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

he sometimes worked with the Egyptian Sunni terrorist group Al-Jama’a al-Islamiyya, Boko Haram in Nigeria, as well as several other Sunni terrorist organizations in Africa, possibly with plans to unite them into one mighty dangerous entity. But so far, most of his efforts had been spent ruthlessly squashing the many small groups of bandits and terrorists that claimed bits and pieces of Somalia.

And then there was General Babak. The Iranian Revolutionary Guard general, the behind-the-curtain leader of the Houthi rebels in Yemen, the monster directly and proudly responsible for massacres that slaughtered entire loyalist villages. The sadistic revolutionary terrorist had made a career out of killing Sunni Muslims wherever he might encounter them. Often by his own hand if no lackey was nearby to do the deed.

How could these two brutes possibly be in the same place at the same time without war breaking out? But the pictures did not lie.

Then the real puzzle: who was the little man in the rumpled business suit, the one obviously in total control of the desert rendezvous? The one who produced and turned over a stunning amount of gold? And what could all that gold possibly be purchasing?

The Prophet? Who was this man who could demand such respect—even fear—from such brutal, egomaniacal, and hardened terrorists?

For years now Donnegan had seen hints and mentions of such a super-terrorist, a man that even the worst of the lot bowed to. But the admiral considered it mere legend. In this day and age, such a self-styled, latter-day Prophet—a direct descendant of Muhammad returned to reunite the faithful in a final jihad against the infidels of the world according to the wilder speculation—could never exist.

Donnegan had seen other reports that the Prophet claimed to have descended from the high mountains in the East to lead jaysh allah—Allah’s Army—to personally oversee the “final campaign.” Most in the world’s intelligence community had shoved such reports aside, regarding them as little more than Yeti sightings or UFO rumors. Or, at the most, simple wishful thinking by the most radical Islamic terrorists. Fairy tales to be discounted and ignored. There were far more legitimate concerns that required attention.

But now, a hint, maybe more of a hunch, told Tom Donnegan that there might actually be something there. A man or men who had convinced such jaded radicals to peacefully come to the same place at the same time and breathe the same air, then haul away a fortune in gold into the desert night.

Was this proof that years of mythical mumblings might actually have substance? Did this Prophet really exist? And if so, if he had such power, not to mention so much gold, how had he managed to avoid showing up on the world’s radar screen when so many were constantly looking for the next dire threat?

Donnegan rubbed his temples. Too damn many questions. Each one only made the throbbing at the base of his skull more intense. But the admiral knew it was up to him to get answers. The right answers. Only then could this threat be evaluated, and appropriate action taken.

The old admiral could see that he could do two things right away to stir the pot some and see what boiled to the surface. First, he dashed off a quick message with orders for Jim Ward and his team. A little mission that might sow some confusion. Then he grabbed a phone and dialed a well-remembered number. After a series of clicks, beeps, and long pauses for the security system to catch up, the call finally rang through.

“Peace and Plenty Grill.” The familiar voice was skewed by a forced island lilt. “Let the umbrella drinks and warm sand wash away your troubles in our little island paradise.”

Donnegan laughed.

“Drop the marketing! This ain’t no customer. I need to speak with a broken-down old SEAL, reportedly well pickled in cheap rum and cheaper suntan oil.”

Bill Beaman chuckled. “Ain’t nothing cheap about my rum, Boss. And I prefer ‘preserved’ to ‘pickled.’ How can I help you, Admiral?”

“We won’t quibble semantics when it comes to your questionable sobriety, Sailor!”

“Agreed, then. Something tells me you aren’t calling to book a quick weekend on the beach.”

After years putting out conflagrations around the globe and a few too many broken bones and gunshot wounds, Bill Beaman had retired as a SEAL. He promptly bought a bar and motel in a quiet corner of the Bahamas, a place where one of his last adventures had occurred. But he, too, had trouble stepping away from a violent and intense lifestyle. He continued to consult when called upon. There had been no lack of business so far.

“Not this time, Bill,” Donnegan confirmed. “Maybe when things slow down a bit Louise and I can get down there and hold down a deck chair next to a pool for a while and gauge the quality of that rum for ourselves.” The shift in gears in Donnegan’s voice was obvious, at least to Beaman. “Right now, though, I need to hire you on for a little bit of side work.”

“Let me guess. Something so deep down and obscure, your cohorts and not even your bosses know about it. And won’t, unless we fail.”

“That about sizes it up, Bill.” Donnegan paused. Beaman listened to the hum on the secure line. “I need for you to take a trip. How is your Pashto?”

Ψ

Nabiin, the Prophet, sat back on the piled cushions and prepared to listen. It was time for his top lieutenants to report and then they would receive their orders. A drawback of living in this isolated mountain cave—although only a minor one considering the many advantages—was that his people were required to make the dangerous and time-consuming trek to report even the most mundane activities or to