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

until they finally arrived in Chabahar. Iran was very different from Pakistan. Chabahar was far more cosmopolitan than the high mountain villages that had been Nabiin’s life for the last decade or more. Much noisier and more disturbing. He found the constant hustle and bustle made prayer impossible. And the danger was very much greater.

From Chabahar, an Iranian Republican Guard officer took charge of moving the Prophet clandestinely across to Al Ghaydah on the Yemen coast. His squad hustled Nabiin’s group aboard a nondescript motorized dhow for the overwater leg of the journey. This stretch concerned Nabiin more than any other for here he was at the mercy of the American Navy. One wrong move, one chance encounter, and the years of planning would be at an end.

The dhow departed Chabahar as the sun was slipping below the western horizon. Within minutes the tiny ship with its secretive passengers became just one among the hundreds of fishing craft moving out into the Arabian Sea. Nabiin and his personal guards slipped below decks to find a comfortable place to sleep.

Dawn found the craft a couple of miles off Jalan Bani Buhassan, on the Omani coast. The gray-brown, wind-buffeted coast contrasted sharply with the crystal-blue water. The sky could not seem to decide whether to match the dun land or the blue water. It settled on a startling blue overhead but changed slowly to a muddy tan on the horizon. The only other ships anywhere in sight were vessels similar to this one, either fishing or carrying cargo up and down the coast just as they had for the last thousand years.

Nabiin said his morning prayers and then settled back to patiently wait for the day to unfold.

By mid-afternoon, as they were abreast of Masirah Island, the sun was beating down without mercy on the dhow’s open deck. The Prophet was still below decks seeking shelter from the sun when the vessel’s master called down, urging him to come topside. He was pointing excitedly toward the coast. A gray ship—obviously a gunboat—was just emerging from behind Masirah Island and heading directly for an intersecting point. The approaching vessel threw up a large white wake as it picked up speed. The Royal Omani Navy ensign snapped sharply in the breeze.

There was no hope of running to escape. The gunboat was far too fast for that. And the menacing 76mm cannon on the approaching vessel’s deck meant there was little chance of fighting their way out of this predicament.

Nabiin turned to the dhow’s master.

“Stop and do not resist. Allah will protect us from our enemies.”

The gunboat pulled alongside the much smaller dhow and matched its slower pace. A boarding party of six men, dressed in combat fatigues and heavily armed, leaped from the gunboat, their weapons pointed directly at the master and Nabiin. The boarding team’s leader addressed the master.

“We have information that an important Shia terrorist is attempting to escape from Pakistan. Our orders are to search any suspicious vessel and find this man whose name is Shaikh Babar Khalid. He calls himself Nabiin, the Prophet.”

The master shook his head vigorously, his hands spread in denial. “We have seen no one. We are only poor fishermen out to feed our families. Search our ship if you must, but you will find nothing. Our nets have remained empty so far this trip and we continue to look for something—anything—with which to return home to Chabahar.”

The team leader shook his head as he looked about the pitiful vessel with disdain.

“There is no reason to bother you. No Shia leader would humble himself to travel on this scow. If you see anything as you search for fish, you must call us immediately. This man has caused much death already and the Americans are offering a large reward. Enough to feed your miserable family for the rest of their lives.”

The master bobbed his head and replied, “In sha Allah, his mercy would be great for such a gift.”

The boarding team had already lowered their weapons. Now they jumped back aboard the gunboat. With a dismissing wave from the boarding team leader, the boat roared away, back toward land.

Nabiin watched as the threat became little more than a dot on the horizon.

“It is as I have said. Allah is truly powerful and shielded us from his enemies. He will blind them to the truth and continue to weaken them for our ultimate victory.”

Still, Nabiin had a sour look on his bearded face. How did the Americans—or anyone else—know that he was on the move? And why would they care?

Late the next day, the dhow pulled beside the little-used fishing pier at Al Ghaydah and off-loaded Nabiin and his men without any further problems. Then more buses, trucks, and cars took him down to the tiny port of Sayhut.

Nabiin emerged from the last bus in the caravan and stepped out onto the rickety pier. Above him, the clear night sky was littered with a patchwork of desert stars. Behind him, a few lights flickered through the narrow windows of the mud and stone buildings, the only structures in this poor, remote outpost.

The Prophet stepped gingerly from the pier and onto the high-speed gunboat that bobbed gently in the rising tide. A short, stout man dressed in khakis and wearing two silver stars on his collar reached up to steady Nabiin as he stepped across.

“General Babak, how nice of you to personally come down to meet me,” Nabiin told him. “Surely you have far more impending tasks to give attention to tonight. Much more important than attending me.”

The leader of the Houthi rebels made a slight bow.

“My master, what could be more important than seeing that you arrive safely at your new command center. The ride will be no more than a couple of hours. And I am pleased to be able to report to you that all is going according to your plans. Even al-Wasragi’s attacks on the Chinese and American bases were