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

foot to the left of the light, followed by a second shot, this one to the right. Another scream and the flashlight went skidding across the floor, illuminating the room in tumbling light before it died out.

More shots followed, stabbing blindly into the inky darkness.

Beaman was about to conclude that they would fire blindly in the dark at an unknown number of terrorists until they expended all their ammunition. Then they would have to punch and stab their way out in virtual darkness. If a stray round did not take one of them out first.

The overhead lights suddenly flashed on. Beaman took a quick shot at a blurry figure disappearing deeper into the cave. The man tumbled, rolled, and lay there in a heap.

The SEAL twisted at the sound of a footstep to his left. A shot. A muzzle flash. A burning pain lanced through Beaman’s left shoulder, three inches from his neck. Behind the flash, a terrorist stood up, in the same motion drawing another bead on him. Slowed by the pain, the wounded SEAL failed to react quickly enough.

But then, off to his right, there was a sharp muzzle blast. A red dot appeared squarely in the center of the terrorist’s forehead as his head snapped backward by the force of the bullet from Abdul’s 357 Magnum pistol. The fighter was dead before his body slumped to the cave floor.

All was quiet. The gunfight was over. Beaman counted a half dozen terrorists sprawled about on the cave floor. He insisted on completing a search of the cave before he would let Abdul tend to his wounded shoulder.

“I’ve had worse scrapes playing handball,” he growled.

They found only a mound of still-hot ashes that had likely been a pile of papers. Obviously important papers because someone had risked death to destroy them.

Then they found the smashed remains of a laptop computer. They could only hope that the hard drive was intact enough that data could be retrieved. It, too, was clearly of value if it could be deciphered.

Only then did they take time for Abdul to do quick first aid on Beaman’s shoulder wound.

“A little to the right and that bullet would have ricocheted off your hard head,” Abdul told him.

Beaman winced.

“Jesus, Abdul. What you putting on there? Cayenne pepper?”

“Merely antiseptic. We do not need for your wound to become infected, considering the hike we have ahead of us.”

Beaman stood and buttoned up. He moved his arm around in the shoulder socket, his face expressionless.

“Good as new. Let’s call us an Uber and get the hell out of this damn hole in the ground.”

A slight smile played on Abdul’s lips.

“It is true what you SEALs say then. Get comfortable being uncomfortable, right?”

“Damn straight!”

Beaman slid the mangled laptop into his backpack and put the strap over his good shoulder. They stepped outside into the frigid darkness and started the trek back down the peak, bound for the distant extraction point.

No Prophet. But maybe they carried the key to finding the shadowy son of a bitch.

19

Joe Glass watched contentedly as his team put all their experience and training to work. They had slipped in behind the Chinese Yuan submarine and quickly resolved a tracking solution on her. Now they were setting up to do a covert trail eight thousand yards astern of the unsuspecting submarine, ready to trail her as long as necessary.

With all the racket that the other submarine made as it snorkeled across the Indian Ocean, Glass knew that it really was not that much of a challenge to stay with her. But once the Chinese vessel stopped snorkeling, it would be much more difficult to maintain tactical control of the situation. The waters around them were about to get considerably more crowded and noisy, as well.

LTjg Bob Ronson slightly adjusted the solution for the Yuan. The data seemed to fit a bit higher speed. The other boat had not exactly floorboarded it, but even the smallest change had to be accounted for to make certain Toledo remained in her shadow.

“Officer of the Deck, solution tracking at eight point two knots, best course still three-one-two,” Ronson called out. “Recommend change course to two-nine-five, increase speed to twelve knots.”

Glass sat down next to the young officer and grinned.

“Having fun yet, Mr. Ronson?”

“Yes, sir!” Ronson answered enthusiastically. “I just love it that we are actually doing something. This is a hell of a sight more fun than the attack teacher.”

Glass nodded, recalling his first mission, now almost twenty years ago. It had been fun and terrifying at the same time. But once things were happening, he forgot to be nervous or hesitant. Simply follow the training. Do as he was taught.

Glass was about to share that experience with Ronson but Doc Halliday stepped up, interrupting.

“Skipper, atmospheres are out of spec. CO2 is nearly four percent. Hydrocarbons are out of spec high. And we now have detectable carbon monoxide. We really need to ventilate the ship.”

Glass frowned but nodded. Unless they all manned EABs and sucked rubber, and if they actually wanted to be able to breathe, ventilating was the only choice.

Glass stood and stepped over to where Walt Smith was watching the BQQ-10 sonar display. The Yuan’s track was a clear, bright streak on the screen. Now they were about to conduct an operation that would likely make the streak dimmer and maybe even risk losing their contact with the Chinese submarine altogether.

“How good is your solution, Eng?” Glass asked Smith. “How far out do you think you can hold him?”

Smith looked at the display for a moment.

“Skipper, the solution has been tracking within half a knot speed and a couple of degrees course all watch. He has been most cooperative and has not maneuvered a bit. With this SNR, I reckon we can hold him broadband out to twenty thousand yards pretty easy.”

“Okay. Open out to twenty thousand yards. Stay deep in his baffles. Then let’s go up and ventilate for an hour.”

Based on the signal-to-noise ratio in