayed around the three-level space. The starboard shaft ground to a sudden halt. The still-spinning port shaft twisted the ship around in a tight circle to starboard.
This was a very fortunate turn as it allowed the captain to drive his dying ship up onto the soft sand bottom of the Ra’s al Adabiya shoals. With its hull safely resting on the bottom, the ship was no longer at risk of sinking. The crew could now put all their efforts into damage control and rescuing their injured shipmates. Clearly, it would be a very long time before the Sam Nunn sailed the seas again. But she was not on the bottom of the Gulf and her crew was relatively safe.
When she saw the awful explosion on the Nunn, the Carl Levin immediately spun around and raced back into what she hoped would be safer waters. Only then did the destroyer slide to a halt and offer assistance to its stricken sister ship.
Nabiin had achieved at least part of his goal. The American aircraft carrier was still safe, but the strike group accompanying the big ship was bottled up and would likely have to stay there for a long time. Shipping through the Suez Canal immediately came to a halt. With the proven threat of mines, no ship captain would risk his vessel, crew, and cargo by steaming through the danger area.
And the canal would necessarily stay closed for a long time. The nearest mine-hunting ships were the ancient American Avenger-class mine sweepers in Bahrain. It would take them over two weeks just to make the thirty-five-hundred-mile voyage to the Gulf of Suez. And then probably another month or more to complete sweeping it clear of the mine threat.
One of the planet’s busiest seaways was clogged. And one of the world’s most powerful naval strike forces was left virtually impotent.
Ψ
Ward burst into Donnegan’s office clutching a folder.
“Mines! The damn things were mines!” he shouted. “That damn Arab outsmarted us again!”
Then Jon Ward came to a sudden halt. The folder fell from his hand onto the shabby gray carpet.
Admiral Tom Donnegan, his surrogate father, mentor, boss, and friend, lay unconscious on the office floor beside the foot of his ancient oak desk.
Instinct took over as Ward jumped into action. “Jimmy!” he yelled. “Call nine-one-one! We need medics! Quick!”
Ward rushed to the prone Donnegan and rolled him over onto his back. The admiral was not breathing. Ward frantically looked but he could not find a pulse.
Ward was already starting mouth-to-mouth resuscitation when the admiral’s aide ran into the office, the phone still stuck to his ear.
“EMTs are on their way,” Jimmy Wilson reported. “Ambulance will be at the Riverside entrance in five.”
Ward performed five quick breaths and then shifted to CPR. He ordered, “Jimmy, grab the AED from the outer office. His heart isn’t...” Wilson immediately disappeared to find the automated external defibrillator.
As Jon Ward beat on the admiral’s chest, he pleaded with his old friend. “Papa Tom, stay with us! Stay with us! You got to fight, Papa Tom!”
Ward shifted back to mouth-to-mouth as Wilson raced in, carrying the orange and red AED device. As Ward forced air into Donnegan’s lungs, Wilson ripped open the admiral’s shirt and attached the adhesive pad over his heart. The automated device began reading Donnegan’s vital signs as the text screen popped up with instructions for continued CPR and resuscitation.
The pair continued working on Donnegan until the screen said that it was detecting a pulse. Donnegan coughed loudly and began breathing on his own just as the EMTs rushed through the door with a gurney trailing behind them.
Ward was still holding his old friend’s hand as the EMTs lifted him up onto the gurney. He continued to talk to Donnegan as they rushed down the corridor.
“Stay with us, Papa Tom.”
Over and over again he pleaded with the admiral while they exited the corridor, heading out to the Pentagon’s Riverside entrance and the waiting ambulance.
Then, as the emergency vehicle’s flashing red lights merged with all the others on the route away from the iconic complex, Jon Ward could only stand there and pray.
He needed Tom Donnegan to make it. Though they did not realize it, the rest of the world also needed the admiral to make it.
That was when Ward came to a startling realization. It was now up to him to step into Donnegan’s spot and try to help save the world from a fanatical madman.
