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

“In sha Allah,” Nabiin replied with the slightest nod of approval.

The gunboat backed away from the pier, spun around in its own length, and then shot, arrow straight, out into the Gulf of Aden. Nabiin hung on tightly to the handholds as the boat bounced from wavetop to wavetop.

It was still an hour before sunrise when radar on the boat picked up a lone target steaming slowly to the northeast.

Then, as both Nabiin and General Babak gazed through their binoculars at the horizon, a dirty, dark gray ship slowly became visible. Squat and ugly, the unprepossessing vessel did not seem worthy of even a second glance. And certainly not the joy its approach brought to the faces of both men.

“So this is the Ocean Mystery,” Nabiin said admiringly. “She looks so very different.” An expression of pride captured the terrorist’s face. “She will serve very nicely for my new command ship. From this ark, we shall soon change the course of history. You have done well, General Babak. You have done well.”

21

Captain Yon Hun Glo was beside himself with embarrassment and anger. He had just driven the best submarine in the People’s Liberation Army Navy—his boat, the Changcheng Wushiwu—all the way across the Arabian Sea to add its immense and stealthy power to the PLAN battlegroup, steaming on their way to avenge the unwarranted attacks on defenseless Chinese ships. Operations only became more intense and crucial with the vicious, deadly attack on China’s base at Djibouti by what were certainly Iranian-supported terrorists. It had been a grueling three-day journey of more than fifteen hundred kilometers, running the diesel almost the entire time. Anyone in the entire ocean with the most basic ASW sonar would surely know exactly where, what, and who he was.

All of that wasted time and effort, the sacrifice of stealth, only to be told when he finally arrived that he was to stand by and wait. Twiddle his thumbs while the battlegroup ran off to do some important mission, the exact nature of which he was not deemed important enough to know. To be treated like a youngster wanting to play with the big kids.

So it was that he was now left here, a couple of hundred kilometers off the coast of Oman, while the battlegroup raced at flank speed down to Djibouti, almost certainly to protect the base there. Maybe to punish the terrorists who dared attack this outpost of the Chinese government. Yon’s only orders were to wait for the real fighting ships to return and then protect them from anyone who might pursue them.

The captain quietly seethed as he settled in to do as commanded, even as the last of the battle group steamed out of range and the ocean around them grew quiet. So quiet as if to mock him and his crew. Perhaps the cup of tea would calm him enough to maintain some degree of composure. His men must never suspect that their commander was anything but calm. That was what a good commander did. What the American cowboy hero John Wayne did in those movies the captain had on DVD back in his home port. The ones he watched alone, over and over, all night, drinking baijiu until he could finally find peaceful sleep.

Yon had just sipped the first warming taste of the tea when the loudspeaker blared in his ear. He almost dropped the cup.

“Captain, Sonar. We hold a sonar contact, possibly a submerged submarine.”

Still holding the teacup, Yon rushed to the sonar room, which was just forward of the control room on his type-31D submarine. As he arrived, he heard the sonar leader announce, “Contact is confirmed. A Kilo-class, probably Iranian. He is snorkeling. Estimate range fifteen kilometers.”

Yon stepped back into the control room and ordered, “Man battle stations. Target is the Kilo. Make torpedoes ready.”

He stepped back toward the fire control station as the crew scurried to take their battle stations. He felt more than heard the torpedo tube outer doors swing open. Within a few seconds his boat was ready for battle.

Finally, he and his crew were about to ride their horses, guns blazing, into a shoot-out with the black-hat bad guys!

There was no doubt this newly-detected submarine—one that belonged to the nation most likely responsible for the attack on his countrymen—was now shadowing the battlegroup. Or that it had evil intentions. It was a black-hatted threat. And he was there to eliminate it.

Yon began the slow, careful process of maneuvering his boat into a firing position on the Kilo submarine.

Ψ

“Conn, Sonar. New contact Sierra Six-Two,” Toledo’s 21MC blared into Joe Glass’s ear. Startled, he almost dropped his ever-present cup of brutally black coffee. The skipper recognized Joe Drussel’s voice. “Bearing three-two-seven. Probable submerged contact. Snorkeling submarine just lit off.”

Glass glanced over at the BQQ-10 display and saw the bright white trace that was just starting to appear on the short-time display. This guy sure was loud. A disgrace to the world of submarines!

“Best classification, a Kilo-class. From the sound of the diesel, it’s the Yunes. Iranian. Best estimate, range two-two thousand yards. Speed six knots.”

Glass nodded and idly took a sip of the joe as he thought. He did not taste the coffee at all. Everything he heard agreed with what he was seeing on the display. But something did not seem right.

“Officer of the Deck,” he called over his shoulder. “Slow to standard. Come right to course north. Let’s slip in behind this guy and see if we can determine what in hell he’s up to.”

“All ahead standard,” Pat Durand ordered. “Right five degrees rudder. Steady course north.”

The big boat immediately slowed as it swung around to the new course. Bill Dooley, the diving officer, reported, “Steady course north, ahead standard.”

Slowly Toledo maneuvered until she was directly behind the unsuspecting Yunes. Pat Durand steered the boat deftly while simultaneously solving the course, speed, and range target-motion-analysis problem—TMA, a compilation of