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

large enough for the research vessel to slip in and snug right up next to the tall outcropping. Careful observation would have confirmed that this docking slip had only recently been blasted out of solid stone. Even in the pre-dawn semi-light, the raw, ugly scars showed brightly against dark, weathered rock.

By the time the sun edged above the eastern horizon, the Persian Star had moved on, now only a tiny silhouette in the distance. Ocean Mystery and her playmates had already disappeared again, this time beneath huge camouflage curtains draped down from the top of the rock ledge. Anyone steaming through the area would have to risk colliding with the cliffs before they could have seen the curtains or the vessels they so effectively hid. Eyes overhead—aircraft or satellite—would almost certainly never see them.

Meanwhile, half a mile offshore and a hundred feet under the surface, three vessels knew precisely where Ocean Mystery now floated. The persistent unmanned underwater vehicles had continued making a slow, wide circle. Without a specific mission assignment, their electronic brains would not allow them to go into water any shallower. Until told to do otherwise, they would faithfully circle out here, within range of Ocean Mystery’s acoustic signal, until either she called them in or came out to rendezvous. Or until they ran out of fuel.

Of course, running out of fuel was now becoming a very real possibility. Their supplies had been marginal when they arrived for the original meeting. Now, after transiting across the Arabian Sea, keeping within the prescribed distance from their mothership, they would soon be critically low.

Soon, commands or not, they would run dry and sink to the bottom, their service to their master no longer available.

Ψ

Bill Beaman’s muscles ached as he clung to the truck seat, trying to keep from being bounced all over the vehicle. How much higher could they possibly climb into these remote mountains before they would have to start dodging satellites and asteroids? Islamabad and any signs of civilization had long since been left behind them.

Abdul Yusufzai had promised a short ride in the country. That had been many dusty hours of bad road ago and plenty of painful bouncing about. Beaman was becoming more and more aware that he was no longer as young as he once had been, and despite a rigorous workout routine, he was no longer in SEAL shape either.

Rounding a curve in the road, Yusufzai suddenly jumped on the brake and skewed to a stop. A military checkpoint blocked their way. A squad of uniformed men guarded this unlikely outpost way up here in the middle of nowhere. Clearly, the soldiers were as surprised at being disturbed at their lunchtime activities as Beaman and Abdul were at running upon the checkpoint.

They all looked at each other for a moment, then the soldiers slowly rose from where they sat around a small campfire. A pair of them, hands resting on the grips of their sidearms, sauntered over to where Abdul had stopped the truck. The rest watched with interest but made no move to where their rifles were stacked neatly against a nearby boulder.

Beaman tensed and leaned forward, coiled, ready to defend himself.

“Just stay calm and quiet,” Abdul hissed. “These are Guardia. They are more interested in screwing goats than bothering us.”

Beaman nodded and leaned back. But his hand casually dropped to where his Sig pistol rested under his jacket on the seat next to him. Abdul cranked down the window, allowing in a blast of cold, dry air.

“Papers,” the ostensible leader growled in Punjabi as he stepped up to the driver’s side.

Abdul nodded then riffled through a wad of documents that he pulled from above the truck’s sun visor. He handed a couple to the guard.

After only a cursory glance, the guard handed them back and impatiently waved the truck on through. As they disappeared around the next turn, Beaman could see the squad hunker down around the campfire once more, likely grousing about the interruption. He saw no radios, no move to alert anyone up ahead that strangers were approaching.

Another hour and even higher up in the mountains, the old road opened out to an overlook, offering a sweeping view of a broad valley far below. With no explanation, Abdul pulled the truck over to the side of the road and climbed out. He reached behind the seat and retrieved a large, powerful spotting scope. Only then did he look to Beaman.

“Come. There is something I want you to see.”

Setting the scope across the truck hood, Abdul aimed it across the valley as he peered through the device. Then he motioned for Beaman to have a look.

“See that village over there, back up against the rock?” the Pakistani agent asked. Beaman looked, nodded. “I do. What about it?”

“It was not there last fall. It appeared up here sometime during the winter. We have received intel that the Pakistani ISI, the Inter-Services Intelligence, is using it to train anti-terrorists. Or to train terrorists.”

Beaman looked at Abdul quizzically. A brutally chill wind blew up from the valley. The big SEAL shivered.

“So, which is it?” he asked.

“We cannot be certain,” the agent said, in an almost mournful tone. “That, Captain, is our quandary. The Pakistanis, they have been our best allies. But, at times, our worst enemies.”

Beaman scratched the day’s growth of beard on his jaw.

“Trouble with war these days, you can’t tell your friends from your foes.” He bent over and looked again at the village. It looked like any other remote cluster, a few rough huts that had been there for millennia. “What do we do?”

Abdul Yusufzai ignored Beaman’s question. He leaned against the truck and took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, then removed one, placed it in his lips, and lit it. He offered Beaman the pack. The SEAL shook his head.

“Too many things out there could kill me. I don’t need another one.”

The brisk wind swept away the cigarette smoke.

“We are concerned by what we