Ψ
As the Darih al Mahit al Muqadas hastened back down the Red Sea at its top speed, Nabiin had an aide call ahead and arrange for a boat to pick him up as the ship passed Dhubab. That was a tiny fishing village on the shores of the Red Sea at a point just before it opened into the Gulf of Aden at Bab al-Mandab.
Three ancient Toyota pickup trucks and a half dozen heavily armed fighters waited there at a shaky pier, prepared to drive the Prophet down the coast highway, the infamous N2. The rutted and pothole-pocked road threaded narrow shelves between towering mountains and the deep blue sea before ultimately opening out onto bone-dry and desolate sand.
The drivers of the vehicles stood, waiting. They averted their eyes and bowed as Nabiin hurried over the walkway and onto the pier and then piled into the middle vehicle without acknowledging them. The men then jumped into their vehicles and immediately sped away.
They did not even slow to pass the many checkpoints along the route. They just sped right on through without even a wave. In Aden, a once great city now crushed by many years of poverty and neglect, they stopped only briefly to relieve themselves, refuel the vehicles, and grab some food. Then onward they raced across the mountainous desert terrain.
Night fell, but the trucks sped through the darkness, bouncing over unseen potholes and skidding through wind-blown sand drifts. The small convoy and Nabiin finally arrived in Al Mukalla, dirty, bone-tired, but safe.
Safe and inspired to carry out jihad.
Ψ
The Iranian missile submarine Boz-Manand cruised silently just below the surface of the Arabian Sea. Oman’s sand-blown coast was only forty miles to the north. The submarine was making slow, lazy circles, holding station and waiting for further instructions.
Arman Dirbaz used an old rag to wipe grease from his hands as he watched the previously malfunctioning carbon monoxide burner slowly come up to operating temperature. The engineer had just spent the last eight hours tearing down the recalcitrant machine and carefully rebuilding it. That came after replacing all the seals and charging it with the very last of the catalyst material they had on the submarine.
The task would have been much easier if he were not hampered by wearing the emergency breathing mask, but Dirbaz knew that he could not afford to suffer the slow toxic build-up from low-level carbon monoxide poisoning. There was no way of knowing how that would affect his cognitive abilities, but he had a pretty good idea. He could not understand, either, why those who now commanded his submarine did not understand the seriousness of this problem.
Maybe, just maybe, after it came up to temperature and he got it fine-tuned, the burner could keep up with whatever was producing the deadly carbon monoxide. If only they had not decided to save a few thousand rials by not installing a second burner. Two burners could have easily kept the air clean. But now, with one working burner, maybe they could still return to home port and find out what was generating the gas in the first place. And, of course, fix it.
Dirbaz had just completed fine-tuning the burner when Colonel Sayyed Abdul-Qadir Gilani angrily burst into the confined space.
“Mohandes Do
ktor!” the submarine’s captain shouted at Dirbaz. “You must quit playing with that damnable toy! The air is fine. And I need you to check the missile systems. The time is almost here, and they must work perfectly.”
“The time? If I knew better the nature of...”
But Gilani was not listening. Instead, he rubbed the back of his head.
“If I can only get my head to stop pounding. Surely paradise will cure this headache.”
33
Jon Ward stepped out of the Walter Reed Medical Center and sucked in a deep breath of the cool, humid air. To him, this place was and always would be the Bethesda Naval Hospital, no matter what the Department of Defense said its official name now was. His son, Jim, had been born here. And hospitalized here during his recovery from an episode with his SEAL team down in the Bahamas.
Now, he finally had the opportunity to take a couple of really deep breaths and look up at the night sky. And send up another prayer for Tom Donnegan. That certainly would not hurt.
The EMTs had rushed Papa Tom from the ambulance into the ER and then the staff took him almost immediately to the Cardiac ICU. Jon had spent the last several hours pacing the floor in the waiting area while the doctors and nurses raced past him, normally without a word or a glance, tending to others who had decided to have heart attacks this evening.
