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

Yves Monagnad stared blankly at the UN bureaucrat.

“Surely my staff informed you, Captain,” ben-Wabi went on. “Some of the world’s top journalists will be coming aboard your ship tomorrow to learn of the alarming things you and your yellow fish have discovered. Al Jazeera is sending out Ben Tahib, their top international correspondent, to interview us. We certainly will not be able to simply wave at those little fishing buoys of yours and tell him to come back in a few weeks for the real data.”

Exasperation was heavy in the man’s voice. At one point, he had spit out his toothpick without even noticing.

Monagnad fought the urge to laugh out loud. If this dumpy little self-important politician knew even a small bit of the truth, he would have a heart attack right there on the deck. The captain glanced down at the heavy cables that snaked across the main deck. Most of each sub’s stored data had already been downloaded across those cables and transmitted back to waiting servers. Even as the UN representative fought to get his breath back, massive supercomputers were racing through the mounds of bits and bytes, digesting petabytes of data, matching it all with sophisticated algorithms, and were already spitting out usable information. Of course, very little of it had anything to do with global warming or pollution of the oceans. The information collected by these devices and already being studied was far more valuable than the few dollars Ocean Mystery and her operators ever received from a corrupt UN agency.

“Mr. ben-Wabi,” the captain calmly said. “I suggest you simply use some of that old and bogus data you always trot out for these kinds of events, up the numbers by forty percent, we’ll point the reporters and their cameras at lots of flashing LEDs and impressive screens and they will rush back and print or show anything you give them. It has certainly worked well up to this point.”

Monagnad’s walkie-talkie suddenly barked.

“Captain, we have three fish aboard.” It was First Officer Clyde McClellan, reporting from down on deck. “Fish Number One is washed down and going into its storage box. Two is almost done. We are having some minor problems with Three. Diagnostics are not checking out. I will let you know.”

Monagnad glanced over the rail, down to where the dark, swarthy first officer stood, characteristically with his hands already back deep into the wayward robot’s innards. Once an engineer, always an engineer, Monagnad thought with a smile. If anyone onboard could find and fix the problem with a wayward piece of underwater gear, Clyde McClellan could.

Monagnad stared out into the coal black night, mostly ignoring the UN man. The few stars that shone through the scudding clouds did little to illuminate the gently rolling sea. There was not the smallest sign of another ship or aircraft to the farthest reaches of the horizon. He was not surprised. He had chosen this particular spot in the ocean because it was well away from the normal shipping channels, keeping the most crucial part of their operation far from inquisitive minds and prying eyes.

Then, without warning, Monagnad thought he caught the slightest hint of movement out on the dark waters. He reached for his binoculars, almost always on a lanyard around his neck, but he must have left them in his stateroom in his hurry to see the recovery operation.

Just then, his radioman yelled from the wheelhouse, the distress strong in his voice.

“Captain, we are being jammed. All frequencies I have tried are wiped out. I’ve never seen interference like this.”

The captain dashed into the wheelhouse, leaving ben-Wabi behind. Sparks was the most experienced combat communicator he had ever sailed with, the best money could buy. If Sparks said they were being jammed, it was real. And it was very serious.

“Can you tell how close?”

“With this strength, it has to be very, very close.”

“Pirates?”

“Never known them to have anything this powerful or broad-banded. They’re covering from VLF to SHF.”

Without hesitation, Monagnad reached over and grabbed the alarm switch. The klaxon blared as he grabbed the microphone and hollered, “Repel boarders! All hands take stations to repel boarders.”

Flashing on the massive topside lights, he illuminated the ocean out to a thousand yards, just in time to see four dark-gray high-speed gunboats racing toward them. Each sported a very nasty-looking machine cannon on the bow, pointed directly at the ship.

Monagnad recognized the boats. They were the new stealth gunboats that the Iranians had been bragging so much about lately, in propaganda, to news media, to anyone who would listen. That explained how they got so close without the radar alarming. But it did not explain how they got way out here, over a thousand miles from the nearest Iranian naval base, or how they knew to come to this remote spot.

Then, quick flashes from the cannon on one of the craft. Monagnad dove to the deck just as a spray of deadly fire crashed through the broad windshield and demolished the wheelhouse. Glass shards and metal fragments flew in all directions as if slapped by some giant hand.

The radio operator was an instant too slow in ducking. He fell in a bloody heap of shattered flesh.

“On the ship!” It was a loud hailer from the lead gunboat. “On the ship! Stand by to receive boarders! Do not attempt to resist.”

Monagnad painfully crawled through the broken glass over to the bloody mass that had just seconds before been his radioman. There was nothing he could do for the man. Flying shrapnel had cut through his throat, almost decapitating him.

The captain continued crawling, heading toward the bridge wing away from the gunboats, putting as much ship as