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

possible between himself and the attackers’ guns. In the darkness, he bumped into Chas ben-Wabi, who lay on the deck in a fetal position, whimpering. He was incoherent with fear, unable to respond to Monagnad’s questions about any possible wounds. He couldn’t see any blood or obvious trauma. The captain crawled on. He had more important things to worry about. His ship was under attack, and whoever it was meant business and had the weapons to do whatever they wanted.

Monagnad risked raising his head just enough to see down to the main deck. Gunboats had sidled up midships on either side while the other two took station a couple of hundred meters off, the maws of their ugly guns trained on the Ocean Mystery. Most of the crew were standing now, their hands raised.

He caught a glimpse of Clyde McClellan dropping out of sight into the control box. Almost immediately, Fish Number Four, hidden from view between the hulls, fell from its sling into the water and slid unseen into the depths. Monagnad knew it would soon join Five and Six far out in the Indian Ocean. At least those three would not be captured. And if McClellan was half the engineer that Monagnad thought he was, Fishes One, Two, and Three were very, very dumb by now.

Activity over on the port rail. Armed men clambered over the side and took up firing positions on the main deck, some with guns aimed at the deck crew and more with their weapons pointed up at the wheelhouse.

Monagnad raised his hands over his head and slowly stood. He yelled down to the deck, “We surrender! We are not armed!”

The team leader, a tall, dark man dressed in combat fatigues and armed with a wicked-looking machine pistol, called back, “You are the prisoners of ‘ustul allah, Allah’s Navy. Do not attempt to resist or you will be executed.”

“We are an unarmed research ship conducting peaceful operations for the United Nations,” Monagnad countered. “Take whatever you want but do not harm us.”

The leader sprayed automatic fire just above the captain’s head.

“Silence, infidel! We have far to go before the sun rises. Pray to Allah that you are alive to see it rise one more time.”

Ψ

Captain Yon Hun Glo stretched mightily, hoping to relieve his tired, cramped muscles. For the past week, the Chinese submarine captain had remained almost continuously in the control room of his boat, the Wushiwu, leaving only for meals and head calls. He had watched as his quarry, the unsuspecting Indian SSBN, slowly but inexorably steamed to the north and west, toward its certain destruction.

Yon glanced at his watch. Should be time now.

“Captain, contact zig,” the on-watch sonarman called out. “Contact is slowing and turning right.”

Yon nodded and smiled. Four hours, almost to the minute. Sure enough, the Indian captain had continued his very methodical and predictable pattern. He would slowly turn to the right and then come up to periscope depth. Then, after fifteen minutes shallow and copying his broadcast, the SSBN would sink back to fifty meters depth and continue to the north and west. Always at a very sedate and predictable seven kilometers per hour.

Stepping over to the electronic navigation table, Yon stared down at the traces that electronically detailed the two warships’ tracks. Touching a few keys projected the Indian’s course that would carry him across the bright red line drawn across twenty degrees north latitude. The submarine would pass the line of death only a few minutes after completing its excursion to periscope depth. Yon had a fleeting image of the Indian making a final good-bye to his family.

It was time to go into action. Yon, in rapid succession, ordered, “Bring the ship to battle stations. Make the torpedoes in tubes one and two fully ready. Open the outer doors on tubes one and two.”

The captain could just hear the muted shuffle of running feet as the crew scurried to their action stations and rushed to make the Wushiwu ready for battle. The sonar system fed its stream of course, speed, and range information into the fire control computers that calculated the intercept information the YU-9 torpedoes needed to be able to hunt out their prey. The torpedo tube outer doors swung inward, exposing the torpedoes to the sea. Now, Yon only needed to order their launch, the instant the Indian crossed the invisible line in the ocean.

“Captain, the Indian has steadied on a new course. Transients. I think he is coming deep.”

Something did not sound quite right in the sonarman’s tone. Yon glanced across the control room to where the man sat at his console, body rigid, and held his earphones clamped tightly to his ears.

“Zero bearing rate!” the sonarman suddenly screamed. “He is coming right at us!”

Wide-eyed, Yon leapt into action.

“Right full rudder, full dive on all planes, ahead flank!” he commanded as he dashed to get his own view of the sonar screen. Sure enough, the trace was printing out an arrow-like path aimed directly at the Chinese submarine.

What was going on? Was there time and room to get out of the big Indian sub’s way?

Wushiwu’s deck angled downward as both the depth gauge and compass rapidly unwound.

“Steady course zero-nine-zero. Make your depth two hundred meters.” Yon consciously worked to keep the panic from his voice. Just maybe they could get far enough off track or deep enough to keep from getting struck. But Yon was well aware that an underwater collision with a boat over four times the size of the Wushiwu would be devastating.

“Captain, contact is still closing,” the sonarman called out, his voice now little more than a panicked squeak. Now Yon and his crew could hear the Indian sub through the hull. The reverberating drumming from the big sub’s screw drowned out everything else. Then, like a locomotive screaming past a railroad station, the Indian sub roared by overhead,