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

“I just finally caught up with our friend Samuel Talbot. As you know, he is a very hard man to find. And even harder to have a conversation with.”

“And what did Mr. Talbot have to say?” Donnegan asked, suddenly very interested. He looked at Ward and pointed to the telephone, then gave a thumbs-up.

“Well, that is what’s interesting,” Dillon replied. “He actually came to me.”

“He called the meeting? Jesus.”

“Exactly. I was wary. It’s not like he seeks out folks like us. But it seems he actually wants our help. Reluctantly, of course. But I’m convinced he is telling the truth. And with your connections in certain places...well, you can probably confirm it. Talbot finally ‘fessed up to running the Ocean Mystery as a Mossad op. He and the Israelis.”

“That I can find out about,” Donnegan jumped in. “It’ll take me ten minutes, tops. Mossad owes me enough favors. But tell me what else he said.”

“Well, it seems that they were using the climate change research as a cover to operate the ship to launch their UUVs. The Israeli government has become very concerned about the Iranian Navy, particularly a new ballistic missile sub they’re putting into commission. At least according to Talbot.”

“We know about it, yes,” Donnegan verified.

“Figured you did. But them being Israeli, they decided to preemptively put something in place, just in case, and, of course, not share their plans with anybody else. Turns out, though, that something is busy mining all of Iran’s harbors with command-activated mines. The UUVs were launched from the Ocean Mystery a thousand miles from Iran. They were programmed to swim in, drop the mines, then go out and gather some data for cover before heading home. Near perfect cover op. Some Iranian warship that they don’t like puts to sea or the bastards pick on the wrong vessel out there, all they need to do is push a button. That Iranian ship suddenly has holes in it.”

Donnegan slapped the desk hard with the palm of his hand.

“And they painted an American flag on their mines so that we take the fall for their operation!” the admiral exploded. “And now Talbot has the gall to ask for help!”

“Calm down, Admiral,” Dillon answered. “Remember your blood pressure.”

Jon Ward was also using both hands to urge Donnegan to cool down. The admiral took another deep intake of air and tried to control his breathing.

“Admiral, he claims there were no markings on the UUVs or mines,” Dillon told him. “Not an American flag for certain. He says someone else did that little paint job. Maybe the Russians, maybe the Iranians.”

“Okay, okay. What the hell does Talbot want from us, then?” Donnegan choked. “Ought to let him twist in the wind. And his Mossad buddies with him. But I suppose he wants us to pull his chestnuts out of this latest fire, right?”

“He wants to meet. He’s not much for email or Facebook, I don’t think. From what I gather, he has a pretty good idea where his ship is and who took it. He needs us to help him get it back. And, of course, get it done without anything getting out about Mossad’s involvement. Or his either.”

Donnegan looked across the desk at Jon Ward and shook his head.

“Well, all my instincts say to tell Talbot to go pound sand. He got in the middle of this mess on his own. The Joint Chiefs or the White House get wind of this...” Donnegan snorted and pointed a finger at Jon Ward. “Okay, TJ. Sounds like a perfect job for my new deputy. Tell your new best friend Talbot that Rear Admiral Jon Ward will be delighted to meet him for a cup of Jewish coffee in Tel Aviv.”

Ψ

LCDR Jackson Biddle intently watched the Command Display Screen. He stood in the middle of the submarine George Mason’s command center, keeping one eye on the control room team and watching the shipping traffic into Chabahar with the other. So far, the I and W mission had been precisely what he expected: hours of sheer boredom, looking at nothing but sea and sand. And that was exactly the way he hoped it would remain.

Biddle did not even look up when someone else hurriedly entered the compartment.

“XO, we need to talk.” It was Master Chief David Oshley, striding purposefully into the control room. “You know that new guy, Seaman Worst. He needs to talk to you about a personal problem.”

The only part of being the executive officer on a submarine that Jackson Biddle did not relish was dealing with the crewmembers’ personal problems. He did not see himself as one of those touchy-feely types. He would much rather be driving the boat off some hostile coast, just as he was doing at the moment. But, unfortunately, such chores were part of the job.

“Okay, COB,” Biddle replied. “What’s his problem?”

“He got an email from home this morning,” the grizzled quartermaster answered with a frown. “Hell, our job was a damn sight easier before we had emails out here. Anyway, it’s got him upset. He wants to get some advice from you.”

“Sure, send him around. I’ll advise him to stop reading his email.”

“He’s mess cranking right now,” Oshley said. The troubled sailor was working in the ship’s galley, preparing the next meal. “He can probably break free. Is now a good time?”

“Yeah, no time like the present.”

Biddle continued to watch the display until he heard the young seaman’s muffled footsteps approaching.

“Seaman Sam Worst, reporting as ordered.” The tall, pimply-faced kid stood at attention. The apron he wore over his poopie suit was splattered with whatever Cookie had him mixing up for lunch. Meatloaf. Maybe it was meatloaf, Biddle’s favorite.

“Stand easy, Worst,” Biddle ordered, looking around to be certain nobody else was within earshot. “COB says you want to talk to me about a personal problem. Something about an email you got this morning.”

“Yessir,” the nervous seaman replied, also glancing around. “It was from my brother. He says he saw my