Ellen, Ward’s wife, had rushed in just as the head doctor stepped out of the ICU to give Jon an update. They hardly had time to exchange worried looks and a quick embrace.
“Family?”
“Same as…” Jon and Ellen said in unison to the doc’s question.
“Well, Admiral, you outrank me so you can order me to tell you what we know.”
“So ordered.”
Ward felt Ellen squeeze his hand as the young doctor calmly recited the facts, as emotionless as if he were reading a Sonic menu out loud. Papa Tom had suffered a cardiac arrest brought on by severe atherosclerosis. He was still in a coma, which for right now was a good thing. They would continue running tests but would not know any results—including the extent of damage to the heart muscle or the prognosis for recovery—until at least morning. The admiral was still in danger. Another blockage, any other trauma to his heart, and that could be it.
Louise, Tom Donnegan’s wife, had just arrived when Jon Ward left his wife on watch in the cramped waiting room while he stepped outside to get some air. And check for messages.
Ward’s cell phone buzzed before he even had a chance to look. A text message alert popped up on the screen.
“Shalom, my friend. We are praying for the Admiral. Business: Contacts have Prophet in Al Mukalla. We have no ready assets. Time is short. Action vital. Talbot”
So Samuel Talbot and his Mossad friends had again proven to be valuable allies. They had done what the US’s mighty web of intelligence had so far been unable to accomplish. They had located Nabiin in Al Mukalla. The Israelis were able to work without some of the bureaucratic restrictions that so often hampered American efforts.
Ward faintly remembered seeing some satellite photos of a relatively remote port town in Yemen, hard on the edge of the Gulf of Aden. What would a seriously demented Arab terrorist be doing in that out-of-the-way hole? It really did not matter. If he was there, it was a chance to get him.
Ward began furiously dialing a number from memory. A number too important and too secret to be stored in the phone or available on speed dial. This and a couple more phone calls would get the ball rolling.
But now another prayer was appropriate. A prayer that he would make the right moves and that they would occur before it was too late to stop whatever the Prophet was planning to inflict on the planet.
Ψ
Jim Ward and his weary SEAL team rushed across the tarmac to the waiting CV-22 Osprey aircraft. Each man was bent over under a load of weapons and gear.
“Boss, we need to sign up for the ‘Air Farce Frequent Flyer Program,’” Tony Martinelli quipped. “As much time as we spend on these flying Cuisinarts, we should be riding in first class.”
“You are flying first class,” Master Chief Johnston shot back. “Got you early boarding and all your luggage flies free. Once we’re airborne, you can have all the free MREs you can eat.”
“Thanks, Master Chief,” Martinelli answered. “We get a cute flight attendant, or we stuck with that dog-faced jump master from last time?”
“Martinelli, will you never learn?” Johnston retorted. “Your lip just earned you duty loadin’ and stowin’ all the gear. You’d better triple check it and make real damn sure you don’t leave nothin’ sittin’ on the tarmac and that everything is working tippy-top. Make myself clear?”
“Yes, Master Chief. Loud and clear.”
The team swung up the Osprey’s stern ramp and quickly situated themselves for take-off. The urgency of their departure had been emphasized repeatedly since the moment they were rousted. Jim Ward had just plugged his headset into the ICS (intercommunications system) when he heard even one more reason that they had to be in one hell of a hurry.
“Hey, Lieutenant, get your people strapped down ASAP. They just told us we gotta scoot.” Ward looked up to see the lips of the mission pilot, sitting in the left pilot seat, moving. “AIROPS is reporting incoming. Lots of incoming.”
Ward glanced around quickly. All his team was onboard and heading for their seats. He gave a thumbs up. His hand was barely in the air when he heard and felt the twin Alison 501-M80C turboprops spool up. The aircraft literally leapt into the air and headed down range, even as the tail ramp was still slowly closing.
