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

Sure enough, two older Nissan SUVs bounced along, apparently coming to join the soiree.

Jesus! Jim Ward thought. This place was starting to look like Saturday night at the oasis.

“Skipper, we got a problem,” Jason Hall whispered. “Guardian angels report bingo on fuel. They’re bugging out to tank up.”

A pair of F-35 Lightning IIs flying air cover for them somewhere off to the west had come up low on fuel at the worst possible time. Now, they were heading out over the Red Sea to rendezvous with the waiting KC-46 tanker to refuel.

Refuel and pick up a Pepsi and some jerky, Ward thought. Not good. It would be at least thirty minutes before Ward had his ace-in-the-hole back, flying near enough to come to their aid if things got dicey. Just when Ward’s SEAL team finally had a good indication that they might soon need a little extra fire power.

As expected, the vehicles all came to a halt at the crossroads that was getting the fighters’ attention. Ward focused in on the truck from the south. The passenger door swung open and a tall man wearing a white thobe and red checked smeagh stepped out, stretched, and looked around warily. The man’s sharp, hawk-like features looked familiar. Like someone the SEAL was supposed to know and make note of should he ever encounter him.

Then, when Ward brought the image into better focus, he caught his breath. He realized that he was staring at Sheik al-Wasragi, the reputed head of all terrorist activity in Somalia and one of the most wanted men on the planet. What was this character doing way out here in the middle of the Sudanese desert, more than fifteen hundred miles from his lair?

“Jase, get on the horn quick,” Ward ordered. “Tell Papa Bear that Sheik al-Wasragi just showed up for the party.” Then, to Johnston, “Master Chief, get that shotgun mike aimed. I want to hear anything this guy has to say. And get Dumkowski into position to take a shot just in case Papa Bear wants this guy dispatched to the hereafter.”

“Lieutenant, you better look at the other trucks,” Johnston whispered back.

Ward looked down the hill toward the other pair of vehicles, now parked closely together. A group of six men were slowly climbing out of the vehicles, led by a shorter, stouter man dressed in khakis. He also wore some kind of campaign hat. It took the young SEAL a few seconds to mentally riffle through all the mug shots before he realized who else he was looking at.

General Farad Babak, the Iranian head of the Yemeni Houthi rebels. Here was another brutal and much sought-after terrorist who was very far from his normal stomping grounds.

Ward’s curiosity was at a peak now as he watched the two groups converge. It simply did not compute. Sheik al-Wasragi was a devout Wahabi Sunni Muslim. General Babak was a Shia Muslim. Their two cultures, countries, and religions had been fighting a war for a thousand years. When the Bible promised there would always be “wars and rumors of war,” it prophesied these two men and their warring sects.

So why would these bloodthirsty bastards be meeting way out here in this moonscape at a goat-path crossroads beneath a brilliant Milky Way?

But Ward just then noticed a third attendee at this unlikely powwow. A smaller man in a badly wrinkled and travel-stained suit. In physical presence and in recognizability, this man was very much in the background next to Sheik al-Wasragi and General Babak. However, as Ward quickly noted, this man spoke with authority and seemed to be the one in charge.

“General, quickly. Have your men move the gold to Sheik al-Wasragi’s truck. We must be far from this place long before the sun is fully awake.”

Unaccustomed to taking orders from anyone but his God, the Iranian hesitated for the barest second. The little man noticed and reacted.

“It is the Prophet’s will. He has ordered it. Do the Shia dare ignore Allah?”

The terrorist made a gesture of compliance, shook his head, and gave a sign to one of his men. The group struggled to move four heavy boxes from the SUVs into the Toyota truck. The added weight caused the truck to ride low on its springs.

The little man stepped over and pulled two satchels from the vehicle in which he had been riding. He handed one to each Muslim terrorist leader. “Sheik, these are your instructions on how to use the gold. Your targets and missions are all there. And General, your targets and missions are contained in your orders.” The little man paused. Neither terrorist said a word. “What we are beginning here, tonight, in this desolate place, will change the course of earth and the heavens. We will finally complete what we have long since started. Now, go and do Allah’s will.”

The two men bowed respectfully and quickly headed off in their respective vehicles. The little man made a hand signal toward the hidden fighters, who immediately moved out of their positions and headed down the road. Within minutes the remote desert was as vacant as ever.

Vacant except for the observing team of Navy SEALs. Jim Ward glanced over at Master Chief Johnston.

“You get all that? Do you have any idea what we just stumbled on?”

The older, more experienced SEAL could only shake his head. “Lieutenant, I ain’t got the slightest idea, but maybe Papa Bear does and that’s why he had us out here instead of in our nice warm cots.”

“Ours is not to wonder why, I guess,” Ward responded. “But I suspect we’d better upload all this stuff to Papa Bear and let him decide if we done good or not. Then