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

in the process, Beaman managed to get himself winged. Not only was a wound problematic in that primitive part of the planet but it would necessarily generate ungodly amounts of paperwork because of the former SEAL’s rather fuzzy status in the grand military/intelligence spectrum.

Getting Bill, Abdul Yusufzai, and the laptop out of the Tribal Region without a lot of uncomfortable questions from the Pakistani government had been challenging. The Pakistanis typically took exception to someone dropping into their country, traipsing around sensitive territory, and shooting up a bunch of their citizens.

Fortunately, Beaman and Yusufzai had emerged from the mountains within a few miles of the Afghan border. And, as Donnegan knew he would, Abdul Yusufzai had been resourceful in getting Beaman patched up—at least temporarily—and then transported (aboard a local donkey) to and across the border, all with no snags.

Donnegan shook his head as he considered how the donkey ride across rough country must have felt to Beaman’s wounded shoulder. Wasn’t the first time the old SEAL had been plugged. Or ridden a donkey. And emerged from a tough situation with something of value. Just another reason Donnegan could never allow the guy to get too comfortable down there amid all that seaweed and sand and free-flowing rum. Men like Bill Beaman were hard to find and Admiral Donnegan would never run out of opportunities for him to do his country some good.

A Marine MV-22 Osprey had met the two men as soon as they crossed the border from Pakistan into Afghanistan. Bill Beaman was now recuperating in Kabul, giving the staff at the hospital a hard time about the food in the joint.

The banged-up laptop? Already over at Fort Meade being analyzed. Grabbing the data off the heavily damaged hard drive had been a snap. Things got tougher from there.

Lt. Jimmy Wilson stuck his head in Donnegan’s door.

“Admiral, NSA just called over. They’re having a hell of a tough time breaking the encryption on that hard drive. They say it’s going to take a while.”

Donnegan made a frustrated growling sound.

“Why does that not surprise me? I thought they had some new quantum something-or-other that worked a bazillion times faster than a super-computer. They can’t break a simple bit of encryption from a batch of backwater bomb tossers?”

Wilson held up his hands and shrugged.

“They say they are using their quantum computer, but they claim there are something like ten-to-the-thirty-second-power combinations they have to try. It could take a couple of days, at least. Unless they get lucky and hit on something early on.”

“When does that ever happen? Promises, promises. I wonder about those wire-heads sometimes. Guess we have no choice but to sit on our hands and wait.”

Wilson’s phone suddenly rang, its ringtone a peppy version of “Anchors Aweigh.” His face was noncommittal as he listened then touched the screen to end the call.

“Ready for some good news, Admiral?”

“What do you think?” Donnegan idly rubbed his breastbone with the palm of his hand.

“They’ve gotten far enough to confirm it. It is definitely Nabiin’s computer. Or somebody very close to him. Looks like we got lucky.”

A slight smile played at Tom Donnegan’s lips.

“Maybe so. Maybe so.”

20

Jin Yun Ming stared at the star-filled night sky, a slight smile on his lips as he exhaled cigarette smoke into the wind. He always enjoyed the warm, arid breeze that blew in from the west, carrying the faint smell of desert, a pleasant contrast to the humid subtropical climate of his home port. It was a beautiful evening and one could almost be convinced he and his ship were the only ones on the surface of the ocean. The only things spoiling an otherwise empty sea were several ships off to the north, plying their way toward the Bab al-Mandab Strait, their lights shimmering and dim.

Oh, and there was also his own escort, the Type 055 destroyer Nanching, dutifully trailing five kilometers astern.

Early tomorrow morning he would be bringing his brand-new ship, the amphibious transport dock Mung Shan, into the harbor at Port de Doraleh, Djibouti. Then he could finally offload the eight hundred combat-ready marines and their equipment that he had ferried all the way from Hainan. Ming would certainly be glad to have the loud, smelly bunch off his ship. He smiled again as he contemplated what a strain the marines with their tons of equipment would be on the limited facilities at the tiny PLAN navy base.

That, of course, was just the latest question Ming would have loved to have answered but dared not ask: why was he carrying so many combat marines halfway around the world, only to drop them off here in this sand-blown corner of nowhere? What could possibly be the purpose of this show of force? But Ming had not risen to command of the Mung Shan by voicing such questions out loud. No, he did as he was told.

In the darkness, the captain could just make out a few marines on the main deck, five levels below where he stood. They were idly smoking, chatting, and staring at the far horizons, just as marines the world over had done for generations. The faint murmur of their conversations barely reached the bridge, high above them. Ming could imagine the discussions of liberty in a strange port that tomorrow would bring. The voyage had not, after all, been all that pleasant for these men either. And they likely had even less information than Ming did about where they were going or what they would be required to do when they got there.

Then the peaceful quiet was shattered. Ripsaw bursts of thirty-millimeter cannon fire suddenly tore the peaceful night asunder. It came from the Nanching’s H/P J-11 CIWS seven-barrel Gatling guns. Then, just as suddenly, a bevy of HHQ-10 short range SAMs arrowed across the sky. Explosions wiped out the blanket of stars overhead.

Ming’s jaw dropped and his eyes widened at the stunning, unexpected fireworks. But he hesitated for only an instant before diving into the wheelhouse and