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

make ourselves scarce. We’ve got a twenty-mile hike to the exfil point. I don’t see that Osprey wanting to sit there with his meter running waiting just to give us a lift.”

Ψ

The first transaction request was waiting on his desk the day Norman Rothbert returned to his office from the whirlwind trip to Pakistan. He had picked up a bad head cold somewhere on the journey and then took the wrong over-the-counter medicine moments before the car showed up to transport him to work. The nighttime recipe soon had him groggy as well as sniffly. On the jerking ride from Westchester to Lower Manhattan, he dozed fitfully and dreamed horrible dreams full of cold mountain caverns and wild-eyed men with Oxford accents.

Then, there on his desk, lurking like a hand grenade, was the simple note from one of his minions, asking for confirmation that he actually wanted him to perform the attached transaction.

“Jerome, I have already approved the trade,” Rothbert croaked to the young assistant.

“But, Mr. Rothbert, we’ve never done anything of that size and that would…and Mr. Starling was the one who asked me to…”

“Stop! Stop it. I’ll speak with Mr. Starling. And the quantity is of no concern. The client has the funds. Aggregate from the various entities, just as you would if there were not that extra set of zeroes to the left of the decimal. And perform the deposits into the accounts just as we typically do to avoid the unpleasantness some of these…”

But Rothbert was already out of breath. He waved his hand dismissively, settled back into his $10,000 desk chair, his head pounding, his nose running, and took in a lungful of air.

“Yes, sir,” Jerome said. “Understood. But I wondered… well… did you notice the signature on the order form? The authorization? It just seemed odd…”

Rothbert glanced at the innocent slip of paper. He closed his eyes, wiped his nose with his handkerchief, then slowly looked up through red-rimmed eyes at the young man across the desk from him.

“Does this name appear on the list of confirmed authorizations on each of the involved accounts?”

“Uh, as a matter of fact, it does, Mr. Rothbert. The passwords and verification codes are also legitimate.”

“Then why are the transactions not already being completed, before our client calls to complain about your unacceptable lack of response?”

“Sorry, sir. I will get the staff to it immediately.”

“Thank you. Thank you very much, Jerome.”

He handed the slip back to the young banker, rocked back in his chair, and tried to suck in another breath. Norman Rothbert suddenly felt very feverish.

The massive acquisition of pure gold bricks—enough to actually affect the price of the commodity on the open market—from numerous exchanges around the globe and the details of their delivery to various shadow companies and out-of-the-way drop points across the Middle East and Africa had been properly authorized and confirmed for the purchasing client by a “Mr. Chuck E. Cheese.”

5

The captain of the Ocean Mystery, Captain Yves Monagnad, watched quietly but proudly as the first of his “travelers” obediently surfaced. The robot submarine, ten meters long and almost five meters in diameter, had appeared out of the night only a few meters off the port beam. Almost immediately, it maneuvered astern of the ship and pulled into the narrow space between the vessel’s twin hulls. A pair of divers quickly attached a lifting harness to the little yellow submersible. The ship’s derrick crane lifted it up to its cradle on the broad open main deck just as a second submarine popped to the surface a hundred yards to starboard.

As Monagnad watched the hum of activity on the ship’s brightly lit main deck, a short, obese man stepped from the air-conditioned comfort of the Ocean Mystery’s enclosed bridge. Chas ben-Wabi, the United Nations Director for Ocean Conservation, was still busily picking his teeth from the evening meal as he waddled over to where the captain stood on the open bridge wing. ben-Wabi immediately broke into a sweat and fanned himself with his free hand. The hot, close night air was like a blast from a furnace after the ship’s cool interior.

“So, those are your toys, come home to the roost?” he asked, leaning over the rail to better watch as the second boat moved in astern. “And you say these pups are entirely robot controlled?”

“Yes, Mr. Director,” the captain answered. “From the time we launched them last month until they are safely in the nest. No communications with us, no external command, and no control.”

The second robot submarine swung up in the air as still another slid between the two hulls. Several crewmen and scientists were already clustered around the first boat. The activity looked as carefully choreographed as it actually was. First one coveralled deck hand pressure-washed the fish with fresh water, then another hooked up power umbilicals, while engineers inspected the hull and scientists opened inspection covers to reach into the beast’s belly.

“These UUVs have been out exploring the depths of the Arabian Sea and Indian Ocean from the Maldives to Oman, recording marine life, sea temperature, salinities, currents, and making precise bottom maps. A whole lot of this area has never been explored like this before. It will be very exciting when we get back to port. Then we can download the information and really start to work.”

ben-Wabi seemed concerned. “You mean that we will not be able to see anything for another week? Captain, we are supporting your efforts with very good money so you will be able to find evidence and effects of global warming, pollution…bad stuff that plays well in the press and gives us the power to deal with capitalists, industrialists, and the world’s recalcitrant governments that allow them to destroy our planet with impunity. Now,