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

receive guidance in carrying out their missions. Employing the usual modern communications technology was certainly possible. Nabiin’s organization owned plenty of it and had the capability to use it. But the risks of detection, of someone catching wind of the momentous events about to play out, were simply too high. Nabiin had learned the lessons obvious in the fate of the late Osama bin Laden. The Prophet knew to remain safely hidden, well back in the shadows, even in supposedly friendly territory. To deal harshly with even the most minor slips in secrecy or discretion. And he did not employ the available electronic systems, no matter how much easier they would have made communication between his far-flung network and his mountaintop aerie.

When necessary and prudent, Nabiin summoned several of his top commanders for a strategy session. In person, carefully concealed, with intricate steps taken so as not to raise the suspicions of some intelligence agency somewhere. Just such a meeting was now playing out before the Prophet.

“The Chinese continue to expand their facilities in Gwadar,” reported Farian Gurmani, one of the two men standing in the back of the chamber. “Their submarine piers will handle at least six vessels at a time, even including nuclear-powered ones. And they continue to construct facilities for their surface fleet. Especially impressive are the ones for their aircraft carriers.”

Nabiin nodded. “Good, good. It is as Allah wishes.”

A slender, hawk-faced man seated on a cushion to Nabiin’s right suddenly raised both hands in consternation. Gurmani and the other man tensed. A slight move of Nabiin’s index finger told them to allow the man to speak.

“Forgive me, Master,” Beren Sheedi interjected. He represented the Balochs of Wuristan, the nomadic people who clawed life from the sandy plateau region where Iran, Afghanistan, and Pakistan slammed together. “I do not understand how Chinese in-roads into my own homeland could possibly be Allah’s will. And certainly not when they persecute our Uyghur and Hui brothers in Xinjiang. Please help me understand.”

Nabiin looked sideways at Sheedi for a long moment. No one in the room breathed. Then the Prophet spoke as if addressing a particularly slow child. “I will explain, then. It is written that it is better to stand aside and allow the jackal to worry the tiger. They will both grow tired and thus become easier prey. Be assured, the Chinese are unwittingly doing our bidding. Allah’s bidding. They are making our Hindu neighbors very nervous and, meanwhile, effectively keeping the American dog at bay. And that further assures that none of them will hear the subtle rustlings of our movement until our adversaries have been stalked and speared.”

“I now understand, Master,” Beren Sheedi said humbly, dropping his head. “Thank you for answering my ignorant question.”

Nabiin ignored the man’s obvious groveling.

“Now, someone tell me, where is the report from our Sudanese banker friend? What was his name?”

“Phillip Tong,” Gurmani answered quickly, proudly. The Prophet thought highly of his followers who could supply correct and immediate answers to his abrupt and most unanticipated questions. Gurmani would have shoved his own mother aside to be the first to respond to his master. “He reports that the payments are in place, as are the orders for the participants. This we have been able to confirm. Our operative in New York has also been especially efficient and effective to this point as well. Clearly, your meeting with him...”

Gurmani paused, assaying Nabiin’s reaction to the information. The Prophet had a slight smile on his face, a good sign. A frown could portend fatal results. Gurmani went on.

“Also, I am most pleased to report, Master, that the Ocean Mystery operation was conducted precisely as planned. The ship has been taken, effectively concealed, and is now being moved to the island for investigation. And in monitoring the usual channels, it appears no one has even missed the ship to this point.”

Nabiin nodded slowly and rubbed his chin. The smile behind his beard was noticeably larger, approving. “It is good. The plan is proceeding as intended. Soon now the infidels will feel our wrath. And by then, it will be far too late for them to do anything about it.”

Nabiin smiled and then slowly rose. He stretched and walked around the confined room, his hands clenched behind his back. Then he pointed to a large map hung on the far wall of the cave room, illuminated by lights recessed into the granite wall. And he began to preach in an odd, sing-song voice.

“The Yawm al-Qiyamah, the Last Judgment, is at hand. All of the signs written in the holy Qur’an foretell it. The Hadith in the words of Muhammad teaches that there will be a time of great tribulation. The faithful will be required to come through the fires of purification. The infidels will ultimately fall to our swords. At last, it is time for the final Jihad!”

Nabiin’s voice rose in pitch as he ranted on. He was practically screaming when he finished with, “The Al-Malhama Al-Kubra, the Great Battle of the End Times, is at last about to rage across the planet. The Mahdi’s return is near. You are leaders of his army. And I...I am his Prophet.”

7

The dawn was little more than a bare glimmer of shimmering gold on the eastern horizon when an impossibly big ship appeared, virtually wiping away the rising orb. It was a massive tanker, steaming confidently straight and true, far from the normal shipping routes. But not far enough off to raise anyone’s curiosity. There could be any number of reasons why such a vessel might deviate from the usual tanker superhighway. Maintenance. A pickup from one of the smaller backwater refineries. Delivery to one of the out-of-the-way storage facilities in the region.

Now, though, if anyone was watching, the tanker appeared to be heading straight for a little group of vessels that had been sitting in one spot for the past five hours or so. The group