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

Yon’s hand was shaking as he tried to wipe the sweat away from his brow. Only then did he realize he had been holding his breath for at least the past two minutes.

Ψ

Captain Ashwinder Vikat had been sitting on the conn of the INS Argihat SSBN 86, calmly reading the message traffic that his radiomen had just downloaded. The message in his hand had not been entirely unexpected, but it was very welcome. They were being ordered home, finally. But their home base at INS Varsha was over two thousand miles away, way over on the Bay of Bengal. They would have to hurry to get there by their assigned time.

“Diving Officer, make your depth one hundred meters, come to course one-six-zero, all ahead full. It’s time to go home.”

Several crewmembers had cheered enthusiastically.

The big submarine quickly dropped down from periscope depth and picked up speed as it swung around to its new southerly course.

As Vikat stepped out of the control room, he glanced at the sonar display. There was the briefest flash of noise energy, but it had disappeared just as quickly as it popped up.

Biologics, the submarine captain thought. Probably nothing but some biologics. Nothing to be concerned about, though.

After all, they were now headed home. And after an uneventful, typically boring voyage.

6

Admiral Tom Donnegan had been the US Navy’s top spook since most of his superiors were still in high school. Now, finally approaching retirement age, he often wondered what it would soon be like, not having the fate of the planet on his shoulders 24/7. Merely thinking of such a boring existence made him depressed.

“I’d prefer keeling over face-first into this mug of coffee on my last day on the payroll,” he had told the few others he considered close friends. “Then play taps and roll me off into a ditch somewhere.”

But there were times—like that very moment—when he felt he could do just fine without the aggravation. Donnegan removed his reading glasses and idly cleaned them with a used paper napkin left over from the usual greasy, high-fat breakfast he consumed at his desk. He was doing no good with the specs, though. Lost in thought, he was simply smearing around a bit of butter on the lenses. He never noticed.

At the top of the pile on his overflowing desk was a report that was especially interesting. And distressing. It was the thorough work of young Jim Ward, the SEAL lieutenant and son of Donnegan’s godson, Jon Ward. Donnegan snorted. Did that make Jim his god-grandson? Might as well be. The admiral had been in the hospital, fifty feet from the delivery room, when Jim was born. Taught him to ride a bicycle without training wheels while his dad was deployed as a submarine skipper. Watched in person as he graduated from middle school, high school, and first in his class at the US Naval Academy.

Donnegan allowed himself a long sigh, sipped cold coffee, and failed to notice it as he picked up the relatively thin sheaf of papers. Ward’s report on the Sudan mission was interesting. And not in a good way.

He skimmed the report for the third time, but he already knew exactly what it contained. He had read it in full the moment it hit the desk.

Donnegan shook his head, stood up, and stretched his cramped muscles. His back was really starting to bother him lately. Way too many hours hunched over that old desk, reading complicated reports from the far side of the world, most of them written more for advancement in rank or potential commendation instead of telling the head spook what he needed to know. The data he required to draw conclusions and then move men and machines around on the planet to gather more data. Or to put a stop—often a violent one—to whatever was afoot.

Yet again, Tom Donnegan promised himself that he would get out and exercise more. Maybe an hour a day down at the Pentagon Athletic Center. Maybe peddle a stationary bike while he ruminated over the knotty problems that found their way to his desk in search of solutions and decisions. But he knew himself well enough to be assured such a lifestyle change would never happen.

Too much shit going on. Too many bad guys to keep track of. Copious troubles constantly in the offing, many of which could change the face of the planet if allowed to fester and metastasize.

He stepped over to the window of his E-Ring office and stared out at the Potomac River and the Washington Monument beyond, just now catching the early morning sunshine. The view always reminded him why he was here, doing this thankless job, anonymously protecting his country the best way he knew how.

The moments at the window helped his disposition if not his back muscles. After a few seconds, he turned and sat back down at his desk. Nothing in the pile had moved. It all still needed to be read, digested, and acted upon. Quickly, decisively, and correctly.

Jim Ward’s report had Donnegan stymied. Why was the top dog in Somalia taking a late-night meeting with the top dog in Yemen in a very secluded corner of the Sudanese desert? Two men who openly and viciously hated each other? And who was this guy in the business suit who appeared to have called the conclave in the first place?

Donegan riffled through the report again, as if he would find the answers to his questions somehow hidden there. The photographs of Sheik al-Wasragi were very clear. The murderous Wahabi terrorist ruled the lawless regions of Somalia with an iron fist, making use of the chaos and unbelievable human suffering for his own nefarious purposes. There were reliable reports that