Arabian Storm (The Hunter Killer Series Book 5) by George Wallace (different ereaders .txt) 📕

sure his small team was paying attention, considering the lack of anything to watch to help keep them alert. Even with his GPNVG-18 panoramic night vision goggles, he could barely make out where his team had camouflaged themselves, becoming virtual features of the desert floor. Master Chief Johnston had done his usual expert job in dispersing and hiding the fire team.

Ward’s earbud suddenly crackled.

“Skipper, see anything yet?” Jason Hall, the team’s comms guy, had set up the miniature satcom station behind a boulder further down the backside of the slope, out of sight of any human, goat, or other varmint that might be out for an after-midnight stroll.

Ward glanced at his watch. Almost time to check in with home base.

“Jase, nothing here but us sand fleas. Tell Papa Bear that this opportunity for fame and glory is starting to look like a big-time bust.”

“Roger, Skipper. Sending burst now.”

Ward rolled over, flipped up his NVGs, and stared at the moonless night sky. He munched on an energy bar as he surveyed the canopy of the heavens above them. The Milky Way painted a million diamond points across the black velvet night. It always amazed Ward just how beautiful and undisturbed this place could be. But in the space of a heartbeat, it could just as easily become awesomely deadly.

“Skipper.” Hall’s voice broke into his reverie. “Papa Bear says to hold tight. Mission is still a go.”

Thanks for nothing, Ward thought. But most missions were this way. Not exactly the stuff of Hollywood action thrillers. Watching scrub brush grow. Getting sand into every orifice.

Ward rolled back over onto his stomach, chewing the last of the bar and the crunchy grit that inevitably got mixed in with the nourishment. The short break was over.

Still, nothing stirred down there. Yet another wild goose chase. There had been a frustrating string of them lately. Rush out to some godforsaken bit of dirt and gravel, sit around on their numb asses for a couple of days, only to get called back to base with nothing to show for their efforts but sore backs and socks full of sand. It simply was not like Admiral Tom Donnegan’s typical little “special trips” to keep coming up cold like this.

Just then Ward caught the barest flicker of motion off to the west. Something was coming down the main goat trail. But whoever or whatever it was, it was coming really slow and careful.

“Heads up, guys,” Ward whispered into his throat mike. “Someone sneaking in from the west. Master Chief, be ready.”

The young SEAL officer stole a glance downslope to where Johnston was set up. Johnston knew his team leader was watching. He signaled a thumbs-up before slipping back down behind his cover and doing his best impression of a boulder. Ward knew that the experienced SEAL was doing one final check to make sure his gear was absolutely ready to go. There would be only one chance to make this all work. No do-overs out here.

The movement slowly resolved itself. It was precisely what Ward feared. And simultaneously hoped for. Only a true black ops guy would ever understand that dichotomy.

A quartet of heavily armed desert fighters deliberately moved closer and closer. Behind the first four was another half-dozen moving parallel to the roadway. But the second group slipped along, from hiding spot to hiding spot, never more than a couple of them visible at any one time.

Ward licked his chapped lips. These were not the movements or operations of a ragtag bunch of religious zealots. Their advance, even way out here at a spot where they had no reason to suspect they might be observed, was carefully choreographed and obviously very well practiced. Ward watched with interest as the men moved from rock pile to hillock, covering each other’s movements as they paralleled the advance of the four more visible fighters. And they did it all in absolute silence. Not even the jingle of a stray piece of gear disturbed the quiet of the desert night.

No, this was no mob of ill-trained would-be terrorists. This was a well-equipped and proficient troop of warriors. Ward grinned when he could tell they even wore panoramic NVGs identical to the ones he and his team were using, likely made on the same assembly line.

As the SEALs watched, the fighters dispersed to quickly take up positions around the patch of ground where the ill-defined trails formed a crossroads. Their attention and their clear line of fire were directed to where the two roads met.

Then, all was quiet. Time passed. The newcomers were equally as patient as the SEAL team.

Ward settled back down. The curiosity was overwhelming. He could not wait to see what events might transpire down there, but he had no other choice but to do just that. Clearly, this group or their leaders expected something to happen. Why else would they be out on ambush in this out-of-the-way desert crossroads? It would be several more hours before daylight. This might prove to be a long and interesting night. Hell, it already was!

The eastern horizon was just starting to show a bare glimmer of the coming day when Ward’s earbud made a soft noise. Doug Broughton, farthest out down toward the secondary goat path, whispered, “I got movement. Looks like a technical. Lights out and driving real slow.”

Ward carefully turned his head and looked back over his shoulder. Sure enough, an old Toyota pickup truck with what looked like a ZU-23 machine cannon bolted to its bed was grumbling up the path toward the crossroads, raising billowing dust even as it crept along.

“Skipper, couple of technicals coming from the west,” another squad member, Tony Martinelli, reported.