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

Babak took a couple of steps. Pointing at two of Monagnad’s crew, he shouted angrily, “You two! You are Israeli Jew spies.” He threw the passports on the deck and drew his pistol.

The two started to protest and Monagnad pushed his way to protect his men. One of the guards smashed the Ocean Mystery’s captain to the deck as two shots rang out. Monagnad had a faint impression through a pain-filled haze of the two falling to the deck and then being dragged to the gunwale, where they were tossed over the side like garbage.

The guards, without another word, shoved the prisoners toward an open hatch in the white superstructure. The crew, completely cowed by the extreme violence they had just witnessed and in fear of what awaited them in the near future, made their way past the complicated maze of multi-colored piping that snaked around the main deck.

They were shoved through the hatch and then directed into a small room with the others. The door slammed shut. Monagnad could hear the lock turn behind him with unsettling finality.

Monagnad was furious beyond words but he shakily complied. For now, he was powerless to even help himself, let alone save his crew.

Then the screaming started, high-pitched and blood-chilling. Somewhere very close by.

Only an hour after the tanker had arrived on the scene, the closely bound flotilla was underway and steaming west. There was nothing left in this lonely little bit of ocean to tell that anything had taken place here, that a state-of-the-art research vessel and its crew, captured by gun-wielding pirates, had been taken under the wing of a mysterious tanker ship and led away into the bright day. Nothing. Not even a lingering eddy.

However, a hundred feet beneath the surface, three yellow, unmanned mini-subs had ceased their slow circling and pointed their blunt noses west, faithfully following the acoustic beacon attached to Ocean Mystery’s keel, a device that was still broadcasting its homing signal. Like faithful pet dogs, the little subs would follow the electromagnetic scent of their master until the research ship broadcast a rendezvous command.

Or until they ran out of fuel.

Ψ

Bill Beaman gazed out the window of the Airbus 330 as the Turkish Air flight from Istanbul made its final approach into Islamabad International. He always got a window seat when he flew commercial. He wanted to know the lay of the land, to stay updated on where they were, what there was to be seen way down there below them, in the unlikely event he was called upon to do something sudden and violent. And he hated people in search of a restroom crawling over him in the dead of night.

He also enjoyed watching the scenery. Even at five in the morning, the Pakistani capital city glittered brightly off in the distance, like a bejeweled belt stretched around the bulk of dark mountains to the north.

The officially retired US Navy SEAL half listened as the flight attendant rattled on, urging the flight load of tourists and businessmen to carefully fill out the customs entry documentation. He sipped the last few drops of the very good Turkish coffee and sat back in the surprisingly comfortable seat. At least now he could bill “Uncle Sugar” for business class accommodations, which included unlimited cups of the dark coffee, a couple of satisfying meals, and a selection of popular movies—albeit with dialogue in no language Beaman spoke—on the seat-back video display. Even better, he would not be required to jump out of the perfectly good aircraft before it landed, as so often had been the case in his previous line of work.

Beaman smiled as he remembered the last time he had flown into a foreign country. With any luck, this time people would not be shooting at him as he disembarked. Good thing, too. His only weapon would be his tourist passport or hard-sided laptop computer case.

A good solid bump brought him out of his reverie as the plane bounced onto the tarmac. Then the snug tug of his seatbelt as the pilot braked aggressively to swing off the runway and onto a taxiway.

Beaman grinned and said out loud, “Well, once again we have cheated death.”

Nobody around him even smiled. None of them apparently spoke English. And the flight attendant, the lovely one with the perfect body and dark, seductive smile, was strapped into the jump seat at the front of the plane.

Well, Beaman said, this time to himself, I suppose it is time to get to work. Admiral Donnegan didn’t yank me out of the Peace and Plenty Bar and fly my ass halfway around the world to relive my past glorious exploits.

The plane eased into a parking spot without hesitation. Then the jetway bumped up against the side at the forward door. Almost immediately the herd of bleary-eyed cattle onboard the Airbus poured into the aisle and started pushing toward the exit. Bill Beaman grabbed his carry-on bag and computer case and then joined the impatient flow off the plane and toward customs.

There the equally bleary-eyed official hardly glanced at Beaman’s tourist passport before stamping the visa, asking him in brutal English if he carried any illegal drugs, weapons, explosives, or agricultural products, and then motioning him on toward baggage claim. Beaman had long suppressed the urge to answer that yes, he did have a carry-on full of C-4, a computer bag crammed with heroin, and a shiny Granny White apple in his jacket pocket. But not today. He was on the job. But how silly! What self-respecting smuggler would answer affirmatively to such a stupid question.

Beaman was surprised when his checked bag was already on the carousel, rotating back toward the opening to make another circuit. He ran to catch up with it before it disappeared, pleased the sprint