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

sisters heading to Chabahar. The crew, mostly conscripts, had been looking forward to a few weeks tied up in Bandar Abbas, taking care of all the chores associated with a new ship, but also enjoying the port city’s nightlife. Rumors soon spread that the night life in Chabahar was even better, and able to be enjoyed every evening.

It was not long before those rumors were proved fanciful. Once at their assigned position, the Russian “technicians” came onboard with stacks of gear and bulky instrumentation. Given the small minesweeper’s size, a half-dozen extra crewmembers and all their equipment made for a very cramped space. And the Russians insisted on claiming the best quarters, leaving most of the crew to sleep on deck.

The Iranians could see the lights of Chabahar just on the horizon, so tantalizingly close yet so impossibly far away. And their mission was unbelievably tedious. Naranjee Sayyad did nothing but steam back and forth, day after endless day, her Russian-made sonar sensors trailing along behind, dragging only a few meters off the sandy, rock-strewn bottom. The minesweeper’s sister ships were a few hundred yards off in all directions, steaming in the same loose formation as they searched the cluttered bottom for no one knew exactly what. Each mine sweeper also trailed a sophisticated new side-scan sonar—a recent gift from Moscow—searching the sea bottom for anything that could help determine who had dared to try to destroy their new submarine.

Something. Anything. Any evidence that might be part of the mines that had damaged the Boz-Manand so their suspected source could be confirmed to the satisfaction of a wary world.

Hours, days, weeks of fruitless searching had long since worn the edge off the sailors’ nerves. At first, every bottom contact had been exciting. The ship would whoosh to a frothy halt. The divers jumped in their high-speed Zodiac boat, sped out to the spot, and then dove to the bottom, only to find a rusted refrigerator dumped off some fishing boat fifty years before or a rusty oil drum of unknown source or vintage.

By now the Russian sonar watch standers hardly looked at their phosphorescent screens. The divers mostly lay sprawled on the minesweeper’s after deck, smoking their harsh Farvardin cigarettes, telling tales of previous adventures and conquests as they waited for the occasional alarm. But mostly waiting for time to pass and this fruitless search to finally be halted.

Then a blob abruptly appeared on the screen. One even the sleepy sonar watch could not ignore, in an area of the gulf they had scanned at least a dozen times already. It looked bright and new, though, and it had the general sleek shape of a bomb or torpedo. Evil-looking. Dangerous.

Deadly.

The watch stander gasped, looked again to confirm what he had seen, and then reached up and rang the alarm.

Out on the sun-drenched after deck, the divers frowned, groused, then languidly grabbed their gear and reluctantly plopped into the Zodiac yet again. So, one more dive into the warm, shallow waters to pull up yet another hunk of jettisoned trash.

But the divers—even at depth—looked at each other in disbelief as they approached the object. It was something decidedly hard and certainly metallic. And, as they swam near, there was no doubt it was a weapon of some kind. A weapon with a propeller and an ugly, gun-looking snout.

And something else came clear as they carefully towed the object to the surface.

An unmistakable American flag painted right there on the weapon’s nameplate.

Ψ

The insistent buzzing tore Ben Tahib from his sleep. It was his first night in more nights than he could remember in his own bed. His wife Sheila’s comforting warm form had nuzzled up next to him. Who would be so very uncivilized to call him in the middle of the night?

The reporter groped for the offending device, resisting the tempting urge to fling it against the wall. “Tahib,” he mumbled into the mouthpiece.

“The Pulitzer that you seek will be posthumous.” The voice was gruff and menacing. “You ask too many questions. People who cross Mr. Talbot have a way of disappearing. And their family. Enjoy your last night with your wife.”

Before he could form an answer, Tahib realized he was holding a dead receiver. Not just disconnected, but dead. No dial tone, nothing. A cold chill went down his back. Working the Middle East beat, he was no stranger to death threats, but this one sounded very real and very close to home.

Tahib hung up the phone and reached into the nightstand for the 9mm Glock that he always kept there.

Sheila stirred and rolled over. “What is it?” she asked. “Come back to bed.” Then she saw the gun he held and was instantly wide awake.

He punched the panic alarm button on the security system controller. Anyone living in Qatar in his position would be a fool not to maintain the very latest in security systems, and Tahib’s was top of the line. The alarm sent an immediate message to the local police station and slid armored steel panels over the bedroom doors and windows, creating an impregnable safe room.

That’s when he heard the gas whistling in.

15

Tom Donnegan sat at his desk rubbing his breastbone. Damned stomach acid! Seemed to have gotten worse lately. Could be that new chef in the flag mess and his fondness for conjuring up that spicy Tex-Mex. Or the fact that Donnegan had to constantly lean over nowadays to try to see the tangle of pixels on the six digital displays that claimed all the real estate atop his rugged old oak desk, a hunk of furniture that pre-dated most computer technology. Or maybe it was just that the admiral was getting old and his digestive system was finally succumbing to the constant daily stress.

Massaging his breastbone and leaning back in the squeaky old chair seemed to help. The pain started to subside just a bit.