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

leaving was vitally important. It was far too easy for someone to get injured and then lost in the smoke and confusion.

Finally, the fire hose team leader called out, “The fire is out. Stationing the reflash watch.”

Almost immediately the order came over the 1MC: “Prepare to emergency ventilate the operations compartment with the low-pressure blower.”

Jones grabbed his phone talker and moved into Machinery One. The fire might be out but there was important work to do, determining what was damaged and what could be fixed. And that work needed to start quickly, before the saltwater they used to fight the fire could leak into the delicate electronics.

The boat’s gentle rocking motion told Jones that they were at periscope depth. The 1MC blasted, “Commence ventilating.” The low-pressure blower, a very large exhaust fan, quickly sucked out the smoke and discharged it overboard. Jones and his exhausted firefighters removed their EABs and sucked in the clean, fresh sea air.

While the firefighting teams re-stowed their damage control equipment, Walt Smith, the Toledo’s engineer, arrived with a team of technicians to survey the blackened and fire-damaged equipment.

Jones slumped down on a chair, more exhausted than he could ever recall. He looked up to see Joe Glass, his poopie suit sopping wet with sweat, smoky grit streaking his face.

“Damn, Skipper, that was close,” the XO said wearily. “I hate fires. Unless they’re under some kind of barbecued pig.”

Glass was still forming a reply when Walt Smith stepped up.

“Skipper, XO, I have some bad news. Looks like both burners are gone. Don’t know about the scrubbers yet. The diesel might have some damage, too. We won’t know until we can disassemble and inspect.”

“Damn,” Glass responded with a grunt. “Any idea what caused the fire?”

“Best we can tell is that number one burner had an electrical fault,” Smith answered. “Looks like that caught some rags on fire and then it spread from there. Now, I got to finish the inspections, de-water, and wipe everything down. Then it’s time to figure out how to fix all this.”

“Thanks, Eng,” Glass replied. “I know you and your guys will do your best.” He turned to Jones. “XO, don’t we have a contact wandering around out there?”

The exec looked puzzled for an instant.

“Yeah, I guess we kind of got sidetracked.”

“Suggest we get un-sidetracked.”

Jones nodded and climbed tiredly to his feet.

Ψ

Norman Rothbert sighed wearily. A hell of a day. A long day. Even longer and more hellish than normal. From his Lower Manhattan penthouse corner office, he could see the sea of lights across the Hudson, in Jersey City. Over the other shoulder, Brooklyn. Someone in his lofty position, someone with his name on the door and the corner office, should not have to work such long hours.

Nadine would be asleep, but she would wake up long enough to let him know her displeasure with his lateness.

Tell it to the furrier and the jeweler and the plastic surgeon, he thought, each of whom she showered with the money he brought home in exchange for laboring into the night.

He angrily snapped shut his briefcase, hoisted it, and headed for the door. A couple of young associates still slaved away in the Starling-Rothbert bullpen, doubtless monitoring some market where it was already tomorrow. Both made certain to loudly tell Rothbert good night, clearly to make certain the boss took note of their diligence and dedication to the firm.

He did not give them the pleasure of that acknowledgement. The banker had other things on his mind.

It had now been weeks since he had received any transaction orders from Shaikh Khalid. Or, as he now insisted on being called, the Prophet. So disappointingly long now that it had been noticed by Rothbert’s partner. So long the effect of the non-activity had been reflected on the firm’s bottom line. Their best customer had suddenly and mysteriously gone stagnant.

I will attempt to contact him tomorrow, Rothbert thought as he waited for the elevator to glide up to the 50th floor. Whether the son of a bitch wants to hear from me or not. Total lack of courtesy and a violation of business ethics. If there is a problem...

With a ding, the elevator arrived, and its doors swooshed open. There was someone in the car, in the back corner, but Rothbert was so deep in his thoughts of the Prophet and his unsettling visit to the man’s mountain lair in Pakistan and the back-breaking amount of work he had done for the freakish guy since that trip—work that could have led to God-knows-what troubles if there had been even the tiniest of slipups—that he hardly noticed his fellow lift passenger. Or wondered why he would ride up to the top floor of the building and then back down again.

Rothbert did not even bother to nod to the man as he stepped into the elevator and the door closed.

“The Prophet is grateful for your work on behalf of his network,” the passenger said as Rothbert hit the “1” button.

“Excuse me?”

In one move, the man touched the button for the 10th floor, lifted his other hand, and inserted a hypodermic needle into Norman Rothbert’s jugular.

The door opened as requested at the 10th floor. The man stepped out into an empty hallway lined with identical doors in both directions.

Rothbert stood there, stunned, a questioning look on his face. Then the banker slumped heavily to the floor as the mysterious man walked away and the elevator door closed.

The medical examiner would later determine the cause of death to be an embolism, likely caused from overwork and stress.

Others would consider the demise of Norman Rothbert to be a loose end now properly tied up.

17

Bill Beaman was one frustrated dude! He and Abdul, his Pashtun guide, had already spent weeks traipsing all over the Hindu Kush looking for any possible clues or signs to point them toward the elusive, phantom-like Nabiin, the shadowy figure who called himself the Prophet. Beaman had joined the Navy and put in for SEAL training to go after