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

bad guys. And he had come out of blissful retirement at the request of Tom Donnegan to hunt down an especially despicable one of the species. So far, though, all the training required to perform this mission had been gained while marching around the quad on drill days back in college ROTC. One foot in front of the other. Don’t march into something solid. Or into the middle of a flag football game over near the bell tower.

The retired SEAL was about to conclude the Prophet was hiding out with the Yeti and the Abominable Snowman. Maybe they had met up with Santa Claus and were playing high-stakes poker up at the North Pole.

But Beaman understood that there were instances in which an experienced, alert, inquisitive human being on the ground could learn far more than high-resolution eyes from outer space could see. Or that big ears monitoring the radio-frequency spectrum could possibly hear. He and Abdul had eventually worked their way south into the Sulaiman Mountains in what had so far been a futile search. The central Pakistan government had long ago given up hope of exercising their will over this trackless frontier. They simply labeled it as “Tribal Lands” and let whatever strongman who could manage to do so grab power at the point of a gun.

Beaman grunted and slowly stood, stretching his tired legs and scratching his dirty beard. He could only take consolation in knowing that there being no hint of the Prophet’s presence here had some value to those who needed to know. Some minimal value.

At least we know where he ain’t, Beaman thought.

His resting place was high up on the side of a peak named Takht-e-Sulaiman, the famous “Throne of Solomon.” Legend had it that King Solomon himself had climbed this mountain and looked down on what was now India. All was darkness so Solomon turned his back on the region. Well, it was getting dark now and nearly time for Bill Beaman to resume his wild goose chase.

The rude campsite was barely more than a couple of square yards of relatively flat ground on a trail that was precipitously strung along near-vertical rock walls. Abdul had hiked away a couple of hours ago in search of food and, if possible, information. No matter where they ventured, Abdul seemed to have an uncanny knack for finding some shepherd or traveler with supplies to share. And, sometimes, a tiny bit of gossip. But this time it would be a challenge to locate either. The pair had hiked since well before sunrise and had seen no signs of human habitation or activity along the way. The area—though contained in the region they had been told to cover, based on strong intelligence—was truly desolate. The tiny village of Darazinda was the closest thing to civilization anywhere around, and it was several kilometers on the other side of the mountain and a few thousand meters lower down the slope.

Beaman was just about to begin exploring a little farther up the trail when he heard a faint, far-off mechanical noise. No freeway or airfield up here. But the noise increased in intensity as it drew nearer. Then it resolved itself into the steady beat of a heavy military helicopter that seemed to be approaching from somewhere below him and beyond a bend in the path.

Beaman ducked behind a boulder but peered carefully up and over it. There was no reason for a chopper to be way up here.

Then he saw it rise above the lip of the cliff and proceed almost straight ahead, as if the pilot knew exactly where he was going. It was a mud-brown, camouflage-decorated AW-139 transport helicopter bearing the distinctive green and white roundel of the Pakistani Air Force. The craft flashed past Beaman, much closer than he would have preferred. He ducked until it was by him. It was flying low, hugging the mountainside.

Beaman again raised his head just enough to watch but tried to stay in the deep shadows cast by the setting sun. Damn, it was curious! A PAF helicopter, flying a covert, nap-of-the-earth flight profile, way up here at this altitude and distance from anything worth protecting or hiding from. No, way up here, their biggest threat was crashing into some rocky outcrop or being buffeted by a sudden wind gust. Not having to maneuver to avoid anti-aircraft fire.

Beaman grabbed his binoculars and watched as the big helicopter banked steeply around a very narrow ridgeline. Then it flared out to hover over a slight shelf on a bluff across the valley from him. A shelf too slim for the chopper to set down.

But then, Beaman could see a dozen men—all clearly armed—dressed in native garb. They broke from cover and rushed toward the hovering bird, almost as if they were being chased. As four members of the group were lifted and pulled up into the transport, the others fanned out and took defensive positions, looking and waving their rifle barrels in all directions. Then the helicopter quickly banked away and retraced its flight path directly over where Bill Beaman tried to make himself invisible. Finally, it roared its way back down the valley and out of sight.

The armed men, crouched low to avoid the bird’s prop wash, were already sprinting back into the shadows to promptly become lost from sight among the rocks.

Beaman shook his head. What in hell had he just seen?

He quickly took a bearing on the clandestine rendezvous point and locked it into his GPS. Something like what he had just witnessed, happening in this forgotten part of the world, was certainly worth closer investigation. And required sharing with his bosses. Soonest.

He packed up what few meager supplies they had left and slid back deeper into the darkness and cover of the boulders to wait for Abdul. They needed to get moving. The pair would not be camping here tonight. Once it was fully dark, they would begin a long, hard hike to get across the valley.