They were clearing the end of the outbound runway when the explosions started, first as lines of airborne bursts to the north and west, and then on the ground. A pair of F-22 tactical fighter jets rocketed past them, buffeting the slower prop-driven aircraft in their jet wash. Another pair of F-22s shot past from another direction, then a pair of F-15 Strike Eagles. The Air Force was trying to get every gun in the air that they could.
Looking out the partially closed ramp, Ward could see more explosions along the field behind them. A C-130 lay broken and burning in the mouth of a cavernous hangar. A fuel truck exploded, shattering the night. Several barracks were burning. He saw an F-22 make a low pass, its M61A2 cannon blazing. Then the CV-22 with its SEAL-team passengers dropped down to the deck and disappeared out over the water.
The mission pilot had not exaggerated. Lots of incoming was raining down on the base they had just left. Ward looked around at his team.
“Guys, I don’t think we should count on air cover on this mission. Looks like the Air Force shooters may be otherwise occupied.”
Ward’s ICS buzzed and his assumption was confirmed. “Hey, Lieutenant. Djibouti is secured. ATC just informed us all flight ops cancelled until further notice. We’ve been diverted to Salalah International in Oman. Nearest friendly field. We can abort your mission and take you there or we can go ahead and drop you on the way. Your call. But you should know that if we drop you, it’ll take us at least five hours to make Salalah, refuel, and come back to pick you up.”
Ward nodded to no one in particular and answered, “Roger all. We got a mission that needs done. Drop us off at the LZ as planned.”
“Sort of figured you would say that.”
“I understand there aren’t any tee times at the Al Mukalla Municipal Golf Course anyway, so I’m not sure what would keep you air jockeys occupied while we went out to do some real work.”
The command pilot chuckled. “Roger. LZ in two hours, ten mikes. Now, just sit back and enjoy the inflight entertainment.”
Ψ
Beren Sheedi, another one of Nabiin’s trusted lieutenants, stepped into the darkened room with an ecstatic look on his face.
“Alzaeim Almuqadas, Holy Leader, Sheik al-Wasragi reports the attacks on the American airbase have commenced. He reports absolute surprise and great success. You are able to watch in real time on YouTube if you desire. I have the link for one of the feeds from an American cable
news network.”
Nabiin nodded.
Sheedi reached over and clicked the mouse resting near a computer beside the Prophet. The screen erupted into a grainy but telling image, a violent scene of flames and exploding buildings. Men scurried around like ants in a futile attempt to stop the damage. Even as they watched, a second wave of UAVs zoomed in like a swarm of bees to strike the hapless Americans, causing even more damage to what was ostensibly the most advanced military force on earth. A force that was now being ravaged by a flock of unmanned robot airplanes.
Nabiin smiled. “It is good. Give them a few hours to report their defeat back to their masters. With the dawn, we will cause a new sun to rise over Jerusalem. Do we have the launch orders ready? Is the radio tested?”
Sheedi nodded. “Yes, Alzaeim Almuqadas. All that is required is for you to give the command.”
Nabiin looked away, out a small, dusty window, toward the far horizon.
“Good. Then I need some solitude while I pray and meditate. Leave me in peace for a little time. Soon, we will be very busy.”
Sheedi bowed and backed out of the room.
Ψ
Arman Dirbaz hovered over the schematics for the missile launch control system. It was not the engineer’s sphere of expertise, and the breathing mask made it difficult to see, but he had necessarily been involved with this area during planning and construction of the submarine. It was all simple enough. The computer fed the guidance and targeting information to the missile only seconds before it was launched to allow for any last-instant adjustments. The launch sequence caused the missile tube seal closure to tear open milliseconds before the gas generator at the bottom of the missile tube ignited, pushing up the big rocket in a huge bubble of exhaust gases. When the missile sensed that it was clear of the launch tube, the rocket engines ignited with a roar and a belch of fire. Then the missile was propelled up and away, on its journey that would conclude with a rain of death and destruction on some unsuspecting target several thousand kilometers away from where the submarine remained hidden.
Arabian Storm (The Hunter Killer Series Book 5) Page 27
