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

“And?” Glass asked. The omelet smelled wonderful.

“Captain, we did not regain either Sierra Two-Seven or Two-Eight. Currently hold no towed array contacts.”

Glass shook his head. Such was submarine warfare. It was not unusual to lose contact as the result of a maneuver. Frustrating as hell, and especially when trying to draw a bead on an especially interesting contact. But not unusual.

“Very well. Stay on this course for an hour and conduct a careful sonar search. If we haven’t regained contact by then, come back to the northwest and resume the navigator’s track.”

Glass had lost his appetite. He picked at the eggs and bacon as he considered the situation.

Ψ

Arman Dirbaz stared hard at the barnacle-encrusted device lying on the Naranjee Sayyad’s after deck. It looked like a miniature submarine—a plaything—maybe two meters long and twenty-five centimeters in diameter. At the after end was a small plastic screw that propelled it. A very evil-looking gun barrel-like device, maybe five centimeters in diameter, protruded from the bow.

“So, this is what the divers found?” the Iranian engineer asked.

“Yes, Mohandes Doktor,” a sailor answered. “It was lying on the bottom in the mud at thirty meters depth.”

Dirbaz squatted down to get a better look while Vassily Godonov slowly circled the device. Finally, he squatted next to his friend and touched it.

“I have heard rumors that such a thing was possible,” Godonov finally said. Dirbaz glanced over at him as he went on. “It’s really not much more than a small cannon that fires a super-cavitating very-high-speed bullet. The super-cavitation makes certain that the projectile is always traveling in a cloud of steam. That means the water does not slow it down. And that it ultimately hits its target with tremendous velocity.”

Dirbaz nodded. “That explains the round holes blown through Boz-Manand’s hull.” The engineer tapped the nameplate with the American flag and the words "Property of the US Navy” engraved on it. “And there is no doubt where this technology came from and who used it on us. We must inform Navy Command at Bandar Abbas. I am sure our government will want to bring this to the attention of the entire world. And to respond immediately and powerfully. We, of course, will get this up to the shop to disassemble. We will learn much.”

Godonov stood, scratching his head, a telling frown on his face.

“There are still two things that trouble me, Arman.” He pointed to the front of the UUV. “This is a single-shot weapon. Boz-Manand was hit twice. This means there is at least one more mine out there and probably more.”

Dirbaz gazed out across the water, toward the mouth of the harbor and the sea beyond. He shivered just a bit.

“You said there were two things that trouble you, my friend.”

“The Americans would have known there was a possibility one of their devices might be recovered.” The Russian leaned in again to touch the bold symbols attached to the weapon’s skin. “Yes, they are arrogant. Yes, they are haughty and typically proud of their aggression. But why would they intentionally alert the world to this attack so clearly inside your territorial waters? What would be their purpose in so blatantly advertising their participation in this ambush with this obvious evidence yet not holding press conferences to brag about what they have done, as usual?”

The engineer once again contemplated the gathering gloom of night out toward the open waters. He had no answer to the Russian’s questions.

Ψ

It took the police an hour to break through the security system in Ben Tahib’s apartment. Both the reporter and his wife were passed out, she slumped across their bed and he lying on the thick Persian carpet.

The police were mystified. There was no sign of forced entry. Nothing seemed out of place. Despite Tahib’s mumbling of gas, there was no trace of any.

Just as a precaution, and because Ben Tahib was a Very Important Person, the police rushed the pair off to the hospital under heavy and close protective guard. Guards in their rooms, in the hallway outside, even an armored car at the hospital entrance.

The medical examinations revealed nothing for either, other than Tahib was twenty pounds overweight and had elevated cholesterol. And Shelia was six weeks pregnant.

It was just after evening prayers when the in-room guard mumbled something about the bathroom and stepped out of Tahib’s room.

The door had just swung shut when the phone jangled. The deep, growling voice was the same as before. “Heed your warning. The next time you won’t wake up. You want to see your new son grow up. Forget you ever heard of a ship called Ocean Mystery. Forget about Mr. Talbot and Nabiin, the Prophet. Forget these things and you may live to enjoy your grandchildren.”

Ben Tahib was still staring at the phone when the guard returned with a cup of coffee.

16

Captain Yves Monagnad came up slowly from the depths of unconscious sleep. The groggy, half-awake, uncomprehending state left him confused, disoriented. Where was he? Was it day or night? What day was it? It took a moment before he realized that he was still alone, that he remained in a locked storeroom, deep in the bowels of his ship, the research vessel RV Ocean Mystery. Held hostage by some mysterious, ill-tempered, and very violent Arabs. A group of pirates who had attacked his ship and overpowered his crew and now treated him and his men as prisoners of war. Prisoners from a conflict of which they were completely unaware and certainly not combatants.

He shook his head, tried to see his hands in the darkness and clear the fog in his brain. But he still had no idea what day or time it was. As far as he knew, he could have been locked here for a couple of days or a couple of weeks. With no point of reference, there simply was no way to know.

What could these brutal men want?