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

her.” The skipper jumped up and headed out of the wardroom, yelling back to Biddle, “XO, get to radio and tell the boss what’s happening. Boz-Manand is out of the barn and heading south. We are in trail. Request instructions.”

Ψ

Nabiin sat on the ship’s bridge wing and watched the sun drop behind a bank of dry clouds to the west. The Horn of Africa was just over the horizon, five hundred kilometers or so away. And the Yemeni coast was about an equal distance to the north.

Normally this narrow stretch of ocean would be cluttered with ships. It was one of the most highly trafficked sea lanes in the world, traversed by freighters, oil tankers, fishing vessels, and more. But this evening, not a single ship was in view. Missile and drone attacks over the previous few weeks had scared the risk-conscious shippers away, at least until the region stabilized a little, returning to what passed for normal in this part of the world.

Nabiin smiled. He knew perfectly well that nothing was going to stabilize anytime soon in this region. That was because he was the one who had ordered the attacks. And they had caused the precise result he desired.

“Nabiin, if I may.” It was Farian Gurmani who had dared to interrupt the Prophet’s reverie. “Radar shows several ships steaming together to the west. They are moving very fast and will pass close by. What should we do?”

Nabiin smiled even more broadly, the effect chilling. Gurmani felt a sense of dread pass through his body like a cold wind. Perhaps he should have remained quiet.

“Fear not, my friend. Those are only our friends, the Chinese Navy. They are assisting us and our mission, whether they realize it or not. Tonight, they run down to punish Sheik al-Wasragi, but they will find nothing but desert sand for their missiles to annihilate. Nothing but rocks and scrub on which to unleash their vengeance. Soon they will know that it would have been better had they decided to chase the winds.”

25

Ben Tahib sat back and did his best to relax as the bus bounced and twisted through the almost-empty streets of Tehran. His late-night flight from Qatar’s Hamad International Airport to Tehran’s Imam Khomeini International Airport had been uneventful except for the screaming infant across the aisle and the air-sick passenger two rows back. The child finally hushed, but only minutes before they began their bumpy descent into the Iranian capital.

The journalist was fully aware that in order to get to Chabahar, his final destination, he would need to change both airlines and airports. Qatar Airlines did not service Chabahar or any place even reasonably close. To get there, he would have to continue his journey on Chabahar Airlines, which flew out of Tehran’s old Mehrabad International Airport. The advantage of a 3:30 a.m. arrival was no traffic on the Persian Gulf Freeway as his bus wound its way into and through the city. The disadvantage was it was now 4:00 in the morning and Tahib was dead tired.

The reporter willed his eyes to stay open as he reviewed his scrawled notes on what he had been able to put together since Samuel Talbot’s phone call shoved him back into the sleuthing business. Tahib’s network of informants, both inside Iran and throughout the broader Islamic world, had provided a smorgasbord of hints and clues but nothing conclusive. His notes were a mishmash that only someone with many years’ experience in boiling, roiling Middle Eastern politics could decipher. But they all pretty much pointed him toward the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Navy and the port city of Chabahar.

The bus sped past darkened farmland and then the Khomeini Shrine complex before finally entering the outskirts of Tehran. Nothing ever seemed to change around Iran’s capital city, unlike the vibrant metropolises that thrived on the other side of the Persian Gulf, in Qatar, Bahrain, the United Arab Emirates, Kuwait, and Dubai.

Tahib put away his notepad as the bus swung through the roundabout and then pulled up to Mehrabad’s aging terminal. An experienced traveler, Tahib did not have a good feeling when he and his fellow passengers were immediately routed to a beat-up shuttle bus with a tattered and torn sign that said, “To Chabahar Airlines,” in Persian, propped up in the filthy windshield.

The tired old shuttle bus pulled up to an almost equally battered ancient MD-80 jet with “Chabahar Airlines” painted in faded blue letters on the side. Fortunately, Tahib was traveling light. The other passengers had no choice but to manhandle their luggage from the bus, up and into the plane’s cargo hold before they were allowed to board. He walked up the plane’s distinctive rear air stairs and plopped down in a window seat over the wing, hoping he might have the entire row to himself and could stretch out for a nap.

However, as Tahib watched out the dusty, scratched window, another shuttle bus pulled up and screeched to a smoky stop. And then two more. The plane was quickly filling up when an overweight middle-aged man dropped heavily, breathlessly, into the seat next to him.

The man sat facing forward for a full minute before he finally mumbled, “Chabahar is such a lovely city. It is a pity that you will not be able to do any sightseeing.”

Tahib did not even bother to look over at his new seat mate. He half wondered if the man was talking to him.

“So I have heard.”

“Salam, Mr. Tahib. It is a pleasure to meet you,” the man went on, still mumbling and staring straight ahead, as if addressing the seatback in front of him. “I have long been a fan of your reporting on the television. But I must say, you ask many dangerous questions. You should be much more discreet. Even Samuel Talbot’s powerful reach cannot protect you here in this country.”

“I appreciate your concern.”

“When you land, tell the cab driver to take you to the Fajr Bakery in Konarak. Ask for Achmed. He