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

“Hey, boss, I think he’s still alive,” Broughton called out. “Got a pulse, but not much of one. Help me get a tourniquet on this leg before he bleeds out totally.”

The two SEALs worked to apply emergency aid to the critically injured terrorist. They finally got the bleeding under control and could not find any immediate signs of other injuries.

“He’s got a notebook and a bunch of papers,” Ward noted. “I don’t read Arabic but maybe the intel guys can get something out of it. Maybe they can identify him, too.”

Just then, Master Chief Johnston strolled over.

“Skipper, our ride home is five minutes out. Don’t know about you, but I’m pretty hungry. I’d go for a hot breakfast.”

“I’m with you, Chief. Good job, guys. Let’s get this guy and his stuff onboard. Now, where’s the nearest IHOP?”

23

Arman Dirbaz climbed the vertical ladder out of the Boz-Manand’s interior. The brilliant sunshine almost blinded the engineer as he stuck his head out of the hatch. Vassily Godonov extended a hand to help him climb the rest of the way up to the rounded, black main deck.

“Thank you, Vassily,” Dirbaz responded breathlessly. “Either they are making these ladders steeper, or I am getting older.”

“That ladder has not changed, and you mention only one alternative,” the Russian said with a chuckle. “Therefore, by your own analysis...”

“I know. I know. And I intend to get as old as possible.” The Iranian naval engineer shook his head. “I thank you for that astute analysis. And by inference, then you are actually and truly an historic treasure yourself, my friend.”

Their banter was interrupted by a very officious man wearing the drab green uniform of the Revolutionary Guard. As the officer came closer, Dirbaz noted that he wore the insignia of the Navy Corp and the collar tabs of a colonel.

“I am looking for Mohandes Doktor Dirbaz,” the man stated. “Please point him out to me.” Despite the “please,” the request was very much an order.

“I am Arman Dirbaz, sir,” the engineer responded. “What can I do for you?”

“Mohandes Doktor Dirbaz, I congratulate you on completing repairs to the Boz-Manand in such a short period,” the colonel said. “I must inform you that the submarine is now an asset of the Revolutionary Guard Navy and I am the new commanding officer. You are hereby ordered to complete all efforts to make Boz-Manand ready for sea. We will depart at first light tomorrow. And you will assume the duties of the ship’s chief engineer for this voyage.”

Dirbaz was taken aback by the colonel’s statement. The sudden and unannounced transfer of the vessel from the Iranian Navy to the IRGN was not a good omen. The IRGN had a well-deserved reputation for reckless and dangerous attacks. But their penchant for ruthless pursuit of their goals—regardless of who or what might be damaged in the process—was equally recognized. Only those with a death wish stood in their way.

The discussion was interrupted by the roaring grumble of a heavily loaded diesel engine. A large transport lumbered down the pier, stopping alongside the Boz-Manand. Three vehicles accompanying the transport disgorged two dozen heavily armed men who promptly assumed a circle around the big truck and its load. Three more transporters waited at the head of the pier. As the three men on the submarine’s deck watched, a pier crane swung around to lift a large and obviously heavy cylinder from the transport, then swung it back over until it stopped directly above an open missile tube hatch.

“And what is that, Colonel?” Dirbaz finally asked. “We have no load on today’s shipyard lift schedule.”

The RGN officer snorted as he stepped closer to the engineer.

“You are no longer cleared to know the answer to that question.” Then the colonel glanced pointedly at Vassily Godonov. “And even if you were so cleared, we certainly would not discuss such matters in the presence of this foreigner. Who is, I must remind you, an infidel.”

Dirbaz, becoming red-faced, started to protest, to remind this usurper that his Russian mentor was a friend and ally, that he had been of immense help in making the new submarine such a powerful warship, as well as assisting in overseeing its astoundingly rapid repair. But the colonel raised his hand to cut him off.

“And he must leave the shipyard immediately. Transportation out of Iran awaits him at the airport.”

Dirbaz was clearly on the verge of telling the Revolutionary Guard officer what he could do with his orders, but Vassily held up his hand.

“It is all right, my friend. I understand what the colonel is saying. I will leave immediately, of course.”

Dirbaz stared at his old friend for a moment. Then he put his arms around his Russian mentor, embracing him in a huge bear hug.

“Go in peace, my old friend. Find a safe place. For me, I am nothing if not a good Muslim and a loyal Iranian. I will do as I am told.”

Vassily smiled and offered a handshake, then turned and walked off the submarine. Then without so much as a glance back, he headed down the long pier as Dirbaz watched him go.

The Revolutionary Guard colonel was no longer paying them any mind. Instead, he was busy on his cell phone.

“Inform the most holy Nabiin that all is proceeding precisely as he ordered. We now have absolute control of the Boz-Manand. The missiles are being loaded and the targets are already inserted into their navigation systems. We will depart in the morning at the appointed time and we will be in place to follow his orders.”

Ψ

Jimmy Wilson stuck his head in Admiral Tom Donnegan’s office door. “Admiral, Captain Ward is here to see you, sir.”

Donnegan looked up from the stack of papers he was studying.

“Good. Tell him to come on in.”

Donnegan slowly rose from behind his battered old oak desk and made his way across the office to