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

were the United States and either Israel or China. Or possibly the US had been lumped into Ya’jooj along with Israel… In that case, China was more likely the other sworn enemy.

None of this was clear. But it all scared the bejesus out of Admiral Tom Donnegan.

This Nabiin guy was a certifiable nut case all right. He appeared to accept that it was his sacred duty to start a major war, an Armageddon, a vicious conflict that would involve both the East and the West. If he could piss them both off enough to ignite a global battle, the Al-Mulhama Al-Kubra would happen. In his twisted mind, such massive death and destruction would instigate the Yawm ad-Din, the Day of Judgment, and then the next step, the Yawm al-Qiyamah, the Day of Resurrection.

Donnegan shook his head and yelled for his aide. Lieutenant Jimmy Wilson opened the office door and stuck his head in. Such a summons could involve something as innocent as replenishing the admiral’s coffee cup, or it could be setting into motion massive movements of troops and warships.

“Jimmy, get me someone real good with the Quran and Islamic eschatology,” Donnegan shouted. “Maybe one of those guys over at Georgetown we’ve used before.”

“‘Escha’ what?” the young aide stammered, confused. “Admiral, where did you come up with that one?”

“Eschatology?” Donnegan responded, still reading the summary. “It means their view of their ultimate destiny, how mankind ends. I can use that internet thing just like you young squirts, okay?”

But Wilson had already gone to do the admiral’s bidding.

Ψ

Jim Ward sat back and tried to find a resting position in which nothing hurt on his battered body. Even if that were possible, sleep would be fleeting, what with the din of the CV-22 at full throttle. The young SEAL team leader glanced around the cabin and saw that his men, despite their fatigue, were also struggling to get any shut-eye.

A week of reconnoitering the boonies of lovely northern Somalia, trying to learn anything they could about who might have been responsible for the launch of the vicious missile attack on Camp Lemonnier, had left them sore and tired. And very frustrated. Seven long days of heat, bugs, nettles, scorpions, and snakes and nothing to show for it.

Well, they had located a patch of burnt sand where the missiles had been fired. Had it not been for the dust storm in the area, the satellites could have seen that as easily as the SEALs had. Of course, whoever had catapulted the deadly weapons toward the US base were long gone by the time the dust cleared and the SEALs showed up. The thugs had been kind enough to not leave a trace of evidence, either. And Ward’s team had nothing to show for their hike but sore muscles, sunburn, and bug bites.

That and a powerful craving for a long stack of flapjacks with real maple syrup. The guys had talked of little else since they were picked up, and now they had breakfast in their sights.

Outside the CV-22 Osprey, the night was pitch black. Not even a star winked at them. The darkened landscape flashed by just a scant few feet below the aircraft. Not a light down there either. The pilot was flying down in the dirt, limiting the chances for prying eyes to spot them and share with the bad guys what they had seen.

Ward’s headset, plugged into the aircraft communication system, crackled to life just as he was on the verge of falling asleep.

“Lieutenant, we’re diverting. Home base is under attack again. Missiles coming in from the south, not far from where we are right now.”

“Any idea what’s close by? A town?”

“Yeah, the surveillance weenies pinpointed some goat ranch named Weeraar. Check your Fodors. Looks like a real Somalian garden spot. We’re to set you and your intrepid team of world beaters down about five miles out and then back off and stand by while you meander in.”

Ward tapped his throat mike again.

“You got coordinates on this place?”

“Sure. Take a look at ten dot thirty-seven north, forty-three dot forty-three east.”

Ward punched the lat-long into his mission laptop. The satellite pictures showed desolate landscape, dirt and rocks. A veritable moonscape.

“Hey, Flyboy, that’s some really rugged terrain. We’re on the backside of the Karkaar Mountains. A five-mile hike over that scrub land is gonna take a while. By the time we get to this Weeraar place, any bad guys will be long gone.”

“That’s how JSOTF orders read,” the co-pilot shot back. “You got a better idea?”

The Joint Special Operations Task Force controlled all the missions in the northeastern part of the African continent. Any mission changes had to be approved by them. Only problem was, the people who could do that were in Camp Lemonnier. Most likely, at the moment, they were ducking incoming missiles.

Ward zoomed the tablet’s photo resolution in close and scanned the topography. He immediately saw something that he liked. It reminded him of a training mission he had conducted with his mentor, Jim Beaman, one dark night in the Mojave Desert somewhere northwest of Las Vegas.

“Yeah, as a matter of fact, I do. There’s a wadi about a mile out from your garden spot. Hidden behind a pretty elevated ridgeline. You could fly in real low and nobody will be likely to see you dropping us off. We’ll double-time up to the ridgetop and take a gander at what’s going on.”

“Long as you take the blame if we put a dent in this ninety-million-dollar jalopy.”

“Reckon you could conjure up some air cover for us?”

“They’ve already scrambled some F-15s to try to get to the missile launchers, but ETA is likely a half hour or so.”

“Cool. You stay out of their way, okay?”

“We’ll try our damndest.”

“And don’t forget to come on back for your good friends, the SEALs.”

Master Chief Johnston sidled over to where young Ward sat, still studying the laptop display.

“Something going on, boss? You been doing a lot of jawing just to be planning