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

“XO, you better come see this!” Bill Wilson, the officer of the deck, suddenly called out from across the room. “Looks like we got company coming out to play.”

Biddle held up his hand, stopping Worst mid-issue. The XO jumped over to look at the large-screen display.

The Boz-Manand was just clearing the harbor mouth and was heading out into the open sea.

24

Ben Tahib had hardly ventured forth from his apartment since the attack on his family. The entire ordeal had shaken him to his very core. Playing big-time reporter, investigating the strange disappearance of the Ocean Mystery and the vessel’s unfortunate crew was no longer worth the risk. A possible Pulitzer would never be a substitute for his wife, Shelia, or for their unborn son. Sure, the Qatari police still had a detail assigned to guard his apartment, but that did not provide Tahib with a very comforting feeling of assurance. Twice he had caught the guard at the door asleep. The one in the automobile parked down the alleyway spent his time playing video games on his iPad.

The jangling phone in Tahib’s bathrobe pocket caused the reporter to jump. He had become far too skittish after the close call. His nerves were gone. Lately he had been thinking that it was probably time to accept that offer to cover financial news out of the London Stock Exchange. Not much chance of some derby-wearing broker trying to shoot him with his umbrella.

He almost did not answer the offending phone. The caller ID was plainly bogus. But, as usual, his natural curiosity got the best of him. Some of his best scoops came to him this way, on an unsolicited call with a spoofed caller ID.

“Tahib,” he grunted, ready to hang up with a curse if the caller tried to pitch him a credit card or a free home security system.

The cultivated voice on the other end spoke in English with a faintly continental accent. A familiar one. And he offered nothing for sale.

“Mr. Tahib, it is time for you to end your self-imposed holiday. Nabiin is on the move. I would encourage you to press your Iranian contacts for information. What they tell you may be of immeasurable value.”

Tahib could not be entirely sure, but he was almost positive that the voice belonged to Samuel Talbot. He had only heard the reclusive billionaire speak once or twice, but the unusual accent had stuck with the journalist. The kind of observational detail that had stood him in such good stead over the years.

“Your family is being watched and is fully protected. Far safer than they would be with only those three State Security guards lurking outside your building. And do not bother tracing this call or having the government look at your phone records. My people are far better than that.”

With the final boast, the line went dead. Ben Tahib stared at the phone as if it might suddenly hiss and strike at him like a pit viper.

Why would Samuel Talbot, the man who caused him to be attacked in the first place, suddenly direct him to chase down this strange Nabiin guy. And do so in Iran, which would be about the most unlikely place on the planet to find the mysterious man. Nabiin was a Sunni, descended from a long line of Sunni imams, claiming lineage all the way back to the first caliph. The Ayatollahs were Shia. They would be deadly enemies. Nabiin could have no allies in Iran.

But Tahib had a sudden realization. He knew that he would do as he had been told. He would go. He would contact his many long-standing sources. He would look for answers to questions he had not even yet asked himself.

There was a story there. He was, after all, a journalist.

Ψ

“Fifteen-two, fifteen-four, pair for six, and another pair for eight,” Brian Edwards announced as he proudly laid his cards down. Then he moved the brass pegs down the teak cribbage board and smiled broadly. His lead over Jackson Biddle was decisive. One more hand should do it.

The XO counted out his four points and reached for the deck of cards.

“At least I win something on this hand,” Biddle said drily. “My deal. I know that I’m supposed to let the boss win, but I do have my pride, you know.”

“I had that very same discussion with Joe Glass when I was his exec,” Edwards noted. “I suspect it’s some sort of right-of-passage thing.”

The two officers sat alone in the wardroom of the George Mason, just as so many submariners had done before them, playing the traditional card game of the Silent Service, a staple since the days of the early diesel-electric boats. Dinner had been cleared away a bit before and they were relaxing for a few minutes while the other officers were busy elsewhere on the ship. They would be attending to whatever tasks demanded their attention before they all trailed back in for officer training.

Biddle shuffled the deck and started to deal the next hand. As he did, the phone buzzed. Edwards grabbed the handset and answered it.

“Captain, Officer of the Deck.” It was Jim Shubert. “Looks like the Boz-Manand has finished sea trials. She just did an emergency surface and...”

“Get pictures?” Edwards interrupted. Plenty of people would be interested in getting a look at the new Russian-developed submarine that now belonged to the saber-rattling yahoos in Iran.

“We got it all on video,” Shubert replied. “Looks like her surface escort is heading back in port, though.”

“How about our playmate? Please tell me she’s headed for port as well.”

“Captain, that’s the strange thing,” the OOD answered. “Nobody is topside on her and looks like she’s heading the other way, out to sea. Current course is one-eight-zero, speed twelve.”

It took a second, but Edwards suddenly realized what was going on.

“Shit, she’s heading out on patrol. Jim, get us in trail position a thousand yards